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totothewolff · 4 months

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Chemtrails Over the Yacht Club Collection 18+ | Toto Wolff x reader, age gap, smut operator, clear daddy issues (this fic is inspired by Lana del Rey, duh), and yacht culture.

Summary: Toto Wolff is a name often mentioned at the Yacht Club, where you work after classes. For some reason, you have always pictured him as an old crank like the usual members, not this foxy man who arrives at the reception making your knees quiver. The entire staff goes frenetic as he, one of the Club's most important clients, chooses to spend his spring break there without previous notice. You pray to the Gods that you don't cross lines with him since your entire livehood depends on this job, and you really want to graduate college. Author's note: This was supposed to be a one-shot but was way too long, so I split it into two chapters. I hope you enjoy them. By the way, this version of Toto has questionable morals.

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2 - Breaking up slowly

As Mr. Holst's gateway yacht trip reaches an end, you follow protocol and deliver Toto the guest's satisfaction survey before docking in the Club's harbor.

It's supposed to be confidential and private for the guest. Still, Toto reads you the questions and tells you his answer as he writes them, evaluating you while you sit on his lap in his cabin armchair.

"Any complaints or suggestions, please elaborate," he reads you. "Yes. Y/N's skirts should have been shorter. They don't do justice to that ass," he jokes as you blush, still in awe of him.

He squeezes your ass cheek and gives you a hard slap leaving a red mark, instantly turning you on.

"Fuck me, daddy" you beg him against his lips, already placing you on top of him.

Your clothes hit the ground.

You aren't sure if the waves are rocking the hull that hard or if it's Toto's powerful thrust as he fucks you relentlessly, firm grip on your hips, fingertips pressuring on your skin.

The guests enjoy the yacht's amenities till the last minute before docking in the harbor of the Yacht Club.

The crew and you are all but busy, going everywhere, attending to guests, and running safety checks and protocols.

You attend to Toto's daily demands as he peacefully sunbathes before going to his cabin to change outfits. His tan skin makes him look even more handsome.

You overheard him telling the person on the other end of the call that he was going to a meeting downtown.

He'll be gone the entire day and the whole of your shift. At least a bit of a break for you!

These past few days have been a dream but tiresome.

As the sailing master safely and perfectly anchors the yacht in the harbor, the guests start to descend the ship. A small committee of girls with beverages and canapes welcomes them.

The only people remaining onboard the ship's deck are Toto and you; he wanted to go last.

As you two casually talk, he pulls out an envelope from the insides of his blue blazer and offers it with his hand for you to grab it.

"Sorry, what is this?!" you ask, looking at the rectangular yellow envelope.

"It's a brick of money, isn't it?" you think.

"Your tip," he confirms your thoughts.

"But that is excessive. No way I'm accepting it."

"Do so," he sounds authoritarian as usual. "'It's going to help you with that fine."

"Oh, hey, listen, I will make it, don't worry about it."

"Y/N," he sounds serious, his eyes looking straight at you. He is a very kind and sweet person on the inside. Still, on the outside, he is always cold, stony-looking, demanding, and impossibly hot. "Take it," he enunciates, his controlling trait displaying.

You have noticed, just by being by his side all these days, the pull and effect he has on people and still holds on to you. He is someone you want to impress, to win his approval and have his attention.

"What do you think this is "Pretty Woman"? Calm down, Richard Gere!" you dare to joke to change the mood a bit.

"Aren't you too young to know that reference?" he still answers sternly.

"I live with the rom-com connoisseur, aka my aunt." you smile brightly at him.

Toto has avoided stepping onto personal life terrains, wanting to remain far apart.

"Last time I offer it, take it. You need it. Besides, it's not like you are going to buy a Kelly bag with it; it's for your tuition."

"A what?!" you think. "Wait! How does he know that? I don't remember mentioning that to him."

"Thank you, but I prefer to maintain our relationship non-monetarian." you stand your ground.

"Our relationship?" Toto thinks.

He places the envelope back into his inside pocket as he said he would and steps off without looking back at you, moving along with his day.

"Welcome back to land," Chloé greets you the next day as you clip your radio on your belt in the staff locker room. You're getting ready for another shift before hugging her.

"I'm impressed! I must admit. You almost, ALMOST, achieved it! You got a really good-rate review on the satisfaction chart from Mr. Wolff, something I've never seen before." Then, she makes a dramatic pause.

Only if she knew...

Before continuing: "But not so with Mr. Elrod. He placed a formal complaint since, according to him, your incident with him was life-threatening."

"OH COME ON! He barely swoll!" You look annoyed and want to smash the locker with your fist.

"I know, I checked. Still, I'm really proud of you! But Raphaël called you to his office, so please go there now."

Oh God, you hate going up there!

You arm yourself with patience while climbing the swirling stairs to the upper floor of the management wing of the building, where the big names' offices are.

He makes you wait for a long time. The fucker knows the long wait it's going to delay your chores and make you leave work late. Until his assistant informs you from her chair at the front desk that you can go in.

You open the large glass door into the Assistant General Manager's office with a speech already prepared in your mind in case of the worst.

Raphaël is leaning back on his enormous executive leather chair and massive desk that screams small dick energy, looking sternly at you.

Raphaël is a very posh, solemn, and wealthy fucker who is besties with Mr. Holst and his entire family and extended family, a textbook social climber.

A very uptight asshole. Raphaël chose to dislike you from the moment you set foot at the Club; he tries to get you fired at any given chance.

Most of the girls who work there are beautiful and come from an obvious upper class; most are daughters, nieces, or granddaughters of...

The Yacht Club is where the rich teach their kids a lesson on the value of work or use it as a perfect excuse to kick them out of the house for a few hours.

Usually, they get hired because daddy made a call, and you are none of that.

"Ah, good morning," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I see you're still here. I'm surprised you didn't quit on the spot after that dangerous incident."

You take a deep breath and try to keep your cool. "Good morning, Raphaël. I'm still here because I'm committed to doing my job to the best of my ability and finding a solution to the problem rather than blaming myself."

Raphaël snorts. "You're the one who caused the problem, sweetheart. You're always causing problems. You're a liability to this company."

You feel angry at his words, but you keep your composure. "I understand you're upset, but I'm trying my best."

Raphaël swings a bit in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "You're just a silly girl who doesn't know how to do her job. You're lucky I'm even giving you a final and last chance to prove yourself."

You feel a lump form in your throat. "I understand you don't think highly of me, but I'm trying to do my best; I have learned fast and proved myself worthy."

Raphaël laughs a cold, cruel sound. "You're just not cut out for this job, sweetheart. We are the best and need the best on our team."

"I...I don't know what to say," you stutter.

Raphaël leans forward, his eyes glinting with triumph. "Just thank Ava, sweetie, for changing Holst's mind. You're on thin ice, one more mistake, and you're gone. You can leave now," he dismisses you.

"Thank you, I owe you one, I guess," you whisper to Ava for saving your ass as you cross paths with her in the beautiful and perfectly maintained gardens.

"You were kind to me," she says in the same tone as usual, not as friendlier as you would have liked. "I trust you keep our conversation from that day private."

"Pinky promise," you offer her your pinky. She looks at you with an "ugh" expression, rolls her eyes, and walks away. A couple of steps further, she turns to smile at you.

Now you two are best friends for life in your head! IJBOL.

The following two weeks are a swirl of moans as Toto, and you can't keep your hands off each other.

You fuck everywhere private and remote enough, where there are no security cameras.

You can't have enough of his dick and his body. You are so infatuated with him.

Every time he calls in you at his villa, you end up fucking; it doesn't matter how hard you both try to fight the urge to do so.

He has had you against the door, his bedframe, or the room's vanity, on top of the piano and even in the jacuzzi. The sex drive of that fit man is spectacular, and you are young enough to keep its pace.

You have never been so sexually active and free in your life, learning and experiencing many things for the first time. Toto makes the best teacher and lover you have ever had.

By this point, you lost count of how many times you have moaned his name, called him daddy, or the number of times he has made you cum and beg for more.

Your aunt and close friends start to notice your glow. Lately, you look radiant and happy.

She is intrigued to know the reason behind it as you two go to the mall on Sunday.

"FINE. I WILL TELL YOU! I'm dating the most gorgeous, wise, handsome, accomplished, hot guy, AND HE IS SO INTO ME! Can you believe it?!"

"Oh, I can. My niece is great! And where did you meet this adonis, and most importantly, does he have an older brother?"

"He is an older brother!" you want to say but don't.

She doesn't need to know every single detail, not yet. You want to keep it a surprise for when you take Toto home.

"He has a sister," you answer.

"Ah! And what else can you tell me?"

"Well, he is from Austria! I plan to invite him over to have dinner at the apartment so you can meet and ask him all the questions you want. What do you think?"

The look she gives you! You had never taken a single boy to the house. This must be serious, then.

"Has he tasted your cooking yet?" she wonders before answering.

You shake your head.

"Well, if he survives it, then it's true love!" you two laugh as your aunt jokes and links her arm with yours before adding: "Please invite him for dinner. I'd love to meet him, but you know what! Better buy lasagna. We want this to work, right?!"

You love to text Toto sweet and touchy messages throughout the day that hint at how he makes you feel, how much he means to you, and how great it is to be with him.

You are in love.

Yet, you try not to suffocate him or embarrass yourself, still being nervous around him, still wanting his approval.

Toto still intimidates you. Being the powerful and dominant man he is.

You can't believe you snatched him! Lucky girl!

But in your mind, fuck! Wedding bells are already chirping, and future children's name-searching is already happening.

The Yacht Club has a museum/memorabilia section that almost no one visits. It's located far away from the lobby and main guest areas, and for obvious reasons, it has many security cameras.

But next to it, further down the hallway, there's a blind spot on the CCTV system, right in the space of the door to an old phone room.

In this room, the original antic magneto wall set telephone is still mounted on the wall, along with a stern wood chair where people used to chat in private.

You ask Toto to meet you there after he texts you he hasn't seen you today.

Also, you want to inform him that you are going on a "two-day leave" plus the weekend, so you will be away from him for four days.

You don't want to send him mixed signals, and you're getting paranoid that he might think you're running away.

And since you don't want to miss him, maybe he could join you if he wants and feels like it. You know, couple life outside the Club.

A hand-in-hand walk through Monaco's streets sounds nice; a cute date with wine and kisses sounds more than good.

When he closes the door behind him, the place looks ridiculously smaller.

You immediately stand on your tiptoes to kiss him, wrapping your arms around him as you greet him.

You share small, soft kisses for a while.

He sadly tells you he can't join you on your break.

Since he extended his stay, Toto has things scheduled on his agenda that he is supposed to be doing in his office in London.

"But I'm going to miss you, daddy," you pout and give him the biggest Bambi-begging eyes.

"Not even that it's going to work. Try it with my assistant. Thanks for trying tho."

"Where can I meet her?"

He laughs before pulling you into a more intense kiss.

"Should we say goodbye to each other?" he says against your lips, caressing your neck.

"It is crazy how four days felt like nothing before you; now that I have you in my life, it's an eternity."

He holds you closer, pulling you by the waist.

"Then let's make it count enough to stay in each other minds for those days."

"You are permanently on my mind," you confess, burying your face in his shoulder, all red, and not even being able to look at him while feeling the expensive material of his jacket brushing your skin.

Then, your mouth finds his, kissing him hungrily. You push your tongue into his mouth, tangling with his, your hands sliding up the hard planes of his chest, then drifting over his shoulders to find the hem of his shirt.

Your fingers feel his warm skin, sending a jolt of pleasure through him as you trace the contours of his muscles.

The smell of your perfume, jasmine, and vanilla intoxicates him. This scent will remind him of this moment as he passionately claims your mouth.

Slowly, you undress each other, savoring the anticipation. As hands wander over defined abs, curves, and dips, caresses become bold strokes.

The pads of your fingers move lower, exploring the ridges of his abdomen. With a smoldering look, you glance up at Toto, a wicked smile on your lips.

Heat spreads through him as you press yourself against his groin and your bare breasts against his chest. He can feel your heart pounding.

With a soft, playful jerk, you touch his growing excitement. "Eager, daddy?" you ask.

He nods.

You waste no time, and you get down to your knees as you take him into your mouth as he is sitting in the chair. Your warm, wet tongue swirls around him, your head bobbing gently as you work him in and out of your mouth.

His fingers find their way into your soft, silken hair, gripping it gently, urging you on.

His pleasure moans grow as you work your magic, your tongue and lips exploring him for a while.

Slowly, you move up till your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He commands you. "Ride me, now."

You shift your weight, adjusting your position to better align with Toto's cock, and you sink onto him, your pussy fitting itself around his cock like a glove; you feel a jolt of pleasure.

He fills you completely, and you allow yourself a moment to take in the intensity of that feeling, skin against skin.

Your hips begin to sway, moving gently to the rhythm of your shared breathing. With each undulation, the chair beneath you becomes part of the dance.

Toto's hands, which had been resting at his sides, now find their way to your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as he feels you move against him.

Your breath is warm and soft against his neck as your bodies rock with each movement. You feel your core tighten, your pleasure growing in intensity.

The control Toto wields over the rhythm, and you is intoxicating. Your breathing quickens.

"Faster," he orders you; you moan, obedient and needy. He wants you full force.

You feel the intensity of your coupling, the friction becoming almost unbearable.

You throw your head back mid powerful and intense bounces and cry out, desperate for release.

His hands move to grip your thighs, his fingers applying pressure into your soft flesh as he guides your hips up and down to meet now his intense thrusts, Toto's bucking his hips up now, and your full breasts bounce against his sculpted chest.

Your lips meet in a passionate kiss; tongues entwine at a pace as hungry as the one below your waists.

You tangle your hands in Toto's hair, tugging it gently to urge him for more as you clench your sex around him, drawing out an animalistic groan from deep within him.

"Fuck, yes, Y/N," Toto growls through gritted teeth. He slams his balls into your pussy again and again, driving you both closer to the edge.

Your bodies are all slick with sweat as you shudder atop Toto, releasing a visceral moan with an orgasm radiating from your core and rippling through every nerve in your body, dripping all over his shaft and thighs.

He growls low in his throat, a raw, primal sound that reverberates through the room as he surrenders to his own release.

Every day away, you text him, exchanging photos and moments from both days.

You can't keep away from him.

Upon your return, you attend and cheer for Toto, who is participating in the regatta rally.

The sound of seagulls surrounds you, as does the smell of salt water and fresh coffee wafts from the food and beverage stalls, enticing the crowd on the quayside.

As the starting gun fires, a fleet of sleek, high-tech sailboats burst into action, their crews navigating the intricate course set out on the water.

The crowd cheers and chants as the boats round each mark, their helmsmen and women trimming their sails to maximize speed.

As the regatta approaches its climax, the top boats are neck and neck, and Toto and his crew are straining every muscle to gain that precious extra yard.

The tension is palpable as his boat crosses the finish line, and he and his crew leap into celebration as they win the rally.

Meanwhile, champagne corks pop on the quayside, and glasses get raised in a toast to the winners.

The air is filled with conversation as the member's friends and families mingle, congratulating each other on a thrilling day under their giant sun umbrellas and comfy outdoor chairs.

Meanwhile, you remained sitting on the pier under the sun with your crew coworkers by your side, waiting for your guests to return and watching the action unfold on the waters.

All of you girls, legs hanging, white sneakers almost touching the waters beneath you, dress in blue shorts and white polos with the Club's logo patch on the left.

After a while, the sun and the wood surface start to irritate your face and ass, respectively.

You smile brightly at Toto when you spot him reaching closer in the boat, locking eyes with him.

His shirt is all wet, and what is beneath it is showing. You fight the urge to run your hand all over his chest when you reach him after the trophy ceremony.

As you finish setting Toto's regatta equipment back inside the shed in his villa's garden view deck, Léo approaches you, thinking you are alone.

Staring at your bend over the body, eyes on your ass. An excellent view.

Toto watches this from inside. He stepped inside to go shower.

"Y/N!" you turn without flinching, familiar with the voice and happy to hear it.

"Léo! Hi!"

"I missed you, cutie," he says to you, even if you are a girl. Then he welcomes you with a tight hug, pulling you off the ground.

Toto wants to see how the scene unfolds, still without making himself be noticed.

Why is that guy standing that close to you? Doesn't he know personal space?

He watches you two chat, you looking all happy and smiley, telling Léo all about your past days while his eyes burn on you.

Toto catches desire in them, so when Léo places a hand on the shed and around you, Toto steps in.

"Kid," he calls for you. "My drink," he reminds you what he asked you to do next.

"Oh! Yes, sir!" You quickly move to serve Toto's drink. Léo gives him a "those manners!" look, and they share a quick exchange.

At that moment, Toto glimpses at his cook uniform in bright daylight and tells him, "I didn't ask for any food." This is a subtle hint to better leave.

When Toto moves to stand right behind you, you can almost feel his knee in the back of your thigh.

Léo proceeds to leave, sending him a silent fuck you with his eyes.

"Bye, gorgeous! See you around, my girl." Léo addresses you but holds his gaze at Toto as he walks away, looking back.

"Okay..." you think, watching them interact.

"Let's go, kid," he orders you.

"Where?!" you ask as he drags you by the arm, a firm grip on your forearm as he pulls you along.

"Move," he instructs.

Minutes later, the sun warms Toto's back as he expertly maneuvers his jet ski on the waters. Going extremely fast as you hold tight to his body, the jet ski roaring beneath you, surging forward as water sprays behind you.

The salty ocean breeze whips through his dark hair and yours.

A desolate yet inviting small beach appears in the distance as a coast unfolds. Toto gestures to you to the sandy expanse, "There."

You glance at the beach in question and raise your delicate eyebrows. "You brought us here? Why?"

"I have something to make clear." It's all he answers, in a harsh voice, before reaching land.

The waves lap gently against the fine white sands of the isolated coastline. You take a moment to enjoy the sounds of the ocean and the serenity of nature surrounding you.

Your skin and Toto's glisten with sweat, seawater, and sunscreen.

His gaze roams over your body, relishing the breathtaking view. He licks his lips, unable to resist himself any longer.

His eyes are so intense on you that he almost looks angry. Toto's expression dangerously morphs into a lust-filled one.

He leans closer to claim your mouth in a rough, passionate kiss. Parting your lips brusquely, allowing himself to explore and taste your sweetness with his tongue while holding your neck with a stern grip.

His hands move to press your slick body firmly.

Toto then powerfully lifts you from the ground and takes you further into the beach, finally pushing you to the sand and rolling on top of you, feeling your breasts crush against his chest.

He pulls your legs open and places them around his waist, roughly handling you, nails pressing into your skin, and he sighs in pleasure, feeling your warmth pressed against his.

He moves to remove your clothes roughly and quickly, almost tearing your polo shirt; within seconds, you are both naked. "Beautiful," Toto whispers, voice dangerous.

Your eyes flare with desire and curiosity as he has never handled you this rough.

With no hesitation or warning, he pulls his rock-hard length inside you, making you gasp at the sudden move. Toto's voice rasp in your ear, "Only I can fill you up."

You nod eagerly, biting your lower lip.

"Say it," he demands.

"Yes, daddy. Only you can fill me," you whisper, your voice thick with arousal.

Those words send Toto's self-control over the ledge.

He slides into you frenetically, your pussy taking his hard hits with thunderous moist claps. He is fucking you so harshly in such a powerful rhythm you can barely take him.

You bury your nails in the sand surrounding you, grasping. "Daddy!" you moan so loud.

"Fuck, your pussy feels so good," Toto growls, biting down on the curve of your neck.

His thrusts are desperate and animal, and every muscle in his body is rocking. You arch your back, moaning nonstop as Toto keeps hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, relentlessly.

"Daddy! Please," you gasp for air. You can barely take it anymore. "Daddy! I can't." his balls deep thrust keep going. A massive moan escapes your lips.

"Be a nice girl, take this dick good." He commands.

"I-, I-, Daddy, please." Your fingers dig into his shoulders, urging him to let you catch your breath.

"You are only mine to have." Toto's mouth claims yours, swallowing your moans.

"This pussy is all yours!" you are barely able to say, shaking violently under his strong jabs.

"Again," his dick slams you harder.

"I'm only yours!" you scream in an orgasm, breathing real loud.

"Again," he slams you with his dick again.

Your whimpers grow louder.

"I'm yours, daddy!"

The feeling of his raw masculinity taking you over, dominating you entirely, sends ripples of need through your core.

Each drive of his hips is a powerful claim, a branding that declares you his.

"Good girl, now it's clear." He kisses your lips softly and licks them, running his wet tongue all over them.

With one final thrust, he buries himself as deep inside you, feeling you clench and pulse around him as you cry out.

Toto's body shudders with the force of his release. You stay there, panting and covered in sweat and sand as the waves crash upon the shore, matching the rhythm of your breathing.

Toto stays inside you, wanting to remain close for a little longer. He places soft and sweet kisses all over your face, now tenderly caressing you. His soft touch is all over you.

He collapses in exhaustion next to your side. The two of you are naked with your backs to the sand and facing the sky, feeling the sun's warm rays on your skin.

You can't help but smile as you look over at Toto, lying beside you with his muscular chest heaving up and down.

"We're quite a mess," you chuckle, gesturing to the sand and fluids that cover your bodies.

Toto laughs, "Nothing that a quick rinse can't fix."

He watches you stand up, brush the sand off your ass, and sprint towards the ocean.

Toto follows you, admiring your naked figure and the way your ass moves as you stride.

You dip your toes into the water, squealing as a wave crashes over your feet. Toto comes up behind you, planning to plunge you into the water, so you playfully run from him.

He catches and kisses you before lifting you in his arms and bringing you inside the water with him.

He admires your ability to be open-minded, fun, and fearless in pursuing new experiences, especially those involving him.

A call bell coming from Toto's living room makes you speed there. Your chores today were so fucking tedious; by this point, you have like four good hours inside the china's closet.

As soon as you enter, he informs you, "Kid, I need my things packed by 2 p.m."

"You are leaving?!!" That sounded more desperate than you expected.

"I need to fly to sign papers in my London office. I will return on Thursday, just in time for Holst's Casablanca-themed birthday party."

Oh, yeah, next week is going to be crazy. A fucking colossal gala it's going to take place at the Club's gardens.

When the elevator doors to Toto's office slide open, a burst of energy and femininity floods the room as the most stunning woman enters.

Toto's office is on the top floor of a sleek, modern skyscraper, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed panorama of the bustling London's metropolis.

Her impossible curves seem to have been crafted by the gods themselves.

Her long, dark, sleek hair cascades down her back, framing her heart-shaped face and highlighting her stunning eyes.

With her full lips in a deep shade of red, she moves with a confident stride, her high heels clicking on the floor as she makes her way to Toto's desk.

Her toned and shapely legs seem to go on forever. She is supermodel tall, and the way she moves her hips is enough to weaken any man in the knees.

Irina sits in one of the expensive designer chairs in front of Toto's trendy clear glass desk. Her fitted dress hugs her curves in all the right places.

Her shoulders are bare, and the gentle swell of her breasts seems to strain against the fabric.

Her hands are long and elegant, and she has a massive diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

As she leans back in the chair, her hair bounces against her shoulders, releasing a faint scent of perfume.

Looking busy behind his desk, Toto can't help but look up from his papers, his eyes locking onto hers with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

Toto's iPhone buzzes on his desk surface as Irina moves to get comfy on the expensive velvet sofa by the wall after a good chat and a successful exchange on Irina's part.

Reminding Toto of his responsibilities in life.

He picks it up to open your chat.

"Since it's our first month anniversary and you are away. I had more time to prepare a gift for you." you text Toto.

He watches a photo loading on your conversation.

A photo of a completely naked you arrive, standing back to the camera behind a see-through light fabric curtain that looks like and is the one in his bedroom at his villa.

Your shoulders, back, and ass are on full display, your silhouette looking delicious to him; you are posing with your arms up, both placed on your head, and your hair is in a bun.

No face, just body, in a contrast of light.

Toto feels like jerking off to that photo when a second one arrives.

It's a close-up photo of your breast; you are laying on his bed in the villa, again with light fabric on top of your tits, nipples hard, looking ready for him to bite them: no face or more body below your waist on this one.

"What a masterpiece," he replies. "But who took them? It's that my villa? How did you manage?"

"A dear friend of mine takes boudoir photos. I lied to Chloé and told her the photographer came for a photo session appointment with the guests I'm serving during your leave."

"An that dear friend is?" instantly possesive.

"Anne, a girl friend from college, she is an art major," you quickly reply.

"They should hang them in a museum."

You feel so proud of yourself for making him react like that. God, you miss him.

"Hey, kid, you are home?" he looks at his Rolex, running calculous.

"Yes"

"Do me a favor then."

"Sure!"

"Touch yourself till you cum, and moan my name loud." you get wet, reading the text.

"Would you do the same, daddy?"

"Yes."

Irina wonders who makes him smile like that.

As you prepare everything at Toto's villa for his return, along with Chloé, you dare to ask her a question and discuss a topic you have been dreading for so long.

"Does Mr. Wolff have a leave date?" you gain the courage.

"He already overextended his stay, which is rare, as rare as him showing up unexpectedly as he did. Mr. Wolff is one of those people who schedules everything in advance and always informs us months before, so something must have happened." She reaches out to you to help you place the fresh sheets on his bed.

"So, no date?" you ask again.

"You grew tired of him already?" Chloé looks straight at you.

"OH. NO, NO. I'm just curious," you quickly add, waving your hands.

"No date, child"

Is he staying for you? You wonder in your head.

You two have never talked about your future.

Toto leaving without you has become your biggest fear in life, like ever.

The night is fully set over the sea, and the Club's grounds are set by the strumming of a Moroccan guitar, which sets the tone for the true extravaganza about to happen.

You see Ava fixing Mr. Holst's bowtie as he prepares for his grand entrance.

The Club's gardens transformed into a Moroccan oasis, and the towering palm trees were now adorned with twinkling fairy lights.

The crowd erupts into applause as Mr. Holst enters, resplendent in a tailored white suit and sunglasses, à la Rick Blaine, escorted by a troupe of really hot and barely dressed female dancers, who performed a mesmerizing choreographed routine to the iconic tunes of "As Time Goes By."

The tables are set with fine china and crystal glassware, adorned with candles and a sumptuous spread of Moroccan delicacies, including tagines, couscous, and fragrant pastries.

The aroma of exotic spices wafts through the air.

Meanwhile, at the bar where you are currently working, the mixologists are shaking (not stirring) up signature cocktails inspired by the classic film's iconic characters. The "Ilsa," a refreshing blend of gin, lemon, and mint, is a particular hit among the guests.

The place is packed with wealthy people from around the globe, all friends of Mr. Holst and his wife, and the bar is the busiest spot.

You are so busy that you haven't even had a chance to look for Toto. He must be somewhere looking all handsome in a classic tuxedo! Gosh, you die to see him and kiss him.

Then, Mr. Holst takes center stage once more, surrounded by his wife and children. With a heartfelt speech, he starts the party.

As midnight approaches, a massive three-tier cake held by two big guys enters in the old style, and everyone sings Happy Birthday to Mr. Holst as fireworks light up the night sky!

The crowd cheers and oohs as sparks rain down upon them.

Then, you have your first break of the night. Some of your coworkers at recess get dinner, light a cigar, or just sit down in the crew's hidden section. It's been crazy!

You use the opportunity to text Toto: "Hi, my love. Where are you? I want to see your handsomeness in a tux. Daddy, I miss you so much."

As a tipsy Toto is laughing and drinking with Holst and his wife when the couple reaches the table where he is, Irina picks up his phone, buzzing on the table.

She reads the text you sent him and chunks of your conversation.

"Who the fuck is "Kid"?!"

She then starts looking at the photos you shared, fuming, especially when she finds the ones from the boudoir photo session you took for Toto.

Oh, no, baby! Her wedding with Toto is happening, yes or yes, and she will not allow you to interfere!

Toto will not slip away from her! Not now, she got him back at the palm of her hand and into his senses!

It worked wonders to give him that bit of a break after he got cold feet and had second thoughts about committing himself to her.

No one touches what is hers, and she is about to teach you a lesson!

Now that she knows your face, it is just a matter of time before she finds you there.

Apparently, you work here.

You are navigating through the crowded party, surrounded by the thumping music and the hums of conversations because your boss asked you to move to attend a special guests table.

As you walk there, you feel a pair of eyes burning into your skin. The hottest woman you have ever seen is staring intensely at you.

It turns out to be the table where Raphaël parents are. So, to your misfortune, he is also around, adding an extra stress layer to your night as he behaves demanding and pays attention to your every action.

As the night progresses, you feel unsure if you are being paranoid or that woman has been watching you for a long time, her gaze flicking from a phone to you again.

Mr. Holst greets you, and you congratulate him on his birthday; he sits to chat with Raphaël's elderly mom.

The hot woman suddenly swoops in, her long legs striding across the room to you.

Her eyes flash with anger as she grabs your arm, her nails digging into your skin. "You think you're so special, don't you?" she hisses, her voice low and venomous, taking you completely by surprise.

You try to shake her off, not knowing what the fuck is happening! But she's too strong.

She pulls you closer, her face inches from yours. "You're nothing but a foolish little fling to Toto," she sneers really loud for everyