#i swear no shade to anyone involved in production

[notsp1derman]

other musings: why one piece should never be adapted into live-action

There is a certain trend lately of adapting unusual pieces of media to live action, and while I usually don't give a fuck, this time it touched something very dear to me, which is One Piece. I could spend hours here talking about my love for this saga and how this is just another consequence of capitalism and the urge to just squeeze out every last drop of money out of everything, but after the trailer for the new Netflix series dropped I just had to vent about something simpler. And boy do I have opinions about this.

Despite its very real portraying of very human problems such as racism and political instability, One Piece is, at its core, an absurd manga. The characters have such ridiculous mannerisms, the proportions are so exaggerated, and there are interactions so unserious that it can be even quite jarring at first; but hidden in its straightforward and sometimes nonsensical narrative is a masterful and ingenious thought process by Eiichiro Oda. Everything is a tad over-the-top, from the cartoonish style of the characters to the attention for detail in the backgrounds, in order to compose an universe that looks magical and whimsical but feels cohesive, realistic in some way. And it's through this exaggeration that Oda manages to convey so much emotion, and still make his readers feel such strong connections to his creation, even though it's far from our real world.

Those hyperboles are a vital part of what makes One Piece one of the most unique works of fiction ever made, and one with such a strong personality, at that. So when forced to accept the heavy burden of making a live-action series of the best selling manga of all time, producers are faced with two choices: either to try and capture this absurdness as best as possible by being extremely loyal to the source, or to make adaptations to the characters and the world to make it a bit more realistic and appealing to the public.

And the thing is, there will never be a right answer to this. Being too loyal to the source would make it a ludicrous farce, and taking liberties would create something too different from the thing everyone already knows and loves. So Netflix chose the path of creative liberty, and the price paid was a stiff, void, and most importantly, uncanny take on something that should never be brought to the real world at all.

Don't get me wrong, I have much love for the cast and believe they are doing a great job, but unfortunately the feeling of just... wrongness will never fade, no matter the approach. The colorful characters feel like people in bad costumes, the special powers just feel weird, the colors feel wrong and the world doesn't feel vast, just empty. One that got me thinking a lot was Buggy. Of course, he was one of the most unserious characters of the whole manga, but even he was a bit intimidating at the beginning, and had his moments to shine. Live-action-Buggy is just some weirdo in a bright blue wig that looks like a sad cosplayer, and I can't take him seriously no matter how hard I try.

So what about the more bizarre parts of the cast, like Hannyabal or Blackbeard or just the overly huge Admirals? What about the huge sea monsters or the weird fish people of Arlong Park? The latter parts of the manga go without saying, because I seriously doubt the live action will get renewed for one more season. How can we expect any of this to be remotely close to the joy we feel reading or watching the original work?

And I think that's the whole problem with live actions from anime. The freedom to bend reality that is possible within the realms of manga and anime just will never be translated well into something so western as a modern tv show. These boring adaptations suck the soul out of the original source, and manage to transform even the most expressive and heartfelt ideas into uncreative remakes without a single ounce of personality, and it will be forever depressing to see it happening to yet another thing so well made like One PIece.

[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

[missymurphy1985]

The Extra (part 2)

Warning - smut (eventually....)

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @noctvrnalmoth @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton

You were finishing up your coffee, grateful that Cillian didn't hang around after grabbing his. Suddenly you heard Anto shouting in the yard outside. You told Liane you'd find her later, and headed out to him. He was pacing the grounds on his phone, the anger evident in his face. With an abrupt "Fuck you!" down the line, he hung up, kicking a rock across the courtyard in frustration.

"Anto? What's wrong?" You approached nervously.

"We start filming in three hours, and one of the cast had dropped out!!"

"What? Who?"

"Rachel Foster. She was supposed to play Tommy Shelby's girl."

"Oh shit.."

"Oh shit in-fucking-deed. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?! I can't call someone in at this short notice!"

"I don't know anyone who's even available.." he suddenly looked at you, you squirmed a little, you recognised that look.

"You know, it's not too late to reconsider my offer y/n."

"Anto we talked about this, I'm not an actress."

"But you used to be! And you were the best I knew!"

"When you offered me a role in this I was flattered beyond belief, I truly was, but my role is as a professor now, not an actress. I gave that all up nearly a decade ago!"

"Think about it - you're here anyway! She was only meant to film this week, it's a few scenes with Tommy, nothing major.. she's not even lasting the whole series it's just a few scenes I swear it. At least let me do a casting call with you? I'll pay you for your time, even if you don't want to do it? It's win-win! I'm desperate here y/n..."

You thought about it. You enjoyed the theatre shows you used to be involved in years ago so much, but then you were offered the job at Birmingham University and it was too good an opportunity to miss - a steady wage, guaranteed income.. the thought of going back to being a struggling actress made you very nervous.

"One casting call. If it doesn't work, I'm out and you'll have to find someone else Anto."

"Oh you fucking legend... You BEAUTIFUL legend!!!" He scooped you up and spun you round in a circle, before dragging you over to costume and makeup.

An hour later, you were in costume, hair done, makeup on, ready for the camera. You stood in the set for the Garrison, Anto giving you the once over for the short scene he'd got planned for the casting call.

"Anto you didn't say anything about kissing Tommy!" You groaned, reading the paper he handed you.

"It's one kiss - we need to make sure you have chemistry. You know these scenes are always filmed first y/n."

"You fucking owe me Byrne." He grinned his cheesiest grin yet, allowing you time to get to know your lines and the scene. You were lost in it, focussing on getting yourself into a character for the first time in years.

"Y/n?" An Irish brogue suddenly dragged you out of your prep, and you nearly dropped the whiskey glass you were holding as you were practising a scene.

"Holy fuck..."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you - " he held out his hand, chuckling at your outburst. "I'm Cillian. I'll be playing Thomas Shelby."

"I, uh, I know who you are, I'm Y/n..."

"I know, Anto tells me you're Rachel's replacement? Really appreciate you stepping in like this, I know it's all a bit weird. Just take your time, okay? There's no rush, and no pressure to get it perfect, just relax. I know how intense these things can be."

"Thank you. I'm sorry if I'm shit..." You laughed, your stomach in knots.

"You won't be! You wanna stop at any point, tell me. No pressure, remember that. I'm looking forward to it."

"To what? Me throwing a whiskey glass at you?"

"No, not that bit," he smiled, his blue eyes glittering in the stage lights behind you.

"Right then you two, are you ready?" Anto called, and you pulled yourself together. Taking a deep breath, the scene began.

"You promised me Thomas. You said you were going legit!! Now I find out you have guns hidden away from the fucking IRA??"

"Clara, you have to trust me! I AM going legit but I need money behind me to do it - this is our way out of here!"

"You're a fucking liar Shelby. Four years I waited for you. Four fucking years you wrote to me promising me a life of safety, no more having to watch our backs, no more Peaky fucking Blinders, and you lied through your fucking teeth!" You threw the glass, missing his face by a mere inch.

He ducked, and approached you carefully, hands out to catch your arms as they flailed around. A sudden flick of your wrist in the wrong direction caught him off guard and you hit him. Full force on the side of his cheek.

"Oh fuck!! Shit I'm so sorry!!"

"Quite the left hook you've got there!!" He laughed, regaining his composure, rubbing his face. A decent shade of red now blossoming across his cheek. Anto was in stitches the other side of the camera and you shot him a glare.

"I can't believe you've just smacked the star of the fucking show!" He laughed.

"You're certainly feisty enough for Clara's character, I'll give you that!" Cillian smirked. You were mortified.

"I really am sorry..."

"No harm done, I'm fine. I've had worse. Come on, let's finish this yeah?" You were convinced you'd screwed it up, but Anto calling Action brought you back into the scene.

Cillian cleared his throat and approached you again, you could see him trying not to laugh though and you couldn't help but giggle a little, which set him off too.

"I'm sorry, really I am!" You panicked.

"That was my fault, I was too busy watching her arms!" Cillian smiled.

"Guys I really like what I'm seeing here. There's definitely chemistry on screen. Why don't you two go rehearse a little more together and come back in 30 minutes?" Cillian nodded and turned to you.

"Fancy a coffee?" He asked. You nodded and he led you over to the trailers behind the set.

"Are we not going to the cafeteria?"

"Not unless you want to rehearse in front of your Uni class?" He smirked. You shook your head and followed him into a decent sized trailer at the back. He flicked the kettle on, telling you to take a seat while he made the coffee.

"So why did you give up the theatre? You're clearly very good, else Anto wouldn't have requested you?"

"It wasn't going anywhere. I was in the West End, Broadway, Galway.. just seemed to be bouncing around with no real direction. I wanted to get into film or TV work but the roles were in high demand. And it became very clear very quickly that I wasn't the right kind of actress the movie makers wanted as a leading lady."

"Really? Why?"

"I wasn't prepared to get my tits out at every audition like the others I guess?" You shrugged. "I auditioned for a horror movie once in Hollywood. Some big budget thing that never ended up happening anyway, but the director wanted me to audition in this skimpy little dress - barely covered my ass never mind my thighs. Wouldn't audition me unless I wore it, so I threw it at him and walked out. Kinda blacklisted from then on."

"That's horrendous? Which director?"

"Cant even remember his name now it was so long ago. It doesn't matter anyway, the movie was scrapped before production and I landed the job at the university. Secure, stable, good money - couldn't ask for more really. And the kids are so great, Cillian, full of passion and enthusiasm! They're so inspiring they really are!"

"I'm meeting some of them later, I'm looking forward to it. My youngest wants to get into the industry. Been trying to put him off for years but he's such a little showman. Exactly like I was at his age."

"Is that Jack?" You asked.

"Yeah. His mam is keen on him getting into it but she hated me going off for months on end filming. One of the reasons she divorced me last year."

"I heard about that. I'm sorry.."

"No don't be! We get on better now than we ever have. Only stayed together for the kids you know? Milk and sugar?" You nodded, and he handed you the cup.

"This scene is awkward, I've never done a scene like this before," you confessed, taking a sip.

"Like what?"

"A kiss? How do you kiss someone without actually kissing them?"

"You just do it, I guess. Once you're in character it just happens. I won't use tongues I promise - nothing personal, it's just one of my rules."

"That makes it less awkward I suppose!"

"Exactly. Although didn't stop Scarlett Johansson that one time... Nearly got me shot by the wife that one did!" You remembered that scene in Girl with a Pearl Earring and laughed.

"You know, I've learned over the years that if you do those scenes first it makes all the others much easier," he said, putting his coffee down and taking yours from you, placing it on the table next to his. He took your hands and stood you up in front of him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to kiss you."

"What?"

"Not like that, I'm going to 'movie-kiss' you. Show you how it's done. Trust me - you won't feel awkward after this."

"I beg to differ..."

"Come on y/n, what have you got to lose?" My senses? You thought. My mind, maybe? You were hesitant, massively hesitant. You weren't even sure you were even going to go through with this. He glanced at his watch.

"We have five minutes, close your eyes and trust me." He nodded at you, and you took a deep breath, closing your eyes.

His fingers back on your cheek, this was just a reenactment of the scene but those fingers felt like lightening bolts. You could sense him moving closer, and his lips brushing yours. You were almost frozen to the spot until he whispered for you to relax.

"Okay, okay... I'm relaxed.. try again.." he leaned in again, your lips meeting properly. His hand in the back of your hair pulling you a little closer. You fell into it, your hands reaching round his back. As promised, he didn't use his tongue, which felt really strange at first but you quickly got used to it. Your mouths meshed together perfectly as you found your rhythm. A few minutes of this, before he pulled away, another gentle kiss against your lips as he did.

"Wow..." You gasped, opening your eyes. If someone had told you this morning you'd be kissing Cillian Murphy by lunchtime you'd have had them commited to the local loony bin, yet here you were. He didn't speak, and his hand was still on your cheek, brushing it lightly.

"Didn't plan on making you blush so much."

"Didn't plan on kissing Cillian Murphy when I woke up this morning," you laughed.

"Ready to do that again?"

"Again?"

"Just to make sure we got it right, of course."

"Yes.. of course.." he moved in quickly, but it felt different this time. His lips crashed against yours, and you definitely felt his tongue brush your lips a couple of times but you didn't reciprocate. You both moved backwards, your thighs hitting the table behind you, coffee nearly spilling over.

"Fuck, you okay? I'm sorry.." he pulled away to make sure none had spilled on you.

"I'm fine, it didn't fall, I'm fine... I uh, I think we've got the kiss nailed down though..." You brushed your hair out of your face and looked to the floor.

"Yeah, I think you're right.." your eyes met again and you both smiled. Before he could speak though, Anto was at the door knocking.

"Ready for round 2 guys?" He called. Cillian nodded at you, and you nodded back, both of you heading out to try the scene again.

[poorcinderelly]

Worthwhile

The final part of the Perfectly Fine series:

Perfectly Fine (Part 1)

Changing Minds (Part 2)

Author: poorcinderelly

Rating: PG13 (small mentions of blood, hints of sex, and swearing)

Pairing: Tom Holland/Reader

Disclaimer: This work is purely fiction and not-for-profit fan activity. It is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in the production of any series mentioned here.

Word Count: 3,625

Notes: Wow...so here it is, the final part of this little fic I have been writing. I'm sorry this took so long to get out. To be honest, I really struggled with how to end this, and in which direction to send it in. But to be honest, I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. I want to thank all of you guys who took the time to like, comment, leave kudos, etc. on these fics. I honestly did not expect them to get as much attention as they got and I am so totally grateful for it. You all have inspired me to keep going and honestly, improve my writing. Thank you all again for everything, and I hope you enjoy the final part of this. Xoxo.

Here's the AO3 link, too!

gif credit: @tomhollandnet

We are alone with our changing minds We fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds Or fades in time

You jumped back as Tom’s voice came through on the intercom. Your hands immediately went to your mouth and you started to pace a little back and forth.

Tom was downstairs. He was really downstairs. “Why the fuck is he here?” you wondered. “Also, how the fuck did he know where I lived?” Then you figured the last part was because of Jessica and Harrison’s doing. You made a mental note to kick their asses later.

The buzzer went off again. This time, you made your way to the door. You pressed the intercom button and responded with a nervous, “Hello?”

“Oh good...I thought it was broken…” You could tell Tom was nervous, too.

You pressed the button again. “Nope...it’s working…” you said matter of factly.

Then there was silence; you realized he could not stay down there forever. “Do you still want to come up?”

A few moments passed before you heard an anxious, “Y-Yeah” come through the speaker.

“Okay.” You pressed the door button.

You knew you only had a couple of minutes to prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen. You took a quick glance around your apartment; fortunately nothing looked too out of place. You thought about changing out of your robe and fixing up your hair, but you decided against it. It was not as if Tom had seen you like this before.

As you were turning on the coffee pot, you heard a knock at the front door. Your heart was pounding as you made your way over to it, and your hands trembled as you opened the door.

There was Tom, standing on the other side of the threshold. His dark brown hair was slightly slicked back and he was wearing a denim jacket over a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and black and white Converse. God, he could still make you weak in the knees.

You snapped out of your daze and moved aside to let him inside. As you closed the door behind him, you heard him say, “I like your place.”

“Thanks,” you jabbed. “I’m still getting used to it…”

The look on Tom’s face made you regret that remark and you decided to tone it down a bit. It was pretty clear that he did not come here looking for a fight.

“Sit down,” you said, gesturing to the table. “I’ll pour us some coffee.”

Tom did not say a word as he pulled back one of the chairs that was closest to the door, which you thought was an interesting choice. You went into the kitchen and took out two mugs from the cabinet and poured some coffee into them, leaving some room for cream and sugar. You returned to the table and gave Tom his mug before sitting down at the other end. You figured it would be best to keep your distance.

You sat there for what felt like forever, avoiding eye contact. You debated on whether to say something, or if he should be the first one to speak.

You watched him take a sip of coffee from the mug and set it back down on the table, still gripping it. “So…” he swallowed, “how long have you been here?”

“About two months,” you answered. You also took a sip from your mug and leaned back in your chair. “Tom, what are you doing here?” you asked, pointedly. I know you didn’t come to admire my decorating…” The last part was meant to come out as a joke, but the knot in your stomach was getting tighter and tighter with each passing minute and you were beginning to lose your patience.

Tom looked up from his mug and stared at you right in the eye. You could not remember the last time you got a closer look into his dark brown orbs.

“I just…” He stopped and looked back down at the mug again, biting his lip for a few moments before taking a breath and gazing at you again. “I was just hoping we could talk about some things,” he said, earnestly. “I know things ended badly between us, and…”

You leaned back in your chair, also holding onto your mug. You studied his face; he looked absolutely terrified. You were prepared to throw another side remark at him, but you held yourself back. Instead you decided to give him a moment’s peace and the invitation to continue.

“What are you trying to say exactly, Tom?” you asked softly, not taking your eyes off of him.

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. He was trying to find the right words, the perfect thing to say, but his mind was coming up empty. Frustrated, he set the mug back down on the table and pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. You remained seated, bracing yourself for whatever was about to come next.

“I just want to apologize Y/N,” he said, emphatically. “I know I said that when you came to get your things a few months ago, but it was a shite apology. I admit it.”

He paced slowly back and forth in the living area as he continued, but stopped every few moments to look up and glance at you. “What I did to you was awful, Y/N. I treated you so horribly. When I think about the things I said to you, god, it just makes me want to hurl myself off of the highest bridge. I’m sorry for everything I said to you during that time. And I deserve everything you said to me back then, too. You don’t even have to apologize for it. I know you only said those things to get even for what I was saying to you. But god, Y/N…” He stopped in the middle of the living area and ran his hands over his face. He took a deep breath as his hands made his way up to his hair and he slowly took a step towards you.

“...I still love you, Y/N. I never stopped loving you. I just…before I could not even begin to imagine my life without you and now that you haven’t been in it for the past eight months, I don’t want to go on. It’s gotten so I can’t even sleep in my own bed without you in it. I need you, Y/N.”

So you were never a saint And I've loved in shades of wrong We learn to live with the pain Mosaic broken hearts But this love is brave and wild

Tom finally stopped pacing and looked at you, waiting for you to speak. The tears that had been brimming behind your eyes as he was speaking started to fall. You were embarrassed at first, but you pushed those feelings down. You had been waiting for him to say these words for so long and the tight ball of overwhelming emotions in your chest finally popped as soon as he finished.

But there was still a pressing matter at hand.

You sat up straight in your chair, crossed your arms over your chest, and finally asked the question that had been burning inside of you for the past few months.

“Tom...did - fuck!” you bit the inside of your cheek and took a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever he was about to say. “Did you….Was there anyone else?”

You held your breath as you waited for his answer.

Tom shuffled his feet and looked down at his shoes for a few moments before turning his head back up to look you in the eye.

“Yeah, sort of…it was while I was in Berlin...it only happened one time…” he said. “But all we did was kiss! It didn’t go further than that, I promise!”

You sighed, preparing yourself for what was about to happen next. “Was it with that model that you’ve been photographed with?”

Tom paused for only a moment. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, Tom!” You got up from your chair and pushed him aside to get to the kitchen.

“Y/N, wait!” he begged, following you and stopping in the doorway. “Please, just listen!”

“No Tom!” you snapped, slamming the door to the fridge and forcefully placing the water pitcher on the kitchen counter. “I don’t want to hear anything else you have to say! You clearly had developed feelings for her when you were in Berlin!”

“That’s not true!” Tom rebutted, his eyes darkening as he stepped a little further into the kitchen.

“Well if it isn’t, then why did you move on so quickly after we broke up! Why were you photographed with her two weeks later?” You could feel your hands begin to shake, so you clenched them, trying to maintain composure.

“We went on a couple of dates...it honestly didn’t mean anything,” he said. “She...Christ, she wasn’t you, Y/N!”

You rolled your eyes and reached over to the dish rack next to the sink to pick up a drinking glass. Just as you picked it up, it slipped out of your hand and shattered into pieces all over the floor. “Fucking hell,” you muttered as you bent down to try to pick up the big pieces. “Y/N, let me help,” Tom insisted, kneeling down on the other side. “I don’t need your help!” you retorted. Suddenly you felt a sharp pain in your index finger and thumb and dropped the piece of glass you had picked up. Both your index finger and thumb had been cut open, and bright, red blood was flowing down the sides.

You quickly got to your feet and with your free hand, turned on the cold water in the sink, washing the blood off.

“You have a first aid kit?” Tom asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “hall closet...on the middle shelf…”

You heard Tom’s footsteps recede down the hallway as you continued to rinse the blood off of your fingers. Before you could try to process what happened, he returned with the first aid kit along with a broom and dustpan.

“Found these in the closet,” he said, setting the kit on the counter and proceeding to sweep up the glass. He set the dustpan on the counter and opened the first aid kit, taking out gauze bandages and antibiotic cream. Once all of the blood had washed off, he reached over and gently took your hand in his, and proceeded to bandage up your finger and thumb.

“Looks like you won’t be needing any stitches,” he said, sounding relieved.

You watched as he gently dabbed the antibiotic ointment on your cuts with his left ring finger and then proceeded to wrap the bandages around them with the same amount of tenderness.

It was like the breaking of the glass destroyed all the pent up tension that had been culminating around the both of you. It had been a long time since you were this close to each other. You could not believe that you almost forgot what it had felt like.

You both stayed that way for a few moments, studying each other and not saying a word. As Tom reached over and took your other hand into his, you stepped even closer to him. You could smell the familiar subtle smell of his cologne and feel the warmth of his hands on your own.

God, even though you were standing there with your heart still breaking, you still loved the way you felt when he was this close to you.

Your eyes began to overflow with tears again and you looked to the floor, trying to blink them away before Tom noticed. “Hey...Y/N...” he said, hesitantly pulling you closer into him, tenderly wrapping his arms around you. “Crap...too late…” you thought. The denim material on his jacket rubbed against your forehead and you could hear his heart beating beneath his shirt. “Please...just talk to me…” he pleaded softly, dropping his arms and taking your hands back into his once again.

You sniffled and blinked some of the tears away. Just like what Tom did before, you opened your mouth and every single feeling towards him that you had kept locked away deep inside for the past eight months was finally set free.

“It’s...I just...I just don’t know how I’m going to trust you,” you stammered. “Tom...I had to find out that you cheated on me at a Halloween party last night. Do you know how embarrassing that was? Everyone was probably walking around knowing that except for me!” You paused to wipe away some of the tears. “You were the first person I’ve ever met that I cared wholeheartedly about. Christ, I’ve shared things with you that I never shared with anyone...and then you go and treat me like shit for a few weeks before breaking up with me and not giving me one honest explanation as to why!” You stopped to bring yourself back down to earth and lowered your voice a little. “I just want to know why, Tom…why did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stopped to wipe the tears from your eyes, and that was when you noticed that he was starting to hold back tears too.

“It was an honest mistake, Y/N. We both happened to be at the same pub and I had one too many...and it just happened! And I felt so ashamed afterward...the guilt just got to me Y/N...I thought you deserved better and I just couldn’t handle it…”

“That doesn’t matter!” you protested softly. “Let me choose who and what I deserve! Let me determine if I can handle it or not.”

Tom bowed his head so it rested on your forehead. “I know...and I’m sorry...I’m truly so, so, so sorry…” he said, choking back a sob.

You closed your eyes and rubbed each of your thumbs on the back of his hands. You realized that you just could not carry this weight any longer. Although you spent most of your time trying to convince yourself otherwise, you still loved Tom with all of your heart and more than anything, you just wanted him back in your life.

“I know you are…” you said, as you opened your eyes, staring intently into his. “And...I admit that I wasn’t the best person ever during that time. There were a lot of things that I should have done differently, and I’m sorry for that.”

“You don’t have to apologize at all, Y/N,” Tom assured, sniffling. “I’m to blame….no matter how bad it got, I crossed a line…”

“Well, I guess we can both say that we made mistakes then…” you said with a half-smile. “Could I ask you one more question, though?”

“Of course, Y/N...anything!” Tom said.

You took a deep breath and glanced back down at your feet and gave his hands a squeeze. “Are...Are you still with her?” you asked nervously.

That was when you felt Tom’s hand on your chin, pulling your lips into his. It felt like a lightning bolt had entered your nervous system, bringing your body and soul back to life. Without giving it a second thought, you leaned into it and returned it.

Tom pulled away and immediately, a piece of you felt empty. “To answer that question...no. We broke up two months ago.”

This is a state of grace This is the worthwhile fight Love is a ruthless game Unless you play it good and right These are the hands of fate You’re my Achilles heel This is the golden age Of something good and right and real

With that, instinct took over. You took Tom’s denim jacket into his hands and pulled him back in for a deeper kiss. You nervously pecked his lips with your tongue, which he returned with his. You felt his hands move to your hair, taking out the hair tie that was holding your long locks together and tossing it on the counter. “God...I’ve missed you so much…” he said, breathlessly.

“Me too...really…” you said. He pulled you back in for another kiss, only this time, he picked you up in his arms and started to back out of the kitchen. You wrapped your legs around his torso, giggling as he tried to maneuver holding onto you while trying to make his way around your apartment. “Bedroom’s down the hall, lovely,” you teased. With that, Tom turned on his heel and walked down the hallway to the last door on the left, nudging the door open with his foot. Tom gently plopped you on the bed, and within moments, his jacket and white t-shirt were off and the front of your robe was loosely untied.

The next couple of hours were spent with lips colliding, garments being tossed around the bedroom, and torsos tangling together as their hips moved out and in. Sounds of burning desire and released passion echoed off the walls as you and Tom came down together, the bedsheets twisted around your damp bodies. All of the pain, anxiety, tension, and fear that had been building around the both of you had finally been released and as you cradled Tom’s head into your chest, you stared at the ceiling, your heart feeling so full of warmth and love for the first time in eight months.

- * -

You spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in bed, only getting up to go retrieve the Chinese take-out from the front door. The two of you sat in silence for the first time that afternoon, with you at the head of the bed, eating your chicken fried rice and watching Tom work on his beef lo mein. After you both finished your meals, Tom was kind enough to take the empty containers to the kitchen. You nestled back down under the blankets, feeling full and happy, and honestly, a nap. When Tom returned, he was getting ready to join you back under the blankets himself from the left side of the bed, when he felt something brush against his foot.

He bent down to see what it was and he was surprised to see the familiar red photo album. When you noticed what he was looking at, you sighed with relief. “Oh, so that’s where it went!”

“Yeah, I found it here on the floor,” Tom said, as he finally joined you in bed. He hesitantly opened it and slowly began flipping through the pages. “I had forgotten you kept so many of these…” he said. “Yeah, well…” You snuggled closer to him and he wrapped his arm around you, continuing to look at the photos. “I thought it would be nice to have physical memories of us…” Tom kissed your temple and gave you a gentle squeeze. Deep down, he was amazed (and relieved) that you did not throw the album out. There really were a lot of memories tucked away inside of it, some of them he thought he had forgotten altogether until he saw the photograph of it.

Tom closed the album after getting to the last photo and returned it to the bedside table. “We really have done a lot together,” he said, pulling you closer into him. “Do you think we can maybe fill another album up?”

You noticed the tinge of anxiety that lingered in his voice as he asked that question. You sat up in bed and took his hand. “I love that idea,” you said, smiling wholeheartedly and giving him a quick peck on the mouth.

Both of you then scooted further down into the bed, snuggled into the blankets, facing each other. You started to feel really sleepy now, and you could tell Tom was as well. You were just about to drift off to sleep when you felt Tom grab your hand and lace his fingers with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said softly, and also a little sleepily.

“I love you, too, Tom,” you returned.

As you both drifted off to sleep, it dawned on the both of you that you were not completely out of the woods just yet. There were still some things that you needed to talk about and more pieces of you that needed to heal. It was understood that things might never go back to the way things were before, but even so, it was going to be a new beginning. Anxious thoughts clouded his mind as to what the next day was going to bring, but as Tom drifted off to sleep, gazing at the beautiful woman he was so lucky to have in his life, he made a promise to himself that he was going to try his damn hardest to be better and he was prepared to spend the rest of his life making it up to you, because that was what you deserved.

As you watched Tom close his eyes and finally go to sleep, you nestled deeper into the pillow, still clutching his hand. Like Tom, you were also scared of what was going to happen tomorrow, but you promised yourself to meet Tom halfway. You knew it could take awhile for you to trust him again, but there was no doubt in your bones that all of the work the two of you will have to do to rebuild your relationship will be worth it.

No matter what was going to happen tomorrow and the days after that, both you and Tom were right where you wanted to be.

[shirorozutriea]

It’s All Love at First Sight

Audience List/Admin List/Image Prompt

 Day One – Love At First Sight/Eye Contact/A Blue Eye With Tears

 It’s All Love at First Sight

 The first time they crossed each other’s path was when they were young to even remember what the other looked like. They were not really best of friends. In fact, they don’t even know each other. It was just a random encounter that anyone would forget. But there was one thing that is eerily familiar. Those eyes.

 Weiss, doesn’t believe in love at first sight. I mean, what kind of person are you if you would just fall in love like that? Definitely not Weiss. She had heard a lot of stories around. All stories with the same statement of; “It was love at first sight.” How sappy.

 It was plenty annoying to hear how everyone turn into a mushy giggling fool, just because they met that supposed someone right in the corner of a busy street.

 Maybe she’s just like that because she’s bitter. Eh, probably. It’s not like when you’re a Schnee, you’ll get genuine suitors crawling on your feet. Mooching might be the word for it though.

 “Weiss, it’s just, her eyes. It’s so pretty.” Sighed Blake, as she blissfully stare into nothingness with Weiss mentally gagging at her friend’s actions.

 “Ugh, not you too, Blake.” Muttered Weiss, ignoring her love stricken best friend.

 Meanwhile, Ruby loves the idea and notion of love at first sight. Just like in the fairy tales she have read, the prince will fall in love at first sight with the princess. And they live happily ever after. The End.

 She wants that to happen to her. Just like her Mom and Dad, who happens to be a by product of love at first sight. It was an amazing story and also quite an amazing feeling according to people around her.

 The feel of eyes meeting eyes. The feel of the first lingering stares. All of it, was worth the wait. She thought. She was willing to wait to meet whomever the person that was meant for her.

 And the first time she saw her, it was her eyes that strikingly embedded to her. How that person’s eyes glow like stars in the darkest night. How it felt like she was deep into the ocean with those baby blue eyes. And she remembers how tears formed into those pair of eyes before disappearing from her vision.

 She knew, right then and there, that it was love at first sight.

 “So, what’s up, sis? Penny for your thoughts?” Asked Yang as she looked at her sister.

 Snapping up from her stupor, she looked at her in confusion. “Ah—wha?”

 Yang gave her a worried look. “You’ve been staring into nothingness. What’s wrong?”

 Ruby shook her head. Implying that the latter shouldn’t be worried. “Its just… I sort of remembered an encounter with someone back then. And they have tears in their eyes. I just—I kinda want to meet them.”

 Yang blinked and gave her a sly smile. “Is my baby sis in loooove?”

 Ruby flushed in different shades of red and flail her arms around in panic. “I—I… maybe, I don’t know! It’s just—their eyes…”

 Ruby met those eyes again. And this time, they’re staring back at her.

 Those stunning shade of blues. She never have seen such beautiful shades in her life. It was—it was… breathtaking. She felt her heart twitch in anticipation, after all these years, she finally once again met those eyes.

 “Yo! Earth to Ruby!” She heard her sister call.

 She flinched at the volume and immediately switch her attention to her.

 “I—wha… YANG!!” She yelled and gave her shocked sister a punch in the arm, earning a yelp from them.

 “YOUCH—what was that for?!” She hissed in pain. Ouch, she didn’t know her sister could pack a punch.

 “You made me miss them!” She continue to yell.

 Yang blinked in confusion. “Miss who?!”

 “The person with blue eyes!!”

 Yang looked at her like a gaping fish out of the water. “Who now?”

 Ruby closed her eyes tight, her fist lightly drumming on the table. “Blue eyes…”

 “Blue? Eyes?” Parroted Yang.

 Ruby’s shoulders sagged and leaned on the table groaning in disappointment, leaving Yang mulling over what the heck’s the blue eyes her sister is talking about.

 Meanwhile, Blake was walking down the cafeteria with Weiss in tow. Or at least, that's what she thought. She saw that Weiss was nowhere near her and her eyes widen at the realization that she might be possibly swept off in the sea of people. Considering how short Weiss was, there’s no doubt that she might lose her—nevermind, she was just standing like a pole in the middle of the cafeteria.

 “Weiss, what the heck is wrong with you? Why did you—are you okay, Weiss?” She looked at her friend who was busy looking at the wall across the cafeteria.

 Weiss blinked and regain her posture to look at Blake like nothing happened.

 “Nothing. I just, saw something. Nothing to worry about.” Her voice grew an octave higher than it should be and speed walk away with Blake running to catch up to her.

 Days have passed and Weiss was still thinking. Not that she’s always not thinking, but this time there’s a cause that she didn’t know why of all things would be the cause.

 Every time she closes her eyes, she sees those stunning silver eyes like no other. And every time she sleeps, she swears she could fly as she dreamt about those very same eyes. What is wrong with her? Does she need medical attention? No, not really. Does she need other attention? Eh, most likely.

 “Okay, Weiss, what is wrong?” Asked Blake, her eyes brimming in concern.

 “Pardon?” Asked Weiss, looking to her from where she is reading.

 Blake’s shoulders slumps. “Are you okay? You’ve been… thinking… a lot. It’s like—it’s stressing you out.”

 Weiss swivels her chair to meet her book. “What makes you say that?”

 Blake can’t help but think that her friend is really stubborn as heck.

 “You've been sighing a whole lot. Your eyes would be lost everywhere. You sometimes even don’t pay attention to classes this past few days.” Blake listed all what she had seen so far. Well, at least she didn’t know about the dreams.

 The latter had her back straighten like a pole, her shoulders raised and her muscles tensed. Blake noticed this and sighed.

 “Look, Weiss. I know you're stubborn, but never been this stubborn.” Blake started. “Could you please, at least tell me why?”

 “Ain't nothing but a heartache.” Sang Weiss, jokingly. Blake gave her a deadpanned look. “Now, I really know there’s something wrong. You’re joking.”

 “Ouch, that hurt, Belladonna. Can’t I make jokes?” Said Weiss while chuckling.

 “Not this time, you won’t.” Glared Blake. Her eyes then soften and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

 “I don’t know.” Said Weiss, truthfully. She shook her head with a sigh. “I’m not even sure with what I’m feeling, or thinking about.”

 Blake raised a brow at the answer and hold the latter’s shoulder. “Did something happened? Like, that time in the cafeteria.” She stated. Weiss continues to stare at Blake, before slumping on her chair, giving in.

 “I met—more like saw… someone, I guess.” She started, taking a deep breathe before continuing. “I can’t help but think that they’re… eerily familiar. Like, I’ve seen them before.” Blake listened intently to what her friend is saying.

 Weiss drummed her fingers on her desk, creating a slow beat. “And what's more striking about them, is when I saw her eyes. It… shone, like glowing stars in the night with how silver it is. And they’re… very beautiful.” Breathed Weiss. Blake stared at her in surprise with how soft and calm she sounds like.

 “Wait, silver? Silver eyes?” Asked Blake. Weiss nodded. Blake took a sharp inhale and exhaled a smile. “I think I know who that is.”

 Weiss’s back stood straight on her chair and looked at Blake eagerly. “Really? You know her?

 Blake looked down in thought, then to Weiss. “I may have an inkling on who it was. And it involves Yang.”

 “Xiao Long? As in, your girlfriend Yang Xiao Long?” Asked Weiss, incredulously. Blake laughed at her reaction. “Yes, the very same.”

 Weiss then sighed at her. “Fine. I’m curious, but that doesn’t mean I would like whatever that blonde let out from her mouth.”

 “Alright then. Tomorrow's good for you?” Asked Blake. Weiss nodded. “Yes.”

 Blake stood up and told the former good night before heading towards her side of the room. Grabbed her phone. Sat on her bed. And called Yang.

 “Wassup, kittycat?” Whistled Yang. Blake rolled her eyes, affectionately. “Hello to you too, Yang.” Blake heard Yang smile behind the phone.

 “Why did you call? Is there something wrong?” Yang asked in concern. Blake sighed.

 “Why does every time I call you, you’d always assume that?”

 Yang shrugged. “Well, you know… the last time.”

 Right. Of course… that. But that’s not why she called her this late this time. Tonight's different. A good kind of different.

 “It’s not about that, don’t worry.” Said Blake. “You’re sister has silver eyes right?”

 “Yeah? Why the sudden interest, Blakey?”

 Blake exhaled. “Remember my best friend?”

 “Weiss Schnee, right? Blue eyes. White hair. Cold as weiss. Yeah, I remember.”

 She smiled at that. Of course, the pun will never cease to exist. That’s Yang Xiao Long, the punniest of them all.

 “I want Ruby to meet her tomorrow.” She said, bluntly.

 “Hold on, kitten. Are you playing matchmaking now?” Blake almost laughed at the accusation. Almost.

 “No, I’m not.” She feigned ignorance, a tone in her voice tells Yang otherwise. “Why would I do that?

 “Blakey, I know that tone. Heck, I’ve heard when it comes to the diddl—”

 “Yang, I’m hanging you.” Stated Blake, firmly.

 “Ack… no. Don’t. Geez, sorry. But yeah, you get my point. But why now all of a sudden?” Blake smirked at the question. “Oh, you’ll see.”

 “Okay. I can practically hear you smirk. I swear Blake if you—”

 “Thanks, Yang. Love you!” She said hanging up, leaving a very confused Yang, for the second time in the week.

 The day of tomorrow came by, almost instantly. Seemingly excited to see the possible scenario that would happen, this very same day. And it is a perfect day. The sun blazing brightly. The clouds drifting in the sea of skies. The leaves rustling around with the wind, softly blowing melodies. It really is… a perfect day.

 “Ouch, Blake! Stop pulling.” Whined Weiss.

 Okay, well, not as perfect to Weiss. Blake ended up dragging her out when she refused to meet the silver eyed person whom she is almost everyday, thinking about.

 “Blake, in all honesty. I think you're the most excited out of all of us.” Insisted Weiss. Blake laughed haughtily. “I am not. And I can vouch for that.”

 True to her words, there is actually someone out there, who is equally excited as she is, if not, much more excited than her. And if you guessed right, congratulations, and if not, that’s fine, all is well. But yes, that person is no other than, Ruby Rose. Practically and almost literally jumping on Yang when she told her she’d be meeting a person with blue eyes.

 “Ohhh!! Yes!! I bet she’s sooo pretty or beautiful.. o-or gorgeous… Yaaang!!” She squealed in excitement. Yang laughed at the action.

 “Well, you’re lucky she’s a friend of mine and Blake.” Grinned Yang. The former hugged her sister and thanked her… a lot. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thaaank you, Yang!”

 Yang smiled softly. “No problem. Anything for you, sis.” She then ruffled her sister's hair. “Ready to meet her?” Ruby nodded enthusiastically.

 “Right then let’s go!” Yang said.

 The restaurant's bell rang as the two sister's entered. Yang looked around before she saw a white hair standing out from the corner of the room. Grinning, she grabbed Ruby’s hand and head straight to where her girlfriend and friend is.

 “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” She said, as she leaned on the table to stare at Blake.

 “Oh you know, a smoking hot, Bake-a-donna.” Blake humored back.

 “Seriously? Right in front of my salad?” A white haired girl grumbled, insulted.

 Yang swivels her head to Weiss. “Way to quote, Sch—right, of course, not quoting.”

 Weiss gave her a deadpanned look. “I am quoting. Literally.” Yang chuckled at her and stood up straight, hugging her sister, who is staring at Weiss. Noticing this, she internally giggles.

 “Weiss, meet my sister, Ruby. Ruby, meet Weiss.” Introduced Yang.

 Unfortunately for her, the two are no longer paying attention to everything that is around them. Everything was blurred out, the people, the walls, everything. There were only static noise, buzzing out as they also block the sound from their surroundings. Both opened their mouths and simultaneously uttered a word.

 “Blue…

 ..silver eyes…”

 They both uttered.

 Notes:

I was actually having a bit of a hard time to make this thing. I had to delete a thousand words worth of plot because it didn’t felt right.

This was originally supposed to be a Soulmate AU, but like, it was kind of a thing already of the WRW, so I brushed it off. Although, it still kind of leaning on to that part.

Oh yeah, you have to squint a bit to see the prompts in this shot. It’s easy to find don’t worry.

I was actually about to make it a bit longer, but I’m like; “Hey, I kinda like this ending. I’ll keep it.”

[heathsbitch]

JUST HELPING - m.g*

A/N: What do you guys think about S5 of Peaky Blinders? I’m not sure if I like it or not. SPOILERS, I’m also so pissed that they killed Bonnie. I was so looking forward to seeing him grow and where his character would go, but I guess not. Anyway as always, enjoy...

Scenario: Michael has just been let out of prison and the reader helps to clean up his wounds and make him feel better.

Warning: Rough smut (I'm definitely going to hell for this), oral sex (F on M), swearing, unprotected sex (Wrap it before you tap it.)

Word Count: 3555

I was sat in the betting den talking to some of the Shelby boys, specifically Tommy, John and Finn. I've always been close to the Shelby's, our families were friends and we always hung out as kids. But my family has seen some dark times, especially considering I was the last one left in my family. 

My mother died giving birth to me and my brother and father died in the war. Tommy said he'd take me in because he didn't want me to be alone, he said it was dangerous. Ever since then, I've been involved in the business of the Peaky Blinders. No, I'm not directly involved in their business most of the time. There was one time that I had to kill a man to save John's life. Tommy has tried his best to keep me away ever since then. I typically just patch them up after they've been injured on a 'mission'. They all saw me as a sister to them and I saw them all as brothers.

The thing is though, some of the Blinders' business got Arthur and Michael arrested. A couple of slimy men by the name of Alfie Solomons and Darby Sabini had stitched them up and now they were getting battered and bruised in prison. They had done nothing wrong! But in Sabini's eyes they had. 

My nails tapped the old wooden table in front of me, anxiousness coursing through my veins. "Could you stop that please?" An annoyed John groaned "Sorry," I replied quickly. I was close to all of the Shelby brothers, but John was by far my best friend. Even if Finn was closer to my age, John and I had always gotten on better than anyone else.

"Listen, we're all nervous. We just need to keep our heads straight and think of a way to break them out." Thomas reassured us. "Isn't Pol trying to make a deal with that Copper for Michael?" Finn asked. We all looked at Finn "None of us really know what Pol is doing right now. She hasn't been acting straight since Michael got taken." I chipped in. 

We were all scared about what could happen to Arthur and Michael whilst they were in prison, but Polly was more worried than any of us. Obviously she had a reason to be, Michael was her son after all.

Unbeknownst to the Shelby brothers though, was the fact that I too was equally scared for Michael. I loved John and all the Shelby's like family but Michael was different. I liked him for a slightly separate reason. When I first met him, there was just something strange about him. He was kind, well-mannered and polite. Something I hadn't seen in a man in a long time. You could say that I was crushing on him. 

He made my heart race whenever he was near me, I would stutter and stumble over my words and he would just respond with a simple "Cute," and I would blush as a product of that. It was disappointing though, he could never like a girl like me. I grew up in Birmingham for Christ's sake! I was dirty and a member of the Peaky Blinders. He would never go for a woman like me, a murderer and a thief.

A dark figure burst through the doors of the Shelby household, startling the people sat in the gaming den. The figure stopped in the doorway of the den. Tommy rose to his feet and the man at the door came into the light, Michael. Heart thumping against my chest, I ran up to him and engulfed him a welcoming hug. He groaned in pain but wrapped his arms around my waist. "You look like shit," I said when I pulled away. Blood and cuts rested upon his once flawless face, bruises were beginning to form on his arms and I could guarantee that the wounds continued onto his chest. "Are you okay," I asked Michael. No response. He just stood there and stared at Tommy.

"You're gonna need those cuts cleaned up. You don't want them to get infected." He said as he walked up to Michael and me "I'm fine." He simply responded. "Let Y/N help. She cleans us up all the time." Tommy offered as he placed a hand on the small of my back "Michael, let me help." He nodded "Okay." "Good lad," Tommy began "We still need to think of a way to get Arthur out. We'll be down here if you need us, Y/N." I saw Finn glare at me and Michael before I nodded and led him upstairs to my bedroom.

"Just sit on my bed; I'll be back in a minute." I left him in my room as I went to get a bucket of water, some clean cloths and some alcohol. My room was small and simple. Only a single bed, a bedside table, dresser and mirror was present. It was home though. Walking back into the room, my eyes landed on my friend. He was sat on the side of my bed, hunched over and staring at one of his bloody hands whilst a cigarette rested in the other hand. "At least he fought back." I thought to myself.

The slightly rusty bucket sat on the floor next to me as I started to clean up Michael's wounds. I was resting on my knees, in between his legs. I would be lying if I said I wasn't having a silent panic attack. My hands dipped into the bucket of lukewarm water to soak the cloth. I cleaned his knuckles first. The blood resting there probably wasn't his which meant that he had been fighting in prison. My heart sank as I looked over him again. Seeing him in pain hurt me, he was such a sweet man that didn't deserve any of this. Raising my hand up to his face, I carefully wiped away the dried blood. He winced, indicating his wounds were fresh so I took more caution.

I cleaned more and more of the blood away, leaving his face clear with only the fresh cuts visible. The water in the bucket had turned into a strange shade of red from the blood. His shirt had become damp around his neck from the water droplets that ran off of him. "I need you to take off your shirt." I whispered timidly "What? I didn't catch that." Michael responded, his accent seemingly thicker than usual. My legs stiffened as I stood up. Before speaking, I wiped my hands on my long skirt "I need you to remove your shirt." I repeated, louder this time. The expression on his face didn't change as his, now clean, hands lifted up to the buttons on his shirt. He gradually undid his shirt then threw it to the other side of the room.

His hands now rested on his knees, a pose that was so alluring to me that I thought I would faint. I knew it was wrong but I couldn't help it. My eyes burned into his body. Muscles lined his light skin. For such an innocent man, he had a very toned body. I took a second to recompose myself and Michael just stared at me. I got back on my knees in front of him. He leaned back a little bit so I could have more access to his perfect body.

My hands entered the bucket once more. Timidly, I reached up to his chest so I could clean him. He groaned under my touch. Unfortunately, they were groans of pain. A wave of worry washed over me "Sorry." I apologised and put a hand on his knee so I could balance myself. "It's okay, darling," He soothed me with his words. "Don't worry about hurting me." I was unsure whether his voice was deep and strained because he hadn't spoken in a while or if it was because he was in a lot of pain. Either way, it was attractive. I just hoped it wasn't the latter.

After cleaning the wounds on his chest with water, I reached for the bottle of alcohol. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch so brace yourself." "Nothing's worse than Polly on a bad day. Just go slowly, please." He joked to ease some tension and I giggled in response. A small smile rested upon his lips. Even the cuts on his faces couldn't darken the light that surrounded him when he smiled. "God, I'm such a creep." I scolded myself in my head.

I pulled the cork out of the bottle of alcohol and poured some onto a fresh cloth. "Here, you might want a swig of this before I start." Handing over the bottle, he took a couple of gulps and put it onto the bedside table. I placed the cloth onto the large gash that ran across his chest. A cry of pain erupted from his throat and he grabbed onto my wrist. "Fuck!" He cried out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I apologised profusely and pulled away "No," He shouted "Keep going." He pushed my hand onto his chest and I put my other one on his knee. My face was only millimeters from his. I could feel his heavy breath fanning my face. "Done. I'm done." I exclaimed as I finished cleaning his injuries. Michael's grasp on my wrist loosened a little bit but he still held it against his chest, I had dropped the cloth so it no longer held a barrier between us. Our breathing mingled with each other, sweat covered his body.

Silence settled on the room. It wasn't awkward though, it was comfortable, soothing almost. "Are you okay?" I broke the silence. He groaned "Yeah," He pulled away from me and let go of my wrist "Thank you." Both of my hands now rested on his knees, I was still squished in between his legs. His eyes met mine. They were blue; not as bright as Tommy's but they held warmth and comfort, something Tommy's never did. They flickered between my lips and my own eyes. Getting closer to my face, he cupped my cheek with his hand. A tingling sensation flew across my body. His lips met mine. He kissed me. Michael fucking Gray just kissed me! I couldn't believe what happened so my grip on his knees just tightened.

Our lips danced together, teeth clashing. Then he slipped his tongue into my mouth. Something that had started out as just an innocent kiss was escalating quickly. I moaned into his mouth and he pulled me closer. Michael was now sat on the edge of the bed, my chest basically pressed into his crotch. That's when I felt it, a hard object pressing into my breasts. My heart furiously thumped against my chest, I was scared he could feel it. I thought nothing more of the item that was flush against me and focused on the kiss. He moaned and pulled away from me. One string of spit connected our mouths together. He laughed and swiped it from my lips.

Looking down at the hardness between his legs "Look what you did to me. Look how crazy you drive me." Both of his hands now cradled my face and he was staring into my eyes yet again. "I have something to confess, Y/N. Something I've never told anyone. I like you. A lot as you can tell," He joked and looked down at his lap again. I knelt there in silence as he continued to confess to me "You've always drove me crazy. I thought you would never like anyone like me, considering you're a Peaky Blinder and you probably fancy someone proper bad like Tommy or John. Besides, all girls like bad boys. But you're not like other girls, are ya?" His eyes darkened "You're bad yourself, that's what I like. You're not afraid to speak up or argue your point. You're not scared of no one. I bet Tommy doesn't even scare ya." I was stunned. The exact reason I thought Michael would never like is the exact reason he did. "I'm dangerous." I whispered "I can be too." His eyes came back to met mine and a smirk grew onto his face "Being in prison changed me. I learned I had to be tough, like you, to survive. I'm not as bad as Tommy, by no means, but I'm sure I could still show you a good time. Even better than he could."

He whispered the last part of his speech in my ear. That's what sent me over the edge. I could feel myself pooling in my knickers. He chuckled as he noticed the effect he had on me. "Come 'ere, doll." Then he kissed me again, with even more passion this time. His tongue trailed my lips, a moan falling out in the process. Michael pulled away, again. "Now let's do something about this shall we." He gestured to the hard-on he was nursing in his trousers. "Mickey," A new nickname slipped out, causing him to groan and smirk "I-I've never done this before." "It's okay. I'll help you." He comforted me.

My shaking hands undid the button on his trousers, pulling them down. He lifted up so I could fully remove them. The bulge was now really in my face. A whimper tumbled from my lips as I took his boxers off. Now I am not an expert on cocks, but surely it couldn't be possible for it to be this big. I think Mickey noticed me staring "I know, I know. Don't worry, darling." He reassured me.

Hands slipping into my hair, he pushed me closer to his cock. I lifted my own hands and grabbed onto it. I stroked it a couple of times before bringing it to my mouth. As they made contact, a loud "Fuuck." came from his mouth. I bobbed my head up and down his shaft, trying to fit all of it in my mouth. Once Michael managed to focus again he told me what to do next "Put this hand here." He took one of my hands off of his large cock and guided it to his balls. I rolled them in my hand as I continued to work my mouth around his length. Moans and groans fell from his lips like a prayer, my name coming off of them as well like a chant. "Shit, Y/N. Are you sure you've never done this before." This comment encouraged me to go harder, and faster. My mouth furiously sucked his cock, my hand taking what my mouth couldn't.

A particularly loud groan elicited from his mouth and he pushed my head into his crotch. It was my turn to whimper. His hands gripped and tugged at my hair, turning me on even more. My panties were definitely soaked. I closed my eyes as Mickey began to thrust into my mouth. Gags came fast from me, his cock stretching my mouth and my throat, the sound echoing through the small room. "Fuck, I'm close Y/N." He warned me as he continued to thrust mercilessly into my oesophagus. I was still deep-throating him when he came. Warm, white liquid dripped down my throat. He drew his member out of my mouth. Spit and cum was attached to it and it hung between his dick and my throat. "You look so pretty like that." He complimented me.

Hands gripping onto my waist, he pulled me up so I was now standing. "This isn't fair, is it?" He pointed out the fact that I was still fully clothed. Veiny hands gradually undid the buttons on my shirt. He then turned me around so he could unzip my skirt. Michael turned me around. "Fuck." He groaned again as he took in my half naked appearance. Today just happened to be the day that I wore skimpy underwear. A black lace bra covered my breasts, a matching set of panties with stockings and garters rested on my flaming body.

He moved his hands again, this time tracing my bra strap and pulling it from my shoulder. He was now stood up, towering over me. Mickey kissed my neck, sucking a purple mark onto it. He moved to the other side of my neck and did the same thing, traveling to my clavicle after he finished. Un-clipping my bra, he ripped it from me. His tongue darted out to wet his lips "I like these." He remarked and moved to my panties. We were now stood there, completely naked, bodies burning for each other. If someone were to walk in now, we would be fucked (and not in the good way). But that fact only spurred Michael on more.

He sat down and pulled me onto his lap. Our lips met again for a final kiss as I sunk onto his length. A whine of euphoria leapt from me and I clenched onto Mickey's shoulders for support. He wrapped one arm around my waist and the other around my shoulders. I bounced, slowly at first so I could get used to the sheer size of Michael. "Fuck, you're so tight." Michael groaned in my ear. Moans filled the room yet again, coming from the both of us. "Can I go harder?" Michael asked and I giggled at the fact that he was asking permission after everything we'd already done that night. "Of course." was my reply. His hands gripped onto my hips, moving me faster, his thrusts matching the speed of my bounces. My head was thrown back by the pleasure Michael was giving to me.

With no warning, Michael threw me onto the mattress underneath him so he could be in control. "Michael!" I cried out, my eyes rolling into the back of my head. His thrusts hit my core, sparks flying between the two of us. His head rested in the crook of my neck, the feeling getting to him as well. That position didn't last long though. He sat up and pulled one my legs over his shoulder. His hands kept him steady at either side of my head as he plunged into my pussy. "You feel so good, princess." He bellowed. Everyone downstairs could definitely hear us but that only fueled him more. "Mickey. I think I-I'm close." I stuttered "Just hold on a little longer for me, Y/N." Michael's pace increased ten-fold. He was now reaching parts of me that I didn't even know I had. I screamed in ecstasy. Michael pushed his hand to my throat and squeezed. He didn't squeeze extremely hard, just the right amount of pressure. My eyes fluttered shut. Michael leaned in to whisper in my ear "Open your eyes angel; I wanna see you fall apart."

That sent me flying forward, clutching onto his body. A wave of euphoric pleasure crashed over me. My nails dragged over Mickey's back, leaving marks that would probably be there for the next few days. It was Michael's turn next. "Shit!" He shouted in my ear as he reached his own climax. He pulled out just in time. Ropes of hot cum shot out of his cock, his hand slowly bringing him down from his own high. He reached for one of the clean cloths and cleaned us up, ridding me of the evidence of that night's activities.

He collapsed on top of me. After a couple minutes of blissful silence, he rolled off of me and pulled me into his chest. Sweat glazed his body, his beautiful eyes were closed and small huffs were leaving his nose. He looked perfect. Michael pulled a blanket over us, just in case anyone did walk in. My eyes closed and we both drifted into a peaceful sleep...

It didn't last long however, after roughly ten minutes John burst into the room. "Just helping, were ya?" His voice startled Mickey and I. We both shot up from the bed, the blanket clutched to my chest. John was stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed against his chest and his signature smile plastered on his face. I noticed a smaller figure behind John. He walked forward slightly, probably to get a better look, and I could tell it was Finn. "Oh shit, he's too innocent for this." I thought and clutched the blanket closer to my chest. "Finn you're too young for this." John turned around and pushed Finn away from the room, his eyes were as wide as saucers. Clearly he had never seen a naked woman before.

John turned back to us "Just don't hurt her, ya daft prick. Otherwise we will cut ya." He warned Michael who looked just as startled as Finn. He nodded and John left the room without closing the door. "Oi boys, Mickey's getting some action." He yelled as he descended the stairs of the Shelby household.

[ddaenghoney]

chapter four

masterlist link in blog description.

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

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

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

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

Chapter warning(s): graphic sexual depictions (fingering, like really minor dirty talk; it’s mostly dirty praise idk, oral; female receiving, cum swallowing, vaginal penetration via male penis(typing this made me laugh so hard lmao), male ejaculation without condom); i’d say it’s entirely sweet sex but uh-

Word count: 4931

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

Yoongi stands outside of the CEO office, his back against the wall beside the elevator. Waiting until the door shuts behind you, he straightens, pressing the button next to his waist to signal the elevator. Meeting eyes with his, you know there’s a lot he wants to say, but the vagueness of his expression doesn’t give you an idea of a tone. Another lecture you’re sure. Just to continue the growing streak. Yerin’s secretary glances towards you then Yoongi, curiosity taking over her to hope for something interesting to occur.

You simply follow him into the elevator.

“What was all of that?” He asks you when the door shuts, eyes peering in frustration, but you believe him to be shocked more than anything. “I’m now your fake boyfriend?” A single, breathy laugh leaves his mouth. Bitter.

“I guess,” You’re unable to meet his gaze, instead staring at the unlit elevator buttons and the lack of movement from other people calling for the elevator on this oddly slow day. “I don’t even know.”

“If I knew this would happen,” He sighs, rubbing his temples and never finishing the end of the thought. Leaving it to himself.

“This is my fault.” Your voice is barely a whisper, severity of everything catching up with you and how you’ve managed to cause trouble for Jimin and now Yoongi, who’s new to SoundWave and probably hating the employment.

“No.” Yoongi shakes his head, then exhales once more, trying to rationalize. “This is complete shit, but it’s not your fault.” In the first place, Jimin having a contract forbidding him from dating is one that Yoongi thought was just a bad rumor in the industry-- something that people didn’t actually have. There wasn’t a single employee in his last company that was forced under that rule, even though it had been frowned upon to be in public relationships. Incredibly frowned upon in a certain case. Still, Yoongi never figured the lack of a dating-ban clause in his contract and the new direction of his stage persona would lead him into a fake relationship. Irony with no humor. “Why aren’t you publically an employee?”

You reach for the elevator buttons, clicking the ground floor. The machinery shifts, starting the descent.

“Because,” You’re still hesitant about the prospect of explaining your situation. Anyone at SoundWave that has anything to do with music production knows, and Yoongi shouldn’t be an exception. It’s not like he is an intern, or part-time assistant. You may even work with him in the future, but you can’t remember ever explaining your position to someone other than Jimin. And that was only because he was whom you worked with often when first starting. “I write songs and produce, but I don’t ever get credited for it.”

“What?” Yoongi sounds like he thinks he didn’t correctly hear you. “Wait, what do you mean? Who gets the credit then?”

You sigh, eyeing the floor number that grows smaller and smaller, but not quick enough. “Whatever group or idol that ends up using them.”

“You,” He’s without comprehension, expression on his face ridiculously confused. Maybe even appalled by your job, or that he is also a part of the extremely large group under the assumption that they aren’t being lied to. Only to find out that it’s an acceptable and ongoing aspect of the company. One you’re acceptant of; otherwise you would’ve quit years ago or never taken the job to begin with. “You let your work get used under someone else’s name-- you’re lying to people, and you’re just letting that happen?”

You glare at him, but stay silent. Even if you want to argue, that’s how it is. You don’t have the power to change it, and years earlier you didn’t actually mind sliding ethics aside. You want to tell him that you’re not letting the lies occur willingly, but by the looks of his face-- something appearing increasingly unsettled and distant about your untruthful position-- you know it won’t matter. He won’t understand and maybe is even right to have his opinion of you drop to the ground.

The elevator door opens prompting you to practically jump out. “I’m going home.”

Yoongi stays inside of it, posture weighted in contempt of everything that he’s just gone through. As if the merger couldn’t get anymore terrible, now he is in a falsified relationship with someone that helps SoundWave lie to the general public just for the sake of appearances, and he’s stuck dealing with it. He groans when the doors shut again, taking a moment to bask in the nonsense of it all before clicking the button to his studio’s floor.

Outside the building you pace, considering the option of calling Jimin, but then also considering that he hasn’t texted you and is likely angry and sorting through his own thoughts of this mess. You groan, startling a passerby on their walk to wherever. Taking no notice you shake your head, pulling out your phone and ripping the bandaid off,

Y/N, 3:43pm: Can we talk?

You stare at the message thread for a passing minute, then lock the screen. He could be busy doing a thousand other things, there isn’t a reason for him to automatically get back to your message, and he could still be upset-- the screen flashes with a notification, and you immediately unlock,

Jimin, 3:44pm: Yeah, I get off close to nine.

A breath releases from your lips. At least he responded. Another message appears, the contents seizing up the next beat of your heart.

Jimin, 3:44pm: Can I call you right now?

Y/N, 3:45pm: Yeah, of course.

You descend south of the company, heading towards a nearby coffee shop when the call comes in. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Jimin sits in the recording booth, waiting for the producer to meet him there at the start of the next hour. His legs gently push on the floor, swaying the computer chair side to side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” The concern in his voice eases you, as well as the seemingly calm demeanor. Though there is a chance he’s feigning it, you suppose. “I’m so sorry about the thing with Yoongi. I swear nothing happened-”

“I believe you, lovely.” Softly spoken, head nodding even though you couldn’t see him. Jimin bites his lip, bothered that you’ve likely been incredibly worried about what he thought ever since Yerin dropped the words. “You wouldn’t do that to me. I trust you.”

His sincerity is warm, nearly causing the fuzz of emotions in your eyes to trickle because of how much your mind was pressured from the idea that he would misunderstand. You breathe through your lips, cracking the air audibly. Jimin sits upright on his end, concern raising his voice’s volume,

“Baby, are you crying?”

“No.” You’re quick to cover up but the word itself sounds like a tremble. Jimin frowns, rubbing his face,

“I’m sorry, I would’ve texted you but I was worried your phone’s notification would be loud while you were talking to Yerin. I didn’t want it to interrupt and make her angrier.” You rub your eyes feeling no tears and just the annoying heat that seems to release from all of the stress of the past couple of hours. “What did she tell you anyways? You didn’t get in more trouble did you?”

“No, it’s nothing.” Just a speech that put you in your place, but it’s not worth mentioning. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer you over the weekend, Jimin.”

“It’s fine.” Jimin taps his index finger on the armrest, then pausing the motion as you speak up,

“No, it’s not fine. I shouldn’t have ignored you. I wasn’t being fair.” You sigh. He’s quiet at your words, surprised at the conclusion of your actions.

“I was acting like an idiot, Y/N.” He glances to the clock, knowing the producer is usually early. “I’m not mad at you for it, I deserved it. Anyways, I need to go. I just called because I wanted to hear your voice and make sure you were okay.” You smile softly at the admission. “Come to my apartment later and we’ll talk more, alright?”

“Okay,” You nod, glancing to the sign on the coffee shop that stated they are closed for the day. Unusual for a Monday. Yet fitting for the kind of day it is. “I’ll make sure no one notices me going in.”

---

Jimin can’t help chuckling at you when he opens his front door. A large zip-up hoodie drapes over you with the hood covering your face, and sunglasses complete your, to your opinion, lowkey look despite sunglasses being useless at night. You’re pouting as you remove the shades, stepping into the apartment.

“I bet the cab driver thought you were having a day.”

“He wouldn’t be wrong.” You shrug, slipping the hood off and dipping your eyes from his. Jimin sighs, head nodding in agreement. “He was telling me I was lucky to get a cab tonight and everyone is close to the city center today, so at least I got a ride if nothing else.” Jimin’s head tilts at your seemingly lack of awareness to the date,

“You know it’s New Year’s Eve don’t you?” His sentence barely completes before you’re looking back at him in shock. When you consider all of the closed establishments and lack of people at work, it makes sense, but you’re in disbelief that you forgot. Jimin smiles in endearment, reaching for your hand, “It’s been a complicated week.”

He leads you to the couch, and still calm. With all of the information he heard from Yerin, you assumed Jimin would act differently. At least be asking fervently for answers. He said on the phone that he trusts you, but despite that you wonder how he’s not appearing to be upset about it. Sitting down beside him, you watch Jimin pull his knee up on the cushion facing you. His hand fiddles with yours, thumb stroking the top.

“What should we do?”

The question isn’t one you anticipated on your way over. The diverse amount of things Jimin could mean with it flutter your mind like gusts in a tree, and the lack of strong emotion in how he spoke make your eyebrows harden in thought. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” His eyes fall to where your hands meet. Jimin squeezes tighter. A pound in his chest. “Don’t you think we should stop this all?”

Muscles tense throughout your body. The concept is so far removed from what you expected. His passive attitude to go along with it drives your head to draw a blank. You thought coming here there could be strong words in an argument of explanations, and apologies for the things Yerin called you both into the office for. Not this. Your hand squeezes around his and Jimin casts his gaze back up. Nervousness is apparent, paired with your head shaking.

Jimin bites his inner lip, trying to remain rational despite the hurt in your eyes, “We,” He hesitates, remembering the first time that he kissed you. “We’re just hurting each other, love.”

“How?” Voice higher, confused. “We’re,” You swallow dryly, “Not even dating, Jimin, why do you sound like you think we should break up.” A tiny, hollow laugh, devoid of humor. You watch helplessly as he nods,

“I know, so before it gets worse than what happened today, we should stop.” Jimin’s voice slows down, like he doesn’t want to complete the sentence. Sadder. You inhale, trying to reason his tactics in your mind,

“Then let’s date.”

“Love-”

“I don’t want to stop.” Jimin bites his lip, frowning at you while feeling the ducts of his eyes well because of your pleas. Your hand shakes in his grip, and he wills himself to stop from hugging you. “Please, I don’t want to stop. I like how we were, I,” You remember saying the opposite to him at the club. He recalls the same thing, smiling joylessly.

“We can’t stand up for each other, baby. I can’t be there for you like you deserve.” Jimin talks about the company, but also in society’s perspective. Yerin made it clear that he can’t be in a relationship publically, and for that reason the relationship between you started. Hidden. Incomplete. Jimin told you at the beginning that you should both stop if you caught feelings for somebody else and you agreed because it was just fun when it started. It wasn’t serious, but it turned into something deeper. You know that and know Jimin knows it too.

“I care about you so much.”

Jimin’s lips part at the simple, yet utterly sincere and loving words. Contrasted by the sadness of the entire situation. His hand clenches around yours. He thinks the same, but with what he knows about himself, he shouldn’t let this continue. The few cool tears dripping from his eyes plead with him as well. To admit to you the feelings that he has, but it’s more complicated.

“Jimin,” He loves hearing his name through your lips. His tear-stained face watches you move, knowing he should stop you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t and your lips are on his. Jimin’s hand abandons yours for your waist, to keep you from getting too close, but he kisses you back, relishing in your touch against his better judgement.

“Baby.” Jimin’s hand tightens around the side of your waist when you attempt to move closer. Mere inches from your face, his eyes lock with yours, searching for your thoughts.

“Please,” Air hitches in Jimin’s throat while your arms cascade around his neck. Your voice soft. Begging once more, by your lips kissing him sweetly. Like candy. Familiarly. “You don’t want to stop.”

“We should though.” A waver in his tone. Jimin really doesn’t want to stop, let you go, force you from his life.

“Just kiss me.” Believing you can convince him otherwise, your arms gently tug. Coaxing. In a more sensible time, you know this isn’t how to keep him with you. You know that there are problems, and the way Jimin and you are now won’t work. But you love him.

And this isn’t a sensible time.

Your hoodie is left on the couch, stripped off before Jimin lifts you to take you to his bedroom. Your lips attach along his jaw, trailing until you come in contact with the spot that elicits an expected grunt. Your arms tighten around him, holding yourself to him while working at the skin, leaving it sensitive and bruised before he lays you down.

His fingers caress on the area, smirking softly at your quick, thorough work, but his jaw tightens when you waste no time and remove your long sleeve. Inhaling a long breath, Jimin crawls over top of you,pressing your head back into the mattress as he kisses you firmly.

“What if you regret this?” Jimin’s voice blisters against your neck, syllables left in the skin like a trail leading to your collarbone where he pauses, kissing feverishly. He knows you won’t change your mind, more so when you audibly sigh and mix your fingertips into his hair,

“I can’t regret you.” You raise your hips the short distance to rub against Jimin’s, listening to his groan when he feels you against his growing bulge, “I want you, Jimin.”

For more than just the night.

Jimin’s face equals with your own, lost in your eyes until you kiss him again, prompting him to flatten against you more. His hips rub slowly over yours, firmly pressing his hardened erection against your pelvis. You moan against his lips, fueling Jimin’s emotions to win over logic. His hand reaches for the button on your jeans quickly, desiring more contact. He halts when you nudge him upwards, immediately thinking you want to stop until your fingertips are undoing each button on his top. He smirks at your hands, watching you through the sultriness in his irises.

Jimin lets you be the one to push his shirt off his shoulders, then he lets it slip off his arms to lie next to your hips on the bed. Your palm finds his chest, cementing the beat of his heart to memory. He observes quietly, curious of the slowness in your actions. The intimacy of feeling his skin in a calm manner. The moment passes when your hand moves to cup his cheek, guiding him back down to you for a kiss labored in passion, but just as vulnerable as tears.

You grind your hips opposite of his motions, creating a deeper pressure that causes a small piece of profanity to fall from his lips. Jimin’s hand finds your cleavage, squeezing over your bra to make you gasp. The article is removed then in your haste for him to touch you more, earning darkened chuckles from his lips when you lift your back from the bed to unclasp the bra, your chest pressing to his. He admires you, “You’re so precious.”

“Then don’t break up with me.” Labored words escape when you’re back against his sheets. Under his focused stare you slip your arms from the bra straps, but hesitate to remove the cups when Jimin’s chest fills with air from a sharp inhale. Watching so intently, and you swear his eyes gaze lovingly as well. He reaches his hand over yours, guiding it to slide the lingerie from your chest, exposing yourself to him for a countless time. Beautiful.

“It’s better for us,” Jimin has the nerve, the stubbornness to say this in a low voice, despite the fact that the actions currently show he’s trapped in the thing he’s deemed no good. You shake your head, then are halted by the ghosting kiss from his lips, “You mean so much to me, lovely.” A longer ministration follows, filling your thoughts of the familiarity how sweet he’s always tasted. “But we can’t become a couple. I can’t let you deal with how lousy I am.”

“You’re not,” You pepper Jimin’s cheeks, fingers trailing along his back.

“You know how I am in the company.” You don’t speak against that idea, the one you never want to bring up because it felt like an instant argument. One you didn’t think Jimin realized. “And you’re wonderful and talented,” His kisses are short and repetitive against your lips, “And deserve better than all of the crap you’re put through. But I can’t help you with it. And I don’t want to be a reason you hold yourself back.”

Before you’re able to retort at his nonsensical words, Jimin’s hand reaches between your legs palm pressing against your jeans and rubbing friction into your core. Words are lost to a whimper unprepared for the contact as well as the proceeding action his hand takes rubbing roughly, making your hips move into him craving more. Jimin kisses at your neck listening to his name fall from your lips in a needy murmur.

His hand leaves your growing pile of nerves, eliciting a breathy whine that he kisses back into your mouth. Jimin unbuttons your jeans, “Take them off.” The demanding tone is contrastingly soft, leaving your heart beating in anticipation and complying in moments to help him rid the clothing. “God,” He lifts himself upright, knees pressing further into the mattress from his weight, while he looks you over: skin already appearing glistened from need, chest concaving from breaths that leave the mess of lovebites in view on your upper body. “So beautiful.” His head tilts watching the blush on your face grow from his words. “You know that though,” A coy smirk plays at his lips, while he reaches for your thighs, gently sliding you upwards on his bed, so your head comes close to the headboard. “I tell you,” Your mouth releases a moan when his fingers press against your clit through your panties, his lips leaving airy pecks on your thighs, “Every time I can,” His smirks grows when the swipe of his thumb against your wettening heat makes your legs jerk. Trying to close, but he removes the hand to grip them back in place, respreading, “I’m going to make you feel good.”

Profanity slips from your lips in a breathless stutter when he strips you completely, Jimin’s fingers rubbing into your clit like a map memorized. Easily causing your legs to wiggle, moans slipping out when one dips inside. “Jimin,” Needily begging for more as the digit slides in and out, readying you for the second while he continues laying kisses on your chest, decorating it with heat in every spot. “Feels-” You gasp when his thumb works against your clit, the sensation mixing with his fingers pumping inside of you making your hands grip his shoulder.

Nails graze the skin as Jimin’s fingers push all the way, he grunts from the force of your hand, but leaves a kiss to your jaw, “Don’t come,” Another ministration on your lips as you whimper, already knowing you were leaving his fingers wet along with his sheets from how he was expertly edging you along, “Not yet, lovely, wait for my mouth to take you over.”

Every piece of will to listen nearly disperts from just the tone of Jimin’s voice: slow, confident. You’re so willing to be pushed over that you’re unable to stop your hips bucking into his mouth when his tongue graces the entrance of your throbbing cunt. He chuckles against you, the vibrations themselves feel good, and your face heats from your own eagerness, but you’re more focused on giving him the satisfaction he wants, “Jimin, you’re so-” You gasp as his tongue dips deeper, moaning your next words, “Good, fuck; please, I want to come.”

“Let me taste you, baby,” Jimin’s hands hold your hips as you writhe from the pleasuring sensations. He groans low when your hand leaves the bed to tangle in his hair as your orgasm coaxes through. You tremble releasing yourself with long moans, hazy while Jimin’s lips lap up your arousal, muttering praise into your core. Your head lies against his mattress, chest taking full inhales, as Jimin sits upright. His tongue drags along the remainders of you on his lips, while his eyes take in your fucked body. He crawls overtop of you, kissing you and staining your tongue with your own taste.

“I want you inside me,” You cup Jimin’s face as you murmur the words. His eyes are lidden with desire at your statement, sharply inhaling when you go on, “Fuck me, baby, please I want to make you cum in me.” Jimin kisses you, moaning to your lips as your hand rubs his shaft through tight jeans. “It’s not even fair for you to still have these on,” He chuckles, and you can’t help the tiny smirk on your lips.

“You want to come again, baby; so needy for me.” Jimin kisses your nose, his pelvis moving into the motions of your hand. His inhales grows slightly labored when you give a squeeze to his hardened bulge before you’re unbuttoning his jeans. They’re removed in moments, Jimin’s own efforts to pull of his boxers, exposing his dick, erect and sensitive enough to cause his breaths to shake when he palms himself, “You’re sure about no condom?”

“You know I’m covered there,” You say staring at his length, swallowing in anticipation for the feeling of Jimin inside of you. He notices your sultry gaze and leans back towards you, kissing you tenderly.

The emotion takes you back for a second, feeling somewhere between melancholic and warm, you’re brought back to his conviction that this would be the last time Jimin intends to be intimate with you. When his lips leave yours, your eyes are focused on Jimin’s. There’s so much you want to ask him, but when he’s as convinced as he is, what good would it do. You’re the only one with feelings surpassing love, or else he wouldn’t do this.

Jimin kisses you again, using the remnants of your previous orgasm to lubricate his length, before he’s aligning himself with your entrance and easing himself in. Your chest raises from a breath, listening to Jimin’s moans against your lips as he tops out into you, “You’re so good around me, baby. Fuck,” He grunts when your hips buck to his. You moan as his grinding begins slow in full movements to get your walls acclimated to his dick, though you’re already well stimulated.

“Fuck,” You gasp as his pace suddenly changes, Jimin pulling out only to pound back in and make you moan his name loudly. He kisses your lips before moving back to your cheek, jaw, and neck, every inch he could while he pumps into you over and over, every audible sound from you encouraging his actions. “Jimin, Jimin,” You beg using his name, feeling his hand find yours, fingers meshing as your voice grows higher from an oncoming wave wanting to burst through. “I’m close- shit--”

“God, you feel so good; your pussy takes me so well, baby,” Jimin kisses your lip hungrily, “Come for me, lovely; I’m going to,” Your hand squeezes him as the orgasm washes over you, listening to Jimin’s moaning as his seed fills you, “Fucking,” You come undone with him, the ride going through your core and releasing around Jimin’s dick as you moan loudly, senselessly, not caring if anyone could possibly hear.

Labored breathing flows into the silence of his room. Your free hand guides Jimin’s face to yours for a sweet kiss that he lets linger into a honeylike warmth. Pulling out, Jimin then lets himself fall into the bed beside you, hand still holding yours with a seeming refusal to let go. He watches quietly while you look at his ceiling aimlessly, breathing still full as your bodies calm down. “You still want us to stop.” A statement with the tone of a question.

“Yeah,” He bites his lip as you turn on your side to face him. He feels your hand grip his with a tiny tremble, and your eyes alone make his heart nearly shatter. You try your best to force the tiniest of smiles, but Jimin gently shakes his head, “Don’t pretend for my sake, sweetie.”

“It hurts.” You whisper to let out the emotions that want to escape as tears. Jimin frowns, pulling you towards him and embracing you so you could hide your face against his chest. “Are you sure this isn’t because of the thing with Yoongi?” You ask in a trembling voice while tears build in your eyes that you try to blink back.

“It’s not.” Jimin kisses the top of your head, his hands rubbing soothingly along your back, “It’s really not, baby.” He pauses, knowing there his reasoning isn’t completely selfish as he goes on, his voice sad and his reflecting that, “We just really can’t be there for each other like we’d need to be in a relationship, lovely. We’ll just hurt each other, more than we have been lately.”

You exhale a choppy breath, trying to even out your emotions for the sake of the last night with Jimin not being only tears.

You both flinch as the night sky outside flashes, with a medley of booming sounds murmuring out in the air. Jimin’s grasp on you strengthens, contemplative of what was going on as you shift to get sight of the window, covered except for the gap between the curtains.

“It must be midnight.” Your voice is hollow and you remove yourself from his warmth to crawl off the bed. Jimin’s eyes follow you inquisitive, a pit of worry brewing that you intend to leave until your hand pushes back one of the curtains, leaving the sheer set behind it out in the open. The colorful fireworks continue in happy, vibrant colors, spilling remnants of their energy as a reflection on your skin. Jimin stares in awe, silent as you turn back to face him, picturesque and ethereal in the celebratory lights. A contradiction to the events of his apartment.

A veil in the thin curtains acts as a separator between you both in the dimness of his room and the continuation of the world outside.

You walk back towards Jimin, crawling to his open arms on the bed as he greets your return with a kiss. You take it and any following in case they’re the last, settling into Jimin’s bed with him as the blankets cover your cuddling frames. It’s a long time of contentment in each other’s arms, while you both ignore that day means an end; trying to let the fireworks and their beauty be enough of a distraction between longing kisses.

Inevitably you fall asleep first, breaths soothing in sound and sight as Jimin admires the grace of your figure in his arms. He strokes your hair like you still needed to be lulled to slumber. He thinks what it would be like if he was on your side from the first instance of you bringing up that you wanted to be credited for your work, or if he hadn’t kept quiet about his opposite, selfish opinion this long and forwards.

Your sleeping body shifts, arms tightening around his waist. Jimin can’t help the little smile, wishing he had the same outlook as you just so it wouldn’t be the last night of you being practically his. Jimin’s lips find your peaceful forehead in a warm kiss, saying a whisper that he doubts he’ll ever get to say again, “I love you.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know! i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : ) also don’t drag me for the smut in this chapter it may or may not be good idk im worried lmaoadsjfgk

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire​ @tsvkino-usagi​​

[pynkhues]

Ok, so. First of all, I freaking love your writig, its *chefs kiss* delicious. Second of all I have this theory. Its that the only way they will say anything seriously nice about the other is if they are not saying it to each other. Could you write something about Beth defending Rio to someone (maybe a PTA mom or Ruby) or Rio defending Beth to someone (maybe Dean) and the other one overhears? Kinda the opposite of 'eavesdroppers never hear nice things' kinda thing. Sorry for the ramble!

Thank you so much! You’re so sweet!

So, I’ve had so many requests for fic in The Center and Circumference / domestic fic universe, I didn’t realise that that wasn’t in your request until I’d already finished this prompt, haha. I hope that’s okay! Anyway, it’s pretty long, so I hope you like it :-) 

-

He’s halfway through a meeting with one of their newer clients – some watery-eyed, broad-faced fuck with a propensity already for overstepping – when Rio’s cell buzzes in the back pocket of his jeans, and shit, he thinks, gaze flicking to his right on the table where his work cell sits uninterrupted. It’s ain’t that.  

“I can manage the extra cars,” the client says across from him, unperturbed, shifting forwards slightly in his seat, and Rio arches an eyebrow, feeling his cell quiet down, then the tell-tale buzz of a voicemail left after it. There are only a few people it could be on this line – Elizabeth, probably about dinner tonight or somethin’ (she’s careful about calling his work cell for work-related things after all), his mom, probably about dinner on Sunday night, or - - his jaw already twitching in annoyance - - Glenvale Elementary School.  

“That’s a lotta product,” he tells the client, while telling himself it could be Danny’s teacher – Elizabeth had kept him home sick yesterday with what she was sure were the early signs of an ear infection, and she is usually right about those sorts of things; or Emma’s teacher, maybe – giving her another prize for highest raised hand or cleanest desk or some shit, but damn, who’s he kidding?  

If it’s the school, he knows who it’s about.  

“I can move it,” the client insists. “It’s only three more than my guys are already doing, and I’ve got a few new territories I’m exploring for distribution.”  

It’s the way the guy says it more than anything that makes Rio train a lazy eye back on him – the tone just the wrong side of desperate. Rio knows that tone – the tone of somebody who’s promised someone more than he can offer.  

Rocking forwards a little in his own seat, Rio knits his fingers together, drops them as one to the table in front of him, his brow furrowing in faux confusion as he does it, and he’s about to ask exactly why this dumbass needs three extra cars worth of pills when his cell starts buzzing again in the back pocket of his jeans.  

And just - -  

If it is the school - -  

If one of them is sick or hurt or something, just - -  

Fuck.  

He lurches to his feet.  

“We’ll start with one,” he tells the guy, already reaching for his cell, and when the client opens his mouth to try and haggle, Rio silences him quickly with a look. Once he’s sure the guy isn’t going to make trouble, he drags his gaze away just long enough to make eye contact with Demon, who’s standing, folded-armed, by the door.  

“Demon’ll take you through the, ah –”  he rolls his free hand out at the wrist, making a show out of considering this, his other hand still occupied with his buzzing cell. “Paperwork, dot the I’s, cross them t’s. You do okay with the one, we can talk about two next time, yeah?”  

And at least even the mention of Demon is enough to shut the guy up for real.  

What can he say? Demon’s got a rep, and what sort of boss would Rio be if he didn’t know how to use it? He smirks a little, watches as Demon moves to sit down on the edge of the table, inches away from the client, looking down at him, and when he’s sure Demon’s got it, Rio slips easily out of the room.

He’s still walking down the short hallway of the warehouse to his current office when he finally actually looks at his buzzing cell, feeling equally pissed off and vindicated at the Glenvale Elementary number blearing back up at him. And sure, maybe he’s pinching his nose as he answers the call, elbowing his way into his office – expecting what exactly, he has no fucking clue. He’s given up on guessing when it comes to Marcus and Jane. If they’ve started another fire though, he swears to god - -  

“Mr Vela,” the administrator says, a little breathless, her voice cutting through his thoughts. “Thanks for taking our call. We understand you’re a very busy man.”  

Rio just hums, folding down into his desk chair.  

“The kids aight?”  

“Um, yes, yes, the kids are all fine, we were just - - we were wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming in? Now? Or whenever soonest you could get here?”  

He checks his watch, rocking his jaw in irritation. He’s not sure he can sit through another meeting with Marcus and Jane’s teacher, watch him make cow eyes at Elizabeth, blush like he’s fourteen when she laughs at some joke so lame it may as well be leavin’ his mouth with scuffed loafers and a sweater vest. 

And - -  

Wait - -  

He purses his lips a little.

“Yeah, ain’t you got some PTA mom bake off on right now?” he asks. “My partner should be there already. In your cafeteria and whatnot.”  

Despite his best efforts to get her not to be. There were better uses of her time after all, but she kept insisting it was good for the kids to see her there, for the school to see her there too, and they’d fought enough about it, because yeah, sure – Rio was down for the recitals and the games and even the family mixers (which - - ugh), but it wasn’t like the kids were even around for the PTA shit, and besides, Rio (and Elizabeth, in name at least) had donated half a library to the damn place. Enough that the school would turn a blind eye to any of the shit Rio did if he needed to (namely taking the kids out at no notice if shit went down. Or if it didn’t. Whatever. Sometimes he just wanted to take ‘em to LegoLand).

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” the administrator says a little nervously. “There’s been an incident with some of the parents. In fact, with your partner. If you could come in as soon as you could, we’d be grateful.”  

***

And really, this shit is just hilarious.  

He’d gotten a few of the details over the phone from the administrator, but honestly he doesn’t think anything will really beat walking into a first grade classroom and seeing Elizabeth on one of those tiny little plastic seats, a handful of scratches at her temple like someone’s tried to gauge out her eye and missed, some more at her chest, the neck of her pink blouse torn open and her neck and chest smeared with frosting.  

Rio arches an eyebrow at her as he steps in, and Elizabeth puts her nose up and everything, a blush dusting her cheeks, all prim like they ain’t gonna be finding blood and frosting when she pulls her bra off later, but then - - he bites back a grin. That sounds kinda fun.  

She’s doing better than the woman beside her anyway – some Bargain Bin Barbie, who has two cotton balls shoved up her bloody nose, the start of a killer black eye (and damn, when had Elizabeth’s right hook gotten that good?) and cake in her peroxide blonde hair. Some Ryan Seacrest-type who’s gotta be her husband sits beside her, arms folded over his chest, looking for all the world like it’s the last place he wants to be.  

No imagination, Rio thinks, his jaw rocking in amusement, eyes shifting back to Elizabeth.  

He can’t think of a place he’d rather be.

“Ah, wonderful, we’re all here.”

The voice sounds from behind the desk, and Rio jerks his head around to see some guy who must be a part of the faculty – tall and lanky wearing the ugliest fucking tie Rio’s ever seen. The guy gestures him out vaguely towards the back of the classroom. “Would you mind taking a seat.”  

Striding forwards, Rio grabs one of the little plastic chairs from where they’re stacked in the corner, dropping it beside Elizabeth and sitting heavily down in it. As soon as he’s seated, the guy looks between them, ringing his hands a little nervously, shuffling in his own seat.  

“I’ve called you in today because your wives –”  

“They’re not even married,” Bargain Barbie snips, and Elizabeth’s head rotates around so quickly she’s like that little girl in The Exorcist.  

“It’s 2019, Tania, marriage hasn’t been a measure of a relationship’s worth in at least twenty years. Something you’d know if you read something other than the back of your box-mix cupcakes.”  

And, well, damn, Rio thinks, sucking in his lips to swallow a laugh as he looks back at Ugly Tie. Vaguely he can see Bargain Barbie (or Tania, he supposes, but whatever, he doesn’t care) make a noise of abject outrage – whether at being called out for her apparently dated ideas or the insinuation that her cupcakes aren’t made from scratch, Rio has no idea. Maybe it’s both, with the way she turns about nine different shades of red. Beside her, her husband suddenly grabs her hand, dragging it into his lap to stop her from hitting Elizabeth again.  

Or, well, trying to. No matter how funny this whole thing is, Rio’s not exactly inclined to let anyone touch her.  

“Your partners,” Ugly Tie corrects nervously. “Were involved in an incident in the school cafeteria ahead of this afternoon’s PTA Bake Off.”  

“We weren’t involved in an incident,” the blonde hisses, flailing her free hand out in Beth’s direction. “She attacked me.”  

“I did not attack you,” Elizabeth replies, and Bargain Barbie snorts while the colour drains from Ugly Tie’s face, like he thinks fists are about to fly again. He teeters nervously at the edge of his seat.

“Witnesses did say you pushed her face first into the cake display, Ms. Marks.”  

Witnesses, Rio thinks with a grin. Like this is an episode of CSI. These people really are a trip.  

Elizabeth looks at Ugly Tie at that and then quickly paints on that Stepford look – the one that’s all Bambi Eyes and Molly Manners – the one that, despite himself, still makes his dick twitch.  

“Maybe I moved a little suddenly,” Beth allows. “But honestly, it was an accident, Ed - - can I call you Ed?”  

Ed pinks a little, stuttering out a yes, and Rio has to resist the urge to snort.  

“I guess I was just a little swept up in the moment of it – you really do just run the best PTA fundraising bake off – and I mean, I’d know, because I’ve participated in more than my share, being an active member of the school community - - ”  

“You’re so full of shit,” Bargain Barbie snaps, arm flailing out of Seacrest’s grip, and honestly, Rio thinks, amused, she’s kind of got her there. Still, Ugly Tie holds up a hand to both of them, as if finding his train of thought again.  

“The reason we’ve called your partners in, is it seems like the fight stemmed from broader tensions between your families.”  

And that shuts them both up.  

Rio glances curiously over at the other couple, racking his head to think of any time Elizabeth’s so much as mentioned a Tania, but he comes up blank. He knows there’s a Margot who’s trying to get the school on a raw food diet, and a Penny who always fights it when Elizabeth tries to move the school away from celebrating religious holidays (“It should be all or nothing,” Beth insists. “If the school is going to keep celebrating Christmas and Easter, why can’t they celebrate Eid and Diwali too? It’s 2019!” – apparently that’s her buzz phrase at the moment), but - - no Tania.  

“Anyone?” Ugly Tie asks them all now, and Elizabeth and Bargain Barbie both sit up a little taller, pointedly maintaining their silence, and damn, they’re more tight-lipped than half Rio’s boys. He eyes them both with a vague interest as Ugly Tie sighs.  

“Fine. A two week ban on all PTA activities,” he says, and Rio could almost laugh at the look of abject horror on both Elizabeth and Tania’s faces. “And you need to apologise to each other and to the other members of the PTA.”

“Mr. Hollander, the Spring Fling Dance planning committee nominations are next week,” Bargain Barbie cries, and Elizabeth opens her mouth probably to say something equally embarrassing, and Rio figures that’s probably their cue. He grabs Elizabeth by the elbow, lurching to his feet and dragging her up with him, and before she can dig her heels in in that way she does, he’s nodding at Ugly Tie in acknowledgement, saying a quick “Sounds fair,” and dragging them both out of the room.  

***

Turns out her sister’s shitty car had croaked again that morning, so Elizabeth had lent her the mama van on the condition she drop her for the bake off and pick up the brood after school, which is fine, he figures, pulling out of the school carpark, Elizabeth all tightly wound beside him in the passenger seat, her cheeks red and her posture stiff.  

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks as he gets onto the main road. He really should go back to work, but fuck it, he thinks. There’s nothing on Demon can’t handle, and if there is, he knows how to reach him anyway.  

“No,” she snips, and Rio casts a look at her out of the corner of his eye, and it takes him a minute to realise that the red of her cheeks isn’t embarrassment like he’d figured, but rather that it’s still anger. It’s enough to make him shift in his seat – it ain’t like she doesn’t get mad, just she doesn’t usually get mad about PTA stuff, at least not like this – more just tense and exasperated and sometimes frustrated in a way he can usually diffuse if he looks at her or touches her right. But this - -  

He ain’t seen her like this recently.  

The car slows at the traffic lights, and he uses the opportunity to reach over, push her hair out of her face, run a thumb over one of the scratches at her temple.  

“Want me to call my sister? Get her to bring over a rabies shot?”  

It works like he’d wanted it to. Beth exhales a laugh, her gaze drifting over to him, watching as he takes his hand back to the steering wheel of the car. They get another couple of blocks when he feels it, the slow boil of her anger again, simmering beside him in the car, and they’re not even that far from home, but fuck it, he thinks, he doesn’t like the idea of her going straight into one of her furious cleaning or cooking frenzies, so he pulls over.  

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t react, not even when he turns in his seat to look at her, taking in the tight lock of her shoulders, the tighter one of her jaw.  

“Elizabeth,” he starts, and she looks out the window, away from him. “Come on, ma.”  

She rolls her eyes at him, like he’s the one being ridiculous, and he pointedly pulls the keys out of the ignition, watching as she turns enough to scowl at him, folding her arms across her chest. Whatever. No skin off his nose, he thinks, leaning back against the driver’s side door, his eyes not leaving her, he’s got all day, and it’s only another minute, maybe two, before she’s flailing her arms in the air, her cheeks reddening all over again.  

“She called you a drug dealer,” Beth whisper-yells at him, like anyone can hear them in his car, and shit, is that all? Rio just laughs.  

“And you upset about that?”  

He knows she is – can see it in the heave of her (still frosting-covered) chest, in the way her lower lip quivers, her eyelashes clump. Can hear it in the tightness of her voice, and maybe he should’ve gotten her home first, gotten her on her back in their bed, breathless, legs trembling, made her forget about it the best way he knew how, but - -  

“She meant it as an insult,” she says hotly, interrupting his train of thought, and Rio pops an eyebrow at her, because no shit. “And it’s not like she knows you are one. She thinks you work flipping cars with me.”  

“So what?” he asks, shrugging, and Elizabeth frowns over at him, finally turning around in her seat to face him. She’s still all flushed, flustered, and she seems pissed at him now when she flails her arms out at him, and voice shrill, says:  

“So what? So - - so what if she says that sort of thing in front of her sons, who go to school with your son. What if they tell all their friends about what Marcus’ daddy does for a living?”  

Shaking his head, Rio can’t quite take her eyes off her, because seriously – sometimes he thinks she figures he popped out of the ground the day he showed up in her kitchen, like Marcus did that day in the park.  

“Trust me, it won’t be nothin’ Marcus ain’t heard before.”  

And at least that shuts her up, her mouth closing, her posture sagging a little back against the passenger side door. He just watches her, briefly considering putting the keys back in the ignition and driving them home, but then - - he knows her enough to know that that ain’t all it is bothering her. He frowns at her, drums his fingers on his leg, and then looks away, something sharp spiking in his gut.  

“You worried about your kids?” he asks, voice a little tighter than he wants it to be, and when Beth shrugs, his frown deepens.  

“It’s a part of the deal,” he says. “Shit, you know what I look like, ma.”  

And she doesn’t reply to that either, and that sharpness in his gut peaks into something uncomfortable. He rocks forwards a little in his seat, using the momentum of it to sit back harder, to bump his back back against the door.  

“This a problem?” he asks her. “You want me to talk to the kids about how their new stepdad’s gonna make ‘em whispered about on the playground?”  

“I don’t care about the kids!” she yelps, and he blinks, unable to contain his surprise when she suddenly backpedals. “I mean, of course I do, that’s not - -”  

She exhales, the sound harsh in the hollow of his car, and she won’t look at him when she says:  

“She can’t talk about you like that. She doesn’t know anything about you.”

And that’s - - not what he was expecting. He blinks at her, that sharpness in him dulling, squinting a little at her as he takes her in.  

“She can do whatever she wants, ma."  

Because shit, she can. Rio wouldn’t have wasted his time talking to her anyway, but hell, if she ain’t gonna pretend to make nice with other parents, he sure as hell ain’t either.

“Fine,” Beth says finally, sniffing a little. “But actions have consequences, isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”  

He could almost laugh at that, because she’s right, he is always telling her that, but he means it more in the context of handling a slippin’ employee, or her own tendency to steamroll into situations like she’s - - hell, like she’s one of their seven-year-olds.  

“And what? Talkin’ shit gonna get her hit?”  

“Yes,” Beth tells him firmly, nodding, sitting up a little straighter in her seat, her chin up, all defiant, and Rio snorts.  

“You all about defendin’ my honour now?” he says it patronisingly, expecting her to get embarrassed in that way she does when she thinks he’s making fun of her, but that’s not what happens at all.  

“Yes,” she says emphatically instead, and Rio blinks, surprised, and then before he can say anything else, she keeps talking.

“I told you. She can’t talk about you like that, and I’m not going to let her. And just for the record, I like the way you look, so.”

She stops then, looking over at him briefly, then quickly turning around in the seat, facing forwards again, all prim again like there ain’t cake in her hair, and Rio can’t quite stop his grin.  

“Yeah, I knew that last one, ma,” he says, and Beth pinks, but she smiles, gaze finding him again. She bites her lip a little, looks up at him through her lashes, and Rio just - - shit. He can feel how goofy his smile is, quickly tapering it into a smirk as best he can.  

“You really push her into that display?” he asks her after a minute of quiet, and Beth wrinkles her nose, blushing for real this time, but still. Something in her face, it’s a little proud.

“Punched her too.”  

He arches an eyebrow, looking dutifully impressed, and she preens before she can help herself, holding up a hand at that so he can see the start of the bruises on her knuckles. He laughs, shaking his head, grabbing her hand to inspect it, and shit, if he doesn’t find them cute too – all dainty like her, little blooms of purple, like flower buds, and ugh. Even thinkin’ that, he shakes his head at himself, but presses his lips to them all the same, and he doesn’t hear it, or even see it, but some part of him feels her breath hitch, and it’s a relief really – that he can feel just how sprung she is too.  

“Okay, bruiser,” he tells her, twisting back in his seat, pushing the keys back into the ignition, and he goes to drop her hand, but she threads their fingers instead, and he holds it there, against his thigh, the whole ride home.  

[jeannereames]

I just finished ‘Becoming’ and I absolutely loved it! I just wondered if you believe that AtG and Hephaistion continued their romantic relationship throughout their lives or if you think they let that side of their friendship go as they got older as was more common at the time? Anyway! I absolutely loved ‘Becoming’ and I can’t wait to read ‘Rise’!

I’m guessing you’re asking about the historical people, as opposed to the fictional characters? I do hope/plan to continue the Dancing with the Lion series, and in it, yes, they will remain romantically involved. Whether or not future novels are bought, however, rests on how well Becoming and Rise do. (So if you want more, get the word out and post reviews. *grin*)

Yet, with regard to the historical men, I think it’s very hard to know whether they remained sexual partners as adults. And the reason it’s hard to know involves the difficulty of our surviving sources.

As soon as historians start talking SOURCES, a lot of folks tune out. It’s BORING. *grin* But in order to give an honest answer, I kinda have to Go There.

First, let me give the TL;DR version. If they were still sexually involved as adults, I suspect it was quite occasional. And the fact it was quite occasional (if at all), may be why we don’t hear anything about it in the sources (discussion to follow). After all, they were both extremely busy men with duties and responsibilities that sometimes kept them apart for months. If they were still sexually/romantically involved, they had what we’d today call a long-distance relationship at points…and without the benefit of cell phones.

It may have been a gradual “weaning” from each other, rather than anything sharp. So they may have been lovers as teens, then over time, each took younger beloveds, and finally, wives—all while remaining emotionally very, very close. (Although I suspect that, like any friendship OR love affair, they had ups-and-downs, fights and reconciliations.)

Now, here’s why the TL;DR summary above gets a big fat label: “SPECULATION.”

The sources are the only way we know anything about the past, and if they can’t be trusted, or at least not trusted in toto, we have a Really Big Problem. So let me lay it out.

Before I do, however, I want to remind readers that I DO think Alexander and Hephaistion were lovers, at least in their youth. But no, it’s not “obvious.” Theirs wasn’t a world especially reticent about same-sex affairs (*cough* see below), even if post-Christian, modern historians had trouble with it until the last 40 years or so. So if the (surviving) ancient authors don’t talk about them as lovers, even while discussing other same-sex pairs in the same damn text, we have to ask…why? One very real possibility is that they didn’t talk about them as lovers because they weren’t. Full stop. There could have been other reasons (I think there were), but let’s not flinch from being honest, here.

(This could have been a lot more graphic, but then I’d have to post a warning on my blog.)

So…back to our Persnickety Sources.

First, nothing has survived that Alexander wrote himself. We have a couple public inscriptions, but not one piece of writing, even a letter, from Alexander. (Any surviving letters are quoted in later sources, and probably aren’t real.*)

Second, nothing has survived written by anyone who actually knew Alexander, or even lived when he did, except forensic speeches from Athenian demagogues who mostly hated him (and weren’t writing histories anyway). One may as well trust Demosthenes on Philip.

The sources we do still have used histories written by those who knew Alexander, such as Ptolemy, Aristobulos, Nearchos, Marsyas, and even the court historian, Kallisthenes. They also used other texts of dubious worth, such as Onesikritos, who was made fun of even in his own day for writing “historical fiction.” And sometimes our later authors were using texts who, themselves, were using earlier texts. So we’ve got three (or more) layers, not just two!

Third, we have not just layers of sources, but layers in the CULTURE behind those sources.

The first layer is, of course, Macedonian. How did the Macedonians themselves view Alexander? We don’t know—not truly. Nothing survives from a Macedonian source, such as Marsyas or Ptolemy. (Some of you “in the know” might be thinking, But Polyaenus! No. Polyaenus lived 500 years after ATG; that was a very different Macedonia. [Yes, I used the Latin spelling, as he was Roman. ;p])

The second layer is Greek, but we have to qualify this. Layer 2.0 is Greece of the 4th century, especially Athenian reactionism, writing about the emerging Macedonian kingdom. There could be huge cultural differences even among Greek city-states. Case in point: Athens vs. Sparta. Greeks didn’t always understand Macedonians (sometimes, I swear, on purpose).

BUT we also have the increasingly homogenized Hellenistic world of the Successors, which was sorta like when you throw in a bunch of different colored shirts and wash them in hot water. You get a color-bleeding mess. Your red shirt (Attic-Ionic) might have a big blue streak (Doric) on it now. That’s sort of what happened to Greek culture as the Hellenistic era progressed. Lots of bleed. This had begun prior to Alexander, but he accelerated it like kerosene on a trash fire. We can call that Greek Layer 2.1, or something.

Then we have the Romans, and their culture, which, if similar to Greek, definitively wasn’t Greek in key ways. All our surviving sources were written as the Republic was collapsing and the Empire emerging, and by that point, Greece was a Roman province.

Again, we’ve got two groups here: Greeks living under Roman rule, such as Plutarch, Diodorus, and Arrian—who wrote in Greek—and then Roman authors such as Curtius, and later Justin, who wrote in Latin. But the Greeks under Rome shouldn’t be conflated with Athenians in ATG’s own day, or even under the Successors. The culture evolved and took on Roman shadings.

So that’s not just layers of sources, but layers of cultures trying to understand what people who lived a hundred or two hundred or three hundred years before them thought/believed.

Ergo, are we hearing what Alexander (or anybody else around him) really thought or intended? Or just what writers of the Second Sophistic (such as Plutarch) wanted him to model? Or how even later authors, such as Arrian, wanted to use him to flatter his patron, Hadrian?

What’s Roman, what’s Greek, and what’s Macedonian? Can we tease that out? I’d say it’s damn tricky, and often, flat impossible—although unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t believe it’s all Roman overlay. That goes too far in the other direction, IMO.

Last, we have several authors who weren’t writing about Alexander specifically, but have bits of Alexander lore embedded in their texts: Athenaeus’s “Supper Party,” or Polyaenus’s “Strategems,” or even Plutarch’s “Moralia,” just to name three.

Among these, especially later, we have authors writing material they (or later readers) tried to pass off as written by earlier authors. We often refer to these authors with the preface “Pseudo-” as in “Pseudo-Kallisthenes.” It was NOT written by Kallisthenes, but was later attributed to him.

So, now you have some idea of why Alexander historians want to pull our hair out!

But I detail that to explain why it’s so hard for me to give you any clear answer about whether Alexander and Hephaistion remained lovers as adults. Or even if they were lovers at all.

In none of our five primary histories of Alexander, nor in Plutarch’s other stuff, nor Athenaeus, etc. is Hephaistion ever called Alexander’s lover. This includes sources that do mention with apparent unconcern other pairs of male lovers. So this isn’t “the love that dared not speak it’s name.” The Greeks were pretty okay with talking about their boyfriends.

There could be OTHER reasons for deep-sixing mention of Hephaistion and Alexander as lovers, mostly having to do with status (some of which I touched on in the novels), yet the lack of clear affirmation is a problem. The only mentions we do have come from late sources, one of which belongs to that category of “pseudo-” authors I mentioned: Pseudo-Diogenes (in Aelian), as well as Arrian recording the Stoic Epiktatos. The philosophers are trying to make a point about the dangers of giving in to physical desire, so it’s hard to know how much credit to give these references.

Thus, we’re left with little besides the indirect (e.g., the Achilles-Patroklos allusions, etc.). Those have their own problems, which I’ll not go into now, as I’ve already written a small essay.

One potential reason for a lack of mention in our surviving sources is that any sexual love affair had been a product of their youth. What remained was a fiercely deep and passionate devotion. Before you pooh-pooh that—Of course they were still having sex!—consider modern marriages that have lasted for decades but no longer include sexual activity, at least between the married partners. Don’t be sucked in by Romance novel tropes.

When I was doing bereavement counseling (et al.), I ran into all sorts of arrangements that married couples made across time. Some marriages break up when the partners stop being sexually attracted to each other, and “cheat.” But others don’t, because it’s not “cheating” if it’s mutually agreed to. Or in some cases, the partners simply lost interest in sex as they aged…but didn’t fall out of love with each other. So they might have sex once a year? Maybe? That was enough. Or they had sex on the side, with permission. People don’t fit into boxes well, IME. Honesty was the hallmark of marriages that lasted even when they weren’t still having sex. I’ve known of marriages where the couples had stopped having sex years ago, but when one of them died, the other was completely devastated because of the enormous EMOTIONAL investment. I think that’s what hit Alexander when Hephaistion died. Maybe they were still having sex, at least once in a blue moon. Maybe they weren’t. That didn’t matter.

LOVE is deeper than sex, by a long shot. Which is why the Greeks counted PHILIA (true friendship) as the superior love to eros (desire).

So whether Alexander and Hephaistion were still sexually involved—or had ever had sex—doesn’t reflect the depth of their love for each other. We might not be told by the sources that they were lovers, physically, either as youths or continuing into adulthood. But the sources are abundantly clear that they loved each other best of all. When Hephaistion died, Alexander followed him about 10 months later.

(Final note: what I intend to do in the series, going forward, is a bit different from what I described here, but that’s why I specified this involves the historical men, not necessarily my fictional characters.)

*My reference to quoted material, such as letters—or speeches—not being real: it was a common practice in the ancient world for the author of histories, especially starting with Thucydides, to just MAKE SHIT UP. It was all about showing off one’s own rhetorical skills. I think, in a lot of cases, we are probably getting at least the gist of what was said. But NEVER, EVER, EVER trust the “transcription” of an ancient speech…unless it was actually recorded later by the author. So, say, Demosthenes’ Philippics are probably a cleaned up version of the speeches he delivered. But Alexander’s “Speech at Opis” is NOT what Alexander actually said.

[lokisasylum]

Why are Kpop Predictions so... negative?

I'm not one to humor people who do Kpop Predictions (and for free? really? ya'll out here "spilling info/tea" about celebrities for FREE? IN THIS ECONOMY?). I just find them laughable/amusing because of how inaccurate they are 95% of the times, while toying with the fandoms' emotions. Creating unnecessary drama and stress about things that anyone with a common sense and logic could've predicted all on their own. But to give you guys an idea, here are a few by category:

#1. Twitter based Kpop Predictions

I’ve always had this MAJOR feeling that the great majority of them are run by THE SAME person on different accounts (kinda like how on Tumblr we're allowed to "manage" different blogs for whatever we may need 'em). Cause if you pay close attention they ALL share the same pattern:

SAME moon/crystal ball Icons

SAME way of "predicting" events ( *coughCOPY/PASTEcoughcough* )

They ALL go on hiatus at the SAME TIME and when they finally return they give the SAME excuse that they were depressed, drained of energy, mental blockage/migraine from predicting so much.

They throw shade at other prediction accounts and accuse them of "copying" them since they're "the original one."

They throw random predictions per day that never come true and when they don't and get called out its always the same excuse of "you choose what you want to believe" or "I never said it was gonna happen NOW, it could still happen in the future." (even after saying they would during the current year lol).

The great majority of these accounts are BIASED AF and mostly run by delulu shippers who tease the followers with incomplete information to keep ‘em interested.

🐍 Note: The one thing that I heavily dislike about these is that it's been proven in previous years that these accounts either work with or buy information from Sasaengs or insiders within the companies. Which is a big NO-NO in the Kpop community since Sasaengs are disgustingly invasive and have zero disregard for the Idol’s personal life and safety.

#2. Youtube Kpop Predictions/Tarot Card Readers, or as I like to call them: the "super-tragic-always-negative-BTS-are-gonna-disband-this-year-or-the-next-under-super-tragic-circumstances" accounts.

These youtubers  are known for spending and wasting 15-20 minutes of their videos (and viewers lives) doing self-promos and showing off the different card decks that they've just recently bought (as if the predictions change based on whether or not you're using a Classic Arcana or a Sailor Moon/Pokemon/YuGiOh with limited edition EXODIA & Shadow Realm included deck) And as mentioned above, ALL of them give super tragic/negative predictions, especially when it comes to BTS. Like I remember at the start of this year, there were around 10 (or more) of them saying that BTS would either disband in mid or near the end of 2019. 5 of them stated (in COPY/PASTE fashion) that 2 members would either abandon the group to pursue solo careers, or that 1 would leave and the other would be kicked out for either health issues or this super huge controversial scandal that would ruin BTS' or the member's image and something about "diva behavior" or that the same member was a huge bully towards the others (and annoyingly enough, all of them kept pointing to both Jin and Jimin for some strange reason). But as we've seen, 2019 came and practically went and BTS are still together, still thriving. Maybe one or two "dating rumors" here and there during their "time off" that died in a span of 1 month or so and everyone went on with their lives because it was found to be the product of antis wanting to start shit because everybody wants a BTS scandal (and of course, close to AWARD SEASON *LE GASP*).   So now those same "psychics" are correcting themselves and making up excuses that "they didn't have all the info" or "misunderstood it when they first got it". 🐍🐍 Note: I found it both hilarious and ignorant how the great majority of them are using the "members will start to leave one by one" as a sign of the group disbanding, when we know that starting next year they'll start enlisting in the military which is MANDATORY FOR ALL MEN IN KOREA. Meaning that all Male Korean Idols go through this process and DOES NOT necessarily mean imminent disbandment.

🐍🐍🐍 Extra: Oh yeah, can't forget that one account who said that all Kpop groups are part of the illuminati and they’re using some MK-Ultra shit on the fans through their music which is why fans all over the world now like Kpop and made it famous. Can't forget about those or someone will fight me. (The person deleted their channel too)

#3. Tumblr Kpop Predictions

*SIGH* .... where to start with this one....?

The group in this category is a strange hybrid between Twitter, Youtube and Wattpad/AO3. 'Cause i swear that some of the stuff I've read in a few of these account posts. while browsing for BTS. look like they were taken straight out of a super Angsty, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmate AU, 30 chapters summarized into a oneshot fic. So you'll be either heavily disturbed or highly entertained at how creative the person is with their "reading". Like there was this one person who alleged that Jimin had been a woman in like 3 of his past lives, but was always involved in very abusive relationships (in 1 of said lives his/her father had r*ped him/her and Jimin gave birth to a daughter and  when the daughter grew up they both fell in love with the same man. And the daughter ends up killing Jimin to keep the man for herself LOL what kind of twisted A/B/O shit is this?!) and apparently its...affecting him in the present with how he treats others? And like... the only way for him to "break the cycle" is by "making peace" with his past selves? Or else he'll keep repeating it?

(y'know...like The Avatar).

This same person also said that the Maknae Line have a beef with the Hyung Line. And that Jimin was gonna kill himself this year or when BTS disbands next year, cause without the group he was useless/talent-less and it didnt matter if he did solo projects cause they wouldn't be as famous as the other members, plus his supposed "girlfriend" would leave him at the same time which is why he'll kill himself. Like....BITCH, WHICH IS IT? Do you want him to make peace with himself and live a long healthy life or do you want him dead?? MAKE UP YOUR MIND! Or better yet, just say you're a Jimin anti and go (cause she didnt have any probs with the other members, always targeted Jimin). Although there ARE exceptions, like another user who told this past-lives reading on how they all used to be 1 person who died and their soul got divided into 7, and the 7 of them always managed to find one another on each and every one of the lives they've lived through (like the HEARTBEAT mv). That one was nice.

In Conclusion....

I just feel bad because of how ignorant and gullible the Kpop fandom in general has become in the past years (Especially the newer fans who don’t understand how Korean culture works, much less the Korean Entertainment Industry). To the point of giving these people clout when in reality they’re just taking advantage of them because they know how thirsty and obsessed some fans can get in their need to know MORE about the artists/group they stan.  

[teabooksmagic]

The Wrath and The Dawn

The Wrath and The Dawn by Renee Ahdieh 

OVERALL RATING: 4.5/5 

FAVOURITE CHARACTERS: Shahrzad, Jalal and Despina 

LEAST FAVOURITE CHARACTERS: Tariq 

SHIPS: Shahrzad & Khalid. Despina and Jalal 

FAVOURITE ASPECTS:

In a review of a book, due to being a literature student for so long, I tend to analyse (or over-analyse) the writing style of a book first. I instantly find myself picking out the connotation of the diction or the imagery of a novel. The Wrath and The Dawn has the literary feature that I always want in a book: vivid descriptions. Added bonus: mouth-watering descriptions on food. Since I’m from a similar culture, it wasn’t difficult to imagine everything that was being described but the atmosphere that Renée Ahdieh creates with her descriptions is what is seductive about this book. You’re instantly absorbed into her world, her story, her plot and you want to finish reading. It leaves you craving something more-which is why you’re probably so happy that there’s a sequel. Pre-warning, this absolutely cannot be read as a standalone as the ending will leave you with too many feelings to handle.

(2) The second aspect of the book that gives it such a high rating is the characters. I really do believe that a plot is important in stories which are based on a previous fable, myth, or legend; The Wrath and The Dawn, it has the great jumping point of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Anyone who has read the first story from the original or has had to study it for their GCSE’s (probably one of the more interesting ones, thank you Edexcel Language A Anthology), will probably already be intrigued by the idea of Shahrzad’s storytelling being the one thing that stopped the tyrant king from killing his brides.  However, when an author, like Renee Ahdieh, can write an engaging plot beyond the basic outline, and have interesting characters, then you’ve really been blessed as a reader. (Shade to all the retellings that really just used their origin stories for everything and did nothing original). 

LEAST FAVOURITE ASPECT:

I am not a major fan of the ‘broody dark guy that isn’t attuned with their feelings so they hurt the female character’ trope and I initially got that vibe initially with Shahrazad and Khalid (like the Darkling and Alina but that’s a different review...). But as you go on, I do find myself understanding Khalid a little more and being able to see past his character flaws due to the plot and his own conflicted motivations. Khalid becomes very central to the book for me in terms of plot and character development, which is different from being emotionally abusive. This book truly does not have anything that would make it unfavourable in any way, Renée Ahdieh has the wonderful ability to make you sympathetic to all the right characters, and by the end of it, I assure you that you will not be able to concisely argue that the character’s that should have been evil are evil.

FAVOURITE CHARACTERS:

(1) SHAHRZAD MY GIRL. A FEMALE CHARACTER THAT IS POWERFUL BUT THAT IS NOT HER ONLY FEATURE. I live for these types of female characters, like Lila Bard (again another review). I really loved Shahrzad. I loved that she was strong willed, stubborn but she had this emotional vulnerability which is relatable. She was irrational, and sometimes you wanted to smack her on the head because she can come across as ‘spoiled’ but we’re in the age of writing where female characters are stereotyped so easily. They are either entirely perfect: being strong and powerful where imperfections bounce off of them or they’re boxed into the role of the love interest who only has to further the story of the male main character, which is why they can quietly be blended into the background until needed. Shahrzad is not that; she is clearly a conflicted character and that makes her one of my favourites from the book. I ended up rooting for her happy ending and being emotionally involved in her arc in the book.

(2) Jalal, oh my love. An upcoming post will be a master-list of book boyfriends and Jalal may be a contender. He has that charming quality that makes him so fun and easy to like. In contrast to Khalid, who is so stormy and morally grey, Jalal acts as a reminder of a positive male character. He’s also really funny and his relationship with Khalid is a nice break from the romantic storm that clouds all over this story. By no means is Khalid not an epic male character, but it took time for me to fall in love with his character compared to Jalal and I think that is because, as a reader I needed to understand Khalid’s backstory in order to understand his actions and then decide on my stance.

(3) Despina: SO, this is just a review of The Wrath and The Dawn, but I did read the sequel, The Rose and The Dagger, which means that some of my information in terms of what happened in each respective book is muddled up. WARNING: If you haven’t read the sequel, I’d suggest skipping this part. WARNING. I love Despina’s character, she was witty and funny straight from the beginning. Then her relationship with Jalal made her even more lovable, so when the betrayal happens, my heart was in my throat. I wanted her redemption and her ending up with Jalal, which I got (thankfully). Overall, I think her complicated character was well hidden in her simplicity and how easily she could be reduced to the side-kick, even a comic relief just to aid the plot but the conflict of her character made her so much more than that. 

LEAST FAVOURITE CHARACTER:

(1) Tariq: Dealing with whiny male characters that believe that they have some sort of possession over the female character is not my forte. My friend gave me a great character to associate him with, which is Gaston. It is a great character to compare him to, both who believe they’re very macho and deserving of the female character because they can’t handle the prospect of being told “No”. Throughout, Tariq believes that if he takes Shahrzad away from Khalid’s “seduction”, she will come back to her ‘senses’ and be with him. It’s not like she could change her mind or make her own decisions, when it is more likely that her poor vulnerable mind has been warped to the dark, broody evil character. Either way, I hated his character or at no point did I ship them. 

SHIPS:

(1) Khalid and Shahrzad: I really did initially think that Khalid and Shahrzad were going to be a ‘toxic’ ship. I have read so many books where the characters are in a relationship that is quite emotionally abusive and is glorified into being something ‘hot’ or ‘true love’ (anyone who read ‘After’ will understand with ‘Hessa’) I initially felt guilty about shipping them and had to ask my friend (@heir.of.bookdom) if it was weird before she also told me she shipped it too. There is something alluring about this couple, their lines, their actions, their jealousy (Tariq and Yasmin), it is this amazingly complex ship. Of course the morally grey aspects of Khalid doesn’t make it a straight forward ship but the genuineness of the love that forms over the course of two books truly creates a great ship. Khalid’s motivations (the curse), Shahrzad’s motivations, their characters are well-suited in the way that their choices and actions aren’t always conventional.  The way they complement one another and change one another makes them more than just the perfect couple for the “enemies to lovers’ trope. If they do hurt one another, it is done due to legitimate reasoning, their own insecurity, but it is not done in order to build one’s ego, or to cause pain for one another. I can’t box this ship as emotionally abusive in any way when neither Khalid nor Shahrzad want to manipulate one another to gain anything, at the core both of them merely want to be in love with one another. The pain they cause one another feels unintentional and a by-product of the difficulty of their relationship. They also have epic chemistry and tension which had me ready to actually release insanely high-pitched squeals-SPOILER-especially when they were reunited in The Rose and The Dagger

(2) Despina and Jalal, my heart. THE ROSE AND THE DAGGER SPOILER: When Jalal finds out Despina left and he wanted to be there for her, I swear I was ready to fling the book across the room. That’s how I know that I really ship two people together. Despina and Jalal have a short story as well, which makes this couple even more adorable. I like the way they both have to work for one another in order for their relationship to survive. Also Jalal hitting Khalid for finding out he let Despina go was honestly heart breaking, I really didn’t need that much emotion. 

RECOMMENDED FOR: readers, craving a love story, wanting an atmospheric read, needing a fantasy tale, or anyone really! 

[queenslasharchive]

For @brianmayplease

…

Brian felt an iron grip close around his wrist and release as soon as it had come. Startled, he let go of the studio door and let it slam behind him, taking in the sight of his would-be attacker.

“John?”

Deacy’s face was barely visible in the low light, but his posture and the gentle sounds of his breathing gave him away. “You’re coming with me.”

“What are you doing?” he tried to not let the tone of his voice betray anything of how intrigued and mildly alarmed he was.

“Look, Brian, we’re never gonna finish this album if you keep fighting me,” he sighed. After a moment he stepped forward into the light, and the sight made Brian’s mouth go dry. “I’m taking you to a disco.”

Deacy, in short, was fucking gorgeous. Over the last few weeks Brian couldn’t help but notice that he was starting to favor stovepipe jeans and tight shirts, but that couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of his bassist at that moment. His stovepipes were a horrendous shade of turquoise, and the matching shirt, which could have been painted on for how sinfully tight it was, made his skin appear to glow gold. If he focused, Brian could even swear there was glitter in the boy’s hair and on his face. It should have been tacky, and on anyone else it would have been. But on Deacy it looked right. More than right.

Desperate to hide the direction of his thoughts, Brian resorted to a habit he’d learned too well from Roger and Freddie: passive aggressive bitching. “Fine, I’ll go with you. Just to show you how bad it is.”

John cocked an eyebrow, and that was the final word on that. Brian swallowed and hoped his knees wouldn’t buckle under that gaze.

“Hang on a second.” Deacy stopped when they were near the club, facing Brian abruptly. “You can’t go in dressed like that.”

“Well I guess that’s that,” Brian shrugged, “you’ll have to-”

He wasn’t really sure how he intended to finish that thought, and it didn’t matter anyway since his brain shorted out as John grabbed him by the tie and pulled him down to eye level.

“Quit squirming. I need to fix your shirt.” And just like that, Brian was using all his focus to will away an erection as Deacy unbuttoned his shirt right there on the street, pulling it open and cinching his tie to his now bare neck. “Now you’re presentable.”

He should have been mortified, another man undressing him in public. Brian couldn’t be embarrassed though; he was a little busy committing to memory the way John’s hands had mapped out his chest. In another context maybe… no. Nope. Not going there.

Thankfully the music was a great mood killer. If it could be called music. When the blood finally rerouted back into his brain, Brian could start picking apart all his problems with the place. Everything sounded so shallow and repetitive, so full of synth he wondered if there were any real people involved in its production at all. Certainly no real instruments.

“You’re better than this, Deacy,” he mumbled over the rim of a beer. John hit him with a withering side eye. “I mean it. I’d expect this scene of Freddie, he’s so camp he’ll try anything with this much color and glitter. But you? John, what could possibly have gotten you into fucking disco?”

Face neutral yet firm, John stood up and took the beer from Brian’s hands, setting it down on their table. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a request.

Brian stood in John’s space, feeling the same size as the smaller man. John had that effect on everyone. With the right gaze, Deacy could make any man feel a foot shorter. Brian was no stranger to that gaze. Cautiously, he hovered his hands over Deacy’s waist before a pair of wiry hands dug into his hips and pulled him forward.

“It’s not about what you hear,” John whispered in Brian’s ear, sending a chill down his spine. “Disco’s not for your ears or your mind. Feel it in the ground, in the air. Let it move you without stopping to think about it for once in your goddamn life, May.”

He was on the edge of a smart reply, but then a familiar bassline kicked into the speakers.

“No.”

Deacy only smiled up at him, the bastard.

Steve walks warily down the street, brim pulled way down low Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go

“Are you seriously singing along? Fucking narcissist, I swear to-” Brian’s thoughts were cut off by hips crashing into his. John’s hands had moved ever so slightly lower, thumbs hooked possessively into his belt loops, and the sensation was causing his brain to fizzle and short out. The inevitable explosion came when he focused on the rhythmic tapping of fingers over the suddenly too-tight denim. John was distracted, bouncing on the balls of his feet, but his hands- god- his left hand dug into Brian’s hip with a ferocity that made him wonder if there would be a mark the next morning in the shape of John’s fingerprints. As the right hand picked and slapped at his side, Brian was hit with the realization that Deacy was mentally playing bass. Briefly, he found himself considering the implications of the touch- being pulled close and manhandled as if he were one of John’s own prized possessions was quite a bit hotter than he’d have liked to admit. Unwittingly he rolled his hips against the smaller man’s.

“Finally starting to enjoy this?”

God, he could hear John’s cocky smirk. “Keep dreaming, kid.”

“That’s funny,” Deacy dropped his voice into a nearly seductive register, “your mouth says one thing but your cock says another.”

Brian looked up to hide his creeping blush. “What’s got you focused on my cock, Deaks?”

“The fact that you’ve been rutting it into my hip for the last few minutes like a fucking sixth former.”

Oh. Brian hadn’t even realized he was that far gone. But of course John had. John noticed everything.

“So either you’re lying about disco, or you secretly fancy me. Now, if I kiss you, will you promise not to come in your pants like a damn virgin?”

He’d never heard John quite so authoritative and bitchy. Sure, he’d seen moments, but this was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. He wanted to say yes but frankly he wasn’t certain he could keep that promise if Deacy kept talking and manhandling him that way. “I’d like to see you try,” he choked out unconvincingly.

Within a second there was a hand twisted painfully in his hair and a leg slotted in between his thighs as John crashed their lips together. It was barely even a kiss, for its intensity, it was more like he was being devoured. When Deacy moved his left hand from his hip to grab a handful of his arse, Brian whimpered pitifully against Deacy’s mouth. “Stop,” he finally managed to choke out.

John pulled away and looked up with a surprising tenderness in his features. “Was that too far? Did you not want this? I can-”

“I want this.” Brian surprised himself with the evenness of his tone. “But if you didn’t stop I was going to come. Touch me? For real?”

The devilish smirk set back into John’s face, his entire body changing back into a dominant posture. “Meet me in the bathroom. Don’t touch yourself before I get there or I’ll make you sorry.”

A little too excited, Brian turned on his heel and started off in that direction before, for the second time that night, Deacy’s hand closed in a vice grip around his wrist.

“And Brian?”

He swallowed and met John’s eyes.

“You’re not cumming until you admit you like disco.”

The music in the club washed over him, bass line thumping in time with the throbs of his cock. He supposed he could live with it.

[leepace71]

LEE PACE AND HIS NEIGHBOR, JESSICA LANGE, CATCH UP ABOUT WILD FANS, THE WILDERNESS OF EMPTY HOTEL ROOMS, AND NATURE ITSELF

The first time I met Lee Pace, we were outside, next to the East River in Brooklyn, and I was a little stoned. We had just been introduced through a mutual friend, and within minutes of speaking to one another, he invited me up to “the farm,” a country house with five fireplaces, about two hours north of the city. The farm has played an important role in Pace’s life, offering him a retreat from Hollywood, but also purpose; there, with his own hands, he built a rustic barn, in which he lived until he bought the property adjacent to his from his then-neighbor, the two-time Oscar-winning actor Jessica Lange.

It makes sense that Pace feels at home outside of the city; the actor, now 40, was born in the small town of Chickasha, Oklahoma. He gained a modest, albeit devoted following by appearing on two beloved but short-lived TV series: Wonderfalls, in 2004, and, three years later, Pushing Daisies. His star, however, shot into a whole other orbit beginning in 2012, when he joined what seemed like every franchise at the time by starring in The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 2, all three of the films in The Hobbit series, and Guardians of the Galaxy—as the hooded, blue-faced villain Ronan the Accuser. His recent role as the closeted Mormon Joe Pitt in the Broadway revival of Angels in America was magically exhausting and eloquent, and it coincided with a public truth of his own—or, as a headline in The New York Times put it, “Lee Pace Came Out Seven Times a Week. Then He Came Out for Real.”

The actor’s two upcoming projects reemphasize his dual—perhaps dueling—interests in entertainment and art: He reprises his role as Ronan this spring in Captain Marvel and, later this summer, he’ll play John DeLorean, opposite Jason Sudeikis, in Driven, a biopic about the controversy-courting automobile tycoon. In anticipation of both films, Pace invited Lange to his apartment in New York’s West Village to talk about moviemaking, marketing, and, yes, the farm. She did a slight twirl upon entering the main room and, as one might expect from the queen of elevated shade, said, “Not bad, Lee—for a pied-à-terre.” —NICK HARAMIS

———

LANGE: Should we jump into acting?

PACE: Let’s start with the farm.

LANGE: I remember the first time I saw you, I had walked down to the pond and I looked across, and I saw somebody in that next field over there to the right. And I thought, “Fuck, I’m going to have a neighbor.” But then it turned out to be you, and that was swell.

PACE: I can’t imagine what you saw because those first few times, I was camping out there in a tent to try to figure out where I was going to build a house. I remember that first night, it was about four o’clock and it must have been early March or something. I had made camp, but I didn’t have enough time to make a fire before it got dark. I got into the tent, and I opened up my roast beef sandwich and start eating it, and then all around the quarry I heard the coyotes. I swear I heard one of them sniff the tent just right outside that nylon. So I made a ton of noise and ran back to the car.

LANGE: The land up there is haunted, but beautiful.

PACE: One of the things I’m most proud of is building that old frame out of raw timber on the edge of the woods. Then, right before Thanksgiving, I got a bunch of my friends together to push it up.

LANGE: It was like an old Amish barn raising. I remember because Sarah Paulson was staying up with me that weekend. I baked a pie and walked across the field with it wrapped in a linen basket, thinking, “This is something from another time.”

PACE: That farm has become such a big part of my life.

LANGE: As an actor, most of the time you’re staying in a hotel room in some strange city somewhere.

PACE: I do love seeing the world, and being in those hotel rooms. It’s such an incredible thing playing a character all day, and then at night you go home to this hotel and you wake up in the morning and you don’t quite know where you are.

LANGE: I think the part of it I’ve loved the most, and the part that’s been most difficult, is that nomadic life. When my kids were little, we were like a caravan. We moved dogs, birds, cats, kids, tutors—and that was great. But when you’re by yourself doing it, it’s incredibly lonely. Being an actor is an inherently lonely life.

PACE: It really is, isn’t it? It’s kind of disorienting in that way. It’s like having this sheet of thick glass between you and everyone else.

LANGE: Do you think in some way actors are already lonely people, who are then drawn to this life more than others?

PACE: There must be something.

LANGE: That and a traumatic childhood make a good actor.

PACE: Check.

LANGE: Tell me about Captain Marvel.

PACE: I’ve never read the script. I was doing Angels in America when I shot it.

LANGE: How in the hell did you do that?

PACE: That whole time of my life was insanity, so it just added to it. I basically did a matinee on Sunday, flew out to L.A., got painted blue, and put on a costume. Then I stood in front of a blue screen, and they’re like, “Okay, there’s a hologram in front of you and they’re saying this.” It’s so surreal in a way. I did two days of that, and then I was back onstage playing Joe Pitt in Angels in America.

LANGE: Well, that kind of covers acting A to Z, doesn’t it?

PACE: So many people see those movies and they entertain so many people, and I guess I’m an entertainer, so I embrace that. But if I’m being honest, it’s disorienting.

LANGE: When you were in Angels in America, you stepped in for another actor, right?

PACE: Yes, they had rehearsed it and had a whole run in England, so when they brought it back to Broadway, I was the only one who was new, so I was playing catch-up. As with all big experiences, life informs the situation, and it informed the interpretation of the character. When I read the play in high school, I understood this cognitive dissonance of Joe feeling like an alien in a world full of humans. I wanted to advocate for his point of view, because as a queer person, I’m seeing everyone behave as human and I feel like I’m painted blue. And the character really just goes through hell. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done because there was no pulling the punch going onstage. I was terrified about it every day, about walking through those shoes in that public way, because the character has just stripped off his skin.

LANGE: Sometimes those are the best acting moments, don’t you think? It confirms all the reasons why we do this. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but in that production your performance was by far the most moving.

PACE: That means so much to me. I just felt so cooked by it, do you know what I mean? I think Tony [Kushner] knew it was coming to me, because I ran into him in Provincetown and he was like, “Hey, would you consider doing this?” I think he knew it was coming, and I’m glad I didn’t know.

LANGE: You don’t have to answer this, but how does it feel when there’s a certain discord—and I’m putting it lightly—with an actor opposite you. How do you find your way around that?

PACE: Well, I guess you’ve just got to show up for that first moment, right? You make your entrance, and that’s all I could do, really. I had to love this woman deeply, profoundly, unconditionally, and I did not. But the play does the work, really. Some nights, it hit such beautiful notes. Then there were times when I would look across at her, and I was like, “This isn’t the play we’re doing. You’re angry at someone else right now.” But there’s no redoing it, so yeah.

LANGE: This summer you’re going to star in a film as John DeLorean. How is playing an actual person different than playing a fictional character?

PACE: I love playing real people. You just get so much more color. The thing that was so fun about learning about John DeLorean is that no one has the same story about him. He left such different impressions on everyone he came into contact with. There are people who thought he was a visionary of a certain time. There are people who thought he was a crook.

LANGE: What ever happened with that car company of his?

PACE: There was this whole house of cards where he needed money to keep the business running, and so he got involved in a coke deal. But the FBI was setting him up, and they got video of the whole thing.

LANGE: If you could play anyone in the world, who would it be?

PACE: Putin? Trump? Let’s stick to mega-villains. I don’t know. I want to work with a good director who will pick for me.

LANGE: Is there a part you want to do onstage again?

PACE: I’m not 25 anymore, but I would love to have played Romeo. That’s a character I find so interesting and contradictory. I would also like to play Uncle Vanya. I think I could still play him.

LANGE: I think you could, too.

PACE: I can’t wait to get onstage again.

LANGE: I’ve found that with series, you get to have longer to develop a character. For all the disadvantages of doing a series, that’s one advantage.

PACE: There’s also the writers. I loved our writers on Halt and Catch Fire, because they watched us and saw things in us that they brought out of the character.

LANGE: They see you and know your strong points.

PACE: I think the writers in our room were like, “He’s going to hate this,” because my character gets dragged through hell. For the first few seasons, I was like, “This isn’t fair.”

LANGE: How much do you think an actor owes his fans? Is that even part of the way you think?

PACE: I think that’s a very contemporary view. Social media creates this call-out culture where people can view something as being problematic. But I don’t really consume a lot of media, so I don’t really pay attention to it much.

LANGE: Do you have—what are those sites called? Twitter?

PACE: I have Instagram. But it’s not really the media outlets on it that I find interesting. I just find cool people doing interesting stuff. To be honest, I look at very dumb memes.

LANGE: What’s a funny anecdote you remember from a fan approaching you?

PACE: I once went up to the farm—this was after I bought your house—and I saw this rotting bag of dumplings outside, along with a ticket to Shen Yun. Do you know that Chinese dance?

LANGE: Yes.

PACE: And there was a note that said, “I know you like dumplings, please come with me to Shen Yun. I’ll be waiting with a ticket for you. By the way, you have a beautiful farm.” [Laughs] I’m so grateful that people like the work that I do and that they respond to it. Twenty years ago, I never would have dreamed that people would have felt strongly about the work that I do. But one of the lessons I learned playing that role in Angels in America is that approval is really not what it’s about. Understanding is what it’s about.

LANGE: I’m so far outside the realm of social media, but from what I’ve heard people say, your presence—or following, or whatever—now adds to your bankability. It’s insane. I passed by somebody on the street today who was talking on her phone, and she said that she had 20 million followers.

PACE: I wonder who has the most. Would it be Selena Gomez? Let’s see how many she’s got—145 million followers.

LANGE: What does that even mean?

PACE: If she posts a picture, 145 million people will see it on their feed. I mean, that’s more than a movie.

LANGE: That’s a lot of people. It feels dangerous to me. I don’t mean to be a conspiracy theorist, but do we really understand what any of this stuff is? It makes you want to retire to the farm.

LEE: I love those days when you wake up and just make coffee, then walk out into the fields.

LANGE: Do you remember that one beautiful coyote that used to cross the field?

PACE: Yes.

LANGE: He was gorgeous!

PACE: I remember one time, the pond had frozen over and these coyotes chased a doe out onto the ice and then she slipped and fell, and they ripped her up. There were tracks going back into the woods where they took a piece of her. The next day, it thawed and it all disappeared like it had never happened.

x

[mysticsparklewings]

I’m Not Dead‪

I'm not laughin', You're not jokin' I'm not dead I only dress that way Out nowhere take me out there Far away and save me from my Self-destruction, hopeless for you Sing a song for California --My Chemical Romance, "Boy Division" ____ Have you heard?? Have you heard the news?? Well if not, I'm gonna tell ya: MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE IS BACK, BABY!!! :D On Halloween, we got the announcement that they will be playing a show in Los Angeles, California on December 20th. And just a few days ago we got the news that they're also going to New Zealand, Australia, and Japan which basically confirms to me they're doing so sort of tour, whether they actually call it that or not. There's still a lot we don't know for sure; whether this is just a one-time reunion tour or their official comeback tour, if we'll be getting new original music both at the shows and available for download/purchase or if they're just going to redo their existing music and covers, if it's only going to be the main four that were there at the end or if there will be some of the other members that were in and out over the years rejoining them...Where all they're going to go on this tour...the list goes on. But! The important thing, at least to me, is that they came back at all. Six years. Six years we've waited and hoped and prayed, been let down by false rumors and speculation...And now it's actually happening. I just... Hence why I had to make an art piece celebrating the occasion and as an excuse to talk about it. (I figure if I'm going to dump my opinions on the internet I might as well make some art to go with them. Sue me. ) Originally, I was planning on making something more along the lines of true fan art, as this is more pseudo fan art here, but I just couldn't settle on one good idea that I felt really comfortable pursuing. Although I am still considering doing an updated (or at least colored in) version of my Killjoys, Make Some Noise! (lineart) I did a couple of years ago...we'll see. Anyway. Since we did get the news on Halloween, it's worth noting that originally I'd been debating if I wanted to do any makeup this year at all or just slide on a mask since my only plans were going to Krispy Kreme, who was offering a free donut if you showed up in costume. But after the news broke, my decision was made for me. I had to. MCR isn't strictly associated with skeletons/skulls, as has become my preferred Halloween costume, but The Black Parade, their second album, does have a little skeleton as the leader of the marching band, and the band members did wear skeleton/skull inspired makeup during that time. Admittedly this year's makeup wasn't nearly as involved or elaborate as what I've done in years' past, but it beats last year's absolutely nothing. I ended up taking a few pictures to preserve the look, as I always do even though I rarely take photos of myself, and I would decide to draw one of them where I was trying to do this face that Gerard (the frontman and lead singer of the band) has made on a several occasions; this wide-eyed intense stare. Partly because this, I'm sure, is very close to my actual face when I heard the news that they're back, the makeup was inspired by them anyway, and also because it pairs very well with one of my favorite lines from my favorite song by them. Said line being, obviously, "I'm not dead I only dress that way," from Boy Division, as cited at the top of the description. If I'm being completely truthful, I can't even really put my finger on what it is about Boy Division specifically that makes it my favorite, as I've yet to hear an MCR song I truly do not like, but I think there's something in the lyrics of the full song that just sells it for me in combination with the high-energy music. But whatever the case, it is my favorite nonetheless. Beyond that though, it's really hard to place the rest of them in any coherent order because, at least to my ears, they're all really great. Anyway. So I went about drawing my face, erring slightly more on the realistic side than usually (but obviously not too much) in hopes of capturing the facial expression. Which, it's pretty good, but I do think it could've been a little better. I think my biggest problem was getting the eyebrows a mouth right, and I'm still not sure they're quite there since my real eyebrows are pretty translucent and the mouth was hard to balance between looking logical and more neutral than sad/angry. And I think maybe the proper expression was a little more apparent in the sketch, but it's pretty normal to lose some feeling between the sketch and the final product so that I won't discount too much. After that, I had to take a break from the drawing to think about how to color it in any style it and everything. I ended up transferring the sketch to Mixed Media paper after deciding I wanted to use alcohol markers as a base but not knowing if I'd need to adjust it with colored pencil and/or other mediums on top or not, and I did the lines with my Faber Castell Polychromos once I felt like just black lines would be too harsh and thinking colored lines would be better. Plus, the Polychromos are very non-reactive to water, so if I really wanted to I could add watercolor or something water-activated without having to worry about the lines getting messed up. I did not consider how the Polychromos would react to the alcohol markers, but other than one or two spots where the top layer of pencil kinda dissolved after some heavy layering (which was easily fixed by just going back over the lines in that area again really quickly), fortunately, it worked out okay. Although sweet sparkles I swear it took at least twice as long to actually do the lines as opposed to normal between having to apply enough pressure to get the right amount of color down and working on the differences inline weight.   Anyway. I was a little worried about some of the shading/effects I'd be doing with the markers, but I think I did alright with it. This mixed media paper (Strathmore 400 series for anyone who cares) is nice and thick, so I had plenty of room to layer up and blend as I needed to get the look I was going for. This came in especially handy around the eyes and on the nose when I told myself to at least try and get the colors like the photo before cheesing it and just using straight (or nearly) black. The only area that I think came out a little rough is really the skin, mainly the forehead. But that has more to do with 1. There isn't much contrast on the face in the photo so I didn't want to take it too far in the drawing and 2. I think I may have started slightly too dark for skin this pale. I realize that's a weird thing to say, but when you're pale as a ghost like I am, you'd be surprised how easy that is to do. And to be fair, I probably could've tried to adjust that with colored pencils, and my original plan was to add some white pencil on top in the areas of the face where a highlight would naturally hit (forehead, bridge of the nose, cheekbones, etc.)  But by the time I got done with the markers, I honestly felt like it was nice enough without any additional pencil that I thought it might be best to just leave it alone. Since I still have the original drawing, my thoughts may change on that and I could update this eventually, but for now, my decision stands. On the other hand, I was actually pretty pleased with how the hair turned out once it was colored. That is until I scanned it in. I don't know why, but the darkest shadows in the hair were too dark and too bluish on the scan, despite everything else looking fairly color-accurate. I fiddled with the scanner settings for a few minutes to try and fix it, but it became quickly apparent there wasn't much to be done about it at the level. Which meant I had to try making the adjustments in Photoshop. Now, I've done my fair share of scan-fixing, photo editing, and just color adjustments on digital art, but for the life of me I could not get things to work the way I wanted them to here. It became to the point I'm starting to suspect if the actual true-to-life shades of purple of the drawing are just really hard or even impossible for computers to capture and/or create accurately. Fluorescent colors fall in that category, surely they're not the only ones. In the end, after more time than I bothered to document messing around with settings and adjustments, and firmly decided I was not going to essentially manually re-color/shade the hair digitally, I tried the only other thing I could think to do. I took the hair, as I had been for all my adjustments since the rest of the colors were fine, on a separate layer and took all the saturation out so I was left with just the gray values. And I noted while I was at that point that it didn't seem to be an issue of the contrast between the shadows and the rest of the hair. The transition looked perfectly acceptable in grayscale. Then, I added a color layer on top of that one, clipped it to only show up on the hair, and changed it to an "overlay" layer so that I would get the values from the gray layer, but colored purple. It did take a couple of tries to get the right shade of purple for the color layer, and I'm sure it's still not 100% accurate to the IRL drawing, but it's a heck of a lot closer than it was. And this gets even weirder when you consider that just a few days before I made this drawing, I made a different one for a friend where I used the exact same marker colors for the hair, blended in almost exactly the same manner, on the same paper, and it didn't have this problem when I scanned that one in. I have never in my life. Anyway. The accessories actually didn't give me much trouble in drawing or coloring. Admittedly, I did tone down how many feathers and stuff are actually on the tiny hat for my own sanity's sake, and while I did my best with the lace on the choker, I don't have a ton of practice with drawing lace like this so I'm sure it could be improved. Although I did decide to color both of those areas (what I didn't draw/fill in with the pencils at the line stage) with a super dark blue-violet instead of a gray or straight black for the purpose of not totally hiding the linework I'd put in and to make it just slightly more dynamic. Which I think was a good call as it seems to tie in pretty nicely with the grayish tones on the face. Other than that though, I did try to stay fairly accurate with my color choices, and I think I did pretty well with that, all things considered. (Despite having a much larger selection than I did just a few months ago, I do still need a wider selection of alcohol markers in some areas just for the sake of color accuracy and smooth transitions.) Once my face was done, then came the text. I searched for a while, hoping to find an MCR appropriate font that I could hopefully add by hand, but my search came up empty. I did find one I really liked the look of though, called "Miserable." So I scanned the drawing in and after the aforementioned hair struggles, I got to play with the placement and structure of the words. I knew I kinda wanted something that just has that "I'm a logo/t-shirt emblem" kind of feel, and in the end, I think I got that. But I do think I could've planned out the drawing itself a little bit better in terms of the space left to fit the words into. I really didn't do myself a lot of favors on that one.   It has its problems, but I'm still really actually kind of proud of how this turned out...and that's really all I have to say about it. Eh, maybe I'm just really happy because I know why I made it in the first place. Now if MCR can just come within 1-2 hours of my location so I can actually go see them...please... ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[viperbranium]

a shrunkyclunks meet-cute

Now that the patreon thing is over, I can finally share the reward fics with the rest of you guys. Have the first one, and thanks again to everyone who supported relena and I <333

As Bucky steps into his favorite coffee shop, Becca walking in right after him, he can’t help but let out a miserable whine.

The place is uncharacteristically busy for a Thursday morning, and the line of people standing between him and his very much needed shot of caffeine seems to be at least twice as long as usual.

He usually doesn’t mind waiting, really. The coffee shop is warm and nice, and the wonderful scent of coffee that fills the air is already enough to get his brain synapses going. Normally he wouldn’t be too bothered by having to spend an extra 15 minutes standing there, just relaxing and enjoying the smell and the sounds of the espresso machines as he watches people come and go.

There’s no relaxing around Becca, though. She’s already been rambling nonstop about who-knows-what all the way from Bucky’s apartment, and really, Bucky loves her, okay? It’s not that he doesn’t care about what Becca has to say. But god, he’s NOT a morning person. He needs coffee before he can do the words-putting-into-sentence-doing, and without it to reboot his brain, all the words coming out of Becca’s mouth just sound like gibberish.

So instead of being able to stand there in a half-comatose state until some wonderful barista places a cup of magical liquid productivity in his hands, he’s being forced to try to make sense of actual words like a full-grown, functional adult.

He’s also failing spectacularly.

He swears to god they’ve been here for 10 minutes already and the goddamn line hasn’t gotten any shorter, when he hears Becca say, “There’s a new Captain America ride in Coney Island.”

“Great,” Bucky deadpans. “I’ve wanted to ride him for a while, now.”

At that, the wall of muscle standing in front of them lets out a choked-out noise and shuffles a bit awkwardly on his feet, like he was about to turn around but managed to stop himself at the last moment. Bucky’s definitely not awake enough to ask the dude if he’s got a problem with his sexuality, though, so he just ignores him.

“Gross,” Becca says, scrunching her nose. “If I end up with trauma cause of the mental image, you’re paying for my therapy.”

“It’s a great mental image.” Bucky shrugs.

“It’s Stark’s doing…” Becca informs him, ignoring Bucky’s comment as she continues to scroll through the article. “He must’ve thought building just an Iron Man ride was too narcissistic even for him, so he’s giving every Avenger one. Oh, man, he’s gonna take your place as Cap’s #1 fan, there’s no way you can top this.”

“Not that I wouldn’t if he was down for it, but hey, as long as he can top me, we’re all good.”

The man in front of them discreetly clears his throat at Bucky’s comment, and Bucky’s brow furrows and he has to purse his lips to stop himself from saying something this time.

“Bucky, ew,” Becca scolds him as someone else leaves with their coffee and they all take another step towards the counter. “You’re my brother. I do not want to think about you two having sex every time Captain America’s on the news, thank you very much.”

It takes everything Bucky is not to comment on how he always wants to think about them having sex whenever Captain America is on the news. Instead, he just says, “Hey, you brought him up.”

“Cause you wouldn’t listen to me unless we talked about your crush!”

The sound, somewhere between outraged and embarrassed, escapes Bucky’s lips before he can stop it.

“I don’t have a crush!”

Becca smiled impishly. “Bucky, you have a crush so massive it can probably be seen from the ISS.”

“I’m a grown man,” Bucky grumbles. “I don’t have crushes.” Becca quirks an eyebrow at him like she’s not convinced, so he goes on. “I want him to nail me into the mattress, which is entirely different.”

“Oh, please,” Becca says. “You call him Steve like a nerd.”

God, Bucky’s really starting to regret this conversation.

“It’s his name,” he argues still. He knows Becca’s thoroughly enjoying poking fun at him and that he’s only spurring her on at this point, but dammit, she always seems to know how to get under his skin. The man in front of them seems to be really engrossed in their conversation too, probably taking lots of issues with everything Bucky’s gay ass is saying, and that’s also getting on Bucky’s nerves.

“You do know most people call him Cap, right?” Becca tells him, crossing her arms and smirking like she just won something.

Bucky lets out a groan and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not even sure how the conversation got to this point anymore, but this has got to be the dumbest argument he’s ever had the misfortune to find himself involved in.

“Look, he’s a person, not a military rank. And can we please just drop this?” He tells her.

“Wait!” Becca says excitedly as she grabs Bucky’s arm. Whatever she just thought of, Bucky knows it can’t be good. “Didn’t you write a paper about him in college?”

“Oh god,” Bucky practically whines. He’s more than ready to forgo coffee at this point and just bolt. To turn around and leave before someone recognizes him. But it’s already the turn of the man in front of them, so instead he just turns to face Becca and shoots her his best pleading expression. “Please, shut up,” he begs.

Becca is merciless, though.

““The Phenomenon of Captain America as a queer icon and the widespread reluctance to recognize him as such: How Captain America shaped the modern image of masculinity, and his impact on the generations growing up during the post-war era in the US”,” She recites. Bucky can’t even believe she remembers, the asshole.

“Becca, please! I come here every morning!” And it’s already hard enough to try to pretend his interest is only casual and not borderline obsessive as it is, god fucking dammit.  

Rebecca’s laughing in earnest now. Tears-in-her-eyes, hands-around-her-belly laughing. If Bucky didn’t love her so fucking much, god only knows why, he’d probably strangle her or something.

He’s about to say as much when, all of a sudden, Becca stops.

She’s staring right past Bucky at the now one-man line in front of them, a bit wide-eyed and with a hint of red coloring her cheeks. Bucky follows her gaze, and before he can even ask what’s wrong, he damn near chokes.

Because it turns out the guy Bucky totally assumed was some old dude, based mostly on the khakis and the old-fashioned hairstyle, is actually Steve fucking Rogers himself.

Yep. Bucky just spent the past 20 minutes standing right behind Captain America and repeatedly stating how damn much he wants the guy to fuck him til he can’t walk. Why can’t the ground just open up and swallow him whole when he needs it?

For a few moments, Steve Rogers just stares at him, standing there in all his 6’2” and 240 lbs of 100% American beefcake glory, freshly made cup of coffee forgotten in his hand and the deepest blush Bucky’s ever seen creeping up his neck. It contrasts nicely with Bucky’s own skin, which has completely drained of all color.

Since he’s apparently managed to shock Captain America so much with his raunchy comments that he’s frozen in place, Bucky should probably use this chance to either apologize or bolt, but his own brain keeps refusing to reboot. Then Steve Rogers is clearing his throat and taking a small step forward, and fuck, Bucky’s so, so, soooo dead.

Except Steve Rogers doesn’t look offended in the slightest.

Steve Rogers looks thoroughly embarrassed, yes –and in any other situation Bucky would definitely be focusing on how damn gorgeous he looks with his cheeks flushed that lovely shade of red—, but Bucky could swear it’s also amusement that he’s seeing in those piercing blue eyes.

Steve Rogers stops right in front of Bucky--the corner of his mouth turned slightly upwards and those eyelashes threatening to turn Bucky’s legs into jelly--, holds his hand right up to Bucky’s head, and says, “You must be this tall to ride.”

And then he just… leaves.

Bucky can hear Becca, standing half a step behind him, whispering, “What the fuck!?”, but it’s not until the barista’s trying to get his attention and asking him if he’s going to order, that he manages to kick his brain back into action.

Well. Holy fucking shit.

-

He almost doesn’t return to the coffee shop.

Not because he thinks anyone else besides Becca and STEVE ROGERS witnessed how he made a total fool of himself, or how Captain America, in an unprecedented act of diplomacy considering his history of telling men in charge to go fuck themselves, only teased him a bit for it instead of knocking him flat on his ass. No.

He almost doesn’t return because he’s too fucking ashamed of himself and of the whole thing, and being here where everything took place is only going to help his asshole brain provide him with a full HD rerun of the whole incident. Ugh.

In the end he figures not coming isn’t gonna make him any less mortified, though, and the place does make the best coffee in the area, by far.

Trying his damnedest not to blush and pointedly staring at nothing but his own feet --just in case he was wrong about the no other witnesses thing-- he walks into the coffee shop and heads straight for the counter… only to be stopped by a soft, “Hey!” and a gentle hand tapping on his shoulder.

When he turns, he finds himself once again standing face-to-face with Steven Grant Rogers.

Who’s not sporting quite the same shade of crimson he was yesterday, but still has a beautiful hint of a blush going on, and whose smile is so warm and inviting it makes Bucky’s skin tingle.

Or it would, if the urge to run in the opposite direction and go hide under a rock wasn’t so damn strong.

There’s an awkward moment of silence as Bucky just stands there shell-shocked, staring at him like he hadn’t already embarrassed himself enough, before Steve says, "So, I'm Steve, but I guess you know that already..."

“Yeah, I--” he tries, fumbling for words, but Bucky’s mouth still seems to be refusing to catch up with his brain.

Steve smiles a bit more, seemingly amused. “And you are?” he prompts.

That seems to do the trick. It takes a bit of stumbling over words, but Bucky at last manages to get the words flowing… and then they just won’t stop. “Ja-James. Bucky! I’m Bucky. I mean I’m James but everyone calls me-- oh god I’m so sorry about yesterday, I didn’t know you were-- And my sister wouldn’t shut up, and oh my god, you heard about the paper, that must’ve been so weird, I’m so fucki--ah. I’m so very sorry, I’m--”

“You can say “fucking”!” Steve cuts him off, not unkindly, and laughs “And you don’t have to apologize. Bucky, right?” he asks, holding his hand out for Bucky to shake. Bucky nods, and promptly does so. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“I wrote that essay before you were thawed,” Bucky still feels the need to clarify. “I wouldn’t’ve… it must feel so weird to have historians everywhere speculating about your life, I really am sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Steve reassures him, and then blushes a bit before adding, “I, um… I read it. Your paper, I read it last night.”

“You what!?”

Steve shrugs. “The title was intriguing, and... you were surprisingly accurate.”

And god, okay. Bucky really needs to sit down right the fuck now, because Steve Rogers, Captain fucking America, did NOT just say he had read Bucky’s stupid paper, a paper in which Bucky had talked at length about all the ways in which America’s Golden Boy was as rampantly queer as a sparkly unicorn, and said that it had been accurate.

“So, um…” Steve starts when Bucky does nothing but gape at him for 2 whole minutes. “You mentioned coming here every morning, so I thought…” He moves aside a bit and gestures to the table behind him, and to the two cups of coffee placed on it. “Have coffee with me?”

Bucky has to blink three times before he’s convinced this is really happening, and he still wouldn’t scratch the possibility of Steve having kicked his ass so badly the day before that he’s now hallucinating off the list. “You want to have coffee with me? After everything I said?”

Steve smiles again, and Bucky swears to god, every time he does it gets a bit warmer in here. “I want you have coffee with you,” he confirms. “Because of everything you said. I liked it. That thing about the rank in particular, but everything else too. So yeah, I’d like to have coffee with you, and discuss some of the things you mentioned in your paper a bit more, if you’re down for it? Then we can see about the riding thing, maybe,” he finished with a smirk, those gorgeous blue eyes of his crinkling playfully.

Well, hell yeah Bucky was down for it.

[incarnateirony]

Hi. So, since you seem to know what you're talking about, I wanted to ask if you could give like ... a short list tips ... of things to always be aware of/think about/question when analyzing something or getting into writing? Have a nice day.

well I had typed something but X’ed out like a dumbass without sending it because my RP group is crack and consumes my focus so lemme try this again.

A few things to track, but I’ll expand on:

Author intent

Cinematographer intent

Production intent

These are in no way mutually exclusive and are very collaborative. However, recognizing that they are not all the same can help you figure out who’s putting in what level.

Realistically, anyone involved in the visual part of the art – directing, camera operation, set design, lighting – could be considered about on par with authors in regards to the validity of their storytelling, as they generate elements to the screen that if this were a book, the author would be etching out themselves. On the other hand, it’s important to recognize the limitations of screenplay format. Pull up some screenplays – SPN, or anything – and recognize it’s almost comedically barren on details. And that’s not to undermine the amount of thought that goes into screenwriting, either.

Screenwriting is an art of packing as much of your intent as you can into as few words as possible, leaving it to the director that takes on your work. Certain directors have made statements (it’s escaping me who it was–Sgriccia?) about understanding how the writing room works and what they’re aspiring after. And that’s good. 

But even after you get a collaborative writers room working with a collaborative cinematography team, you also get editors that run full circle back to the showrunners and other office end team that polish, rearrange, pin together, and trim.

So we have multiple phases of a process that’s really difficult for most people to casually eye, and I get that.

Generally speaking, if you’re looking at seeing primary plot arc direction as the authors at the start of this process intend, you need to look at what’s in the script. And we don’t get access to all scripts, but on reviewing a plethora of scripts both SPN and non-SPN, you can at least have a fairly clean shot at what kinds of things likely are or aren’t.

The directors collaborate off of work started by the writers, so the writers are the cornerstone in direction, characterization, etc; these are the primary things that propel our story, the rest just fulfills it. Knowing where to divorce these things from each other can be a huge step.

That’s not to say you completely ignore visuals either. There’s a vast wash of art in the crafting of set, the framing of shots, the choices in lighting and so on.

One of the problems I find, however, is that people will just get hell bent on an idea that X color will always mean X thing in X situation. Taking a few days to research color theory in film is something I very loudly suggest as a start. There is, most definitely, color theory but it’s not so clear cut as like “the drapes were blue here and the chair three episodes again was blue and Dean sat in it while talking about Cas so clearly the drapes are his window to thinking about Cas” because that’s… That’s not… I promise you that’s not how creators think. I literally just promise you that.

Hue, Saturation, Brightness, scale of color, there’s all kinds of psychology attached to the use of these in film, or different color coding. It’s the same logic on why most trashy high volume fast food places make their logos red and yellow or red and orange, because that evokes a feral side that induces hunger (or, depending on HUE, SATURATION, BRIGHTNESS AND TONE, anything from fear to rage to passion). Basically, lighting and elements like this are your Big Mood. Big Mood matters. But a random prop happening to be a random color is very unlikely to have major significance unless it is a focal point object. Objects that are chosen as focal points often have meticulous consideration put into them.

Ambient set design is huge. It can be everything from light to shape of a room, to a consistent theme in the background. For example, if Sam and Dean are reading a lot about exorcisms, the books we see littered around and most disturbed are all about exorcisms or demons. Sometimes it’s less front-facing than that, like perpetually taunting the background with themes related even if they aren’t textually searching for this. Modernly, that’s hermetic books and emblems, for example. These are all very relevant to the overall story arch. But if you’re looking to find that one Red or Blue or Green book binder to compare to a lamp shade from several episodes ago, you’re probably gonna have a bad time and sort of wander off into an area that ends up completely unfulfilled later.

Just like the writers all have their own style – and they do, and recognizing these styles can help with a lot – the directors do too, and how they choose to work and frame sets with the lighting team are not identical. You wouldn’t try to directly conflate the art of Munch with Gauguin, I hope, and that’s something we have to recognize here. The writing is the subject and they are the painters. And there is a strong stylistic theme, wherein the later production ends like editors mostly tie it into a product that doesn’t look like a wild disaster, but each of their styles bleed through. 

Sgriccia’s directing is not Wright’s directing and never will be. They’re both great. They both visualize the elements and empower things being lifted from the script masterminded from the authors to render it to us, but where they choose to put That Orangish Lamp is going to be in the microcosm of their episode/painting/works, not the macrocosm of the season, as given by the writers, who still will drive our direction.

The directors know and deeply understand what the writers are after, but there’s a bit of a hazard in conflating everybody like they’re one singular artist, rather than dozens of collaborative artists manifesting this on different tiers. 

Directors can, to some extent, know the story arena in the future too and choose to frame shots in it with strong visual storytelling. Knowing keys to visual storytelling is also really important, rather than getting lost chasing the story behind a black pipe that set designers just put in there because the building needed a damn pipe. Because part of building a set is also making it coherent and a lot of elements simply exist. Understanding if the director is dynamically framing it to call attention to it, however, is something else. 

One of the boldest examples I can think in recent history was when I had random directing drabbles about 14.7 (x) I simply observed very pointed plot (re)construction that changed depending on angle in a conscious decision. Dean being “boxed in” was a statement I wouldn’t even understand the full ironic dickslap of for a while, but it was right there, in visual storytelling, in something I couldn’t ignore. Or another one about the difference of focal point objects, such as the keys to the comic legacy (x) which finalized my faith that John was, in fact, returning.

Or in text, the literal dialogue of Michael (and, before that, Lucifer), over daddy issues, that had me swearing Chuck literally was going to come back this season, non-negotiable, in echo to resolving John-Sam-Dean issues as well. 

The thing is, many of these do boil down to the script - focal point items (mix tapes, literal keys by the ghost, dialogue). And the directing drabbles picked out a specific set of frames that literally required purposeful (re)construction which caused a visual storytelling element.

Personally, I am very, very picky about what I meta over or point out. And that’s not popular around here. Somebody’s always gonna crow “how do you know better”, and any time they get that answer they get offended like “well now you’re just rubbing it in my face!” – in the end, anyone CAN analyze anything, the point is whether people are wrapping their brains up in an idea that’s sort of sending them off to never-neverland and won’t pay out.

Key focal point objects versus ambiance; text versus cinematography; they’re all important, but all don’t drive our forward motion with the same thrumming baseline as the writers churning out content beneath it all. The others bring it to life and yes, collaborate with them, but there needs to be a certain level of judgment applied before diving off chasing dogs in picture frames if you actually expect it to lead anywhere.

And again, I point out to scene ambiance, which can be great to discuss! But those need to be held as microcosms unto themselves or at least that director’s hand. It can be interesting to study little things painted in the layers. My Red, Yellow, and Blue studies for Optimism are an example of that. I do enjoy color theory, but I often restrain myself from engaging in it because people tend to get ahead of themselves and not apply the other… stuff. *gestures vaguely above*.

Honestly, read about things like color theory, dynamic cinematography methods and more for that front, and read through some scripts to recognize the levels before trying to study and pitch into them entirely.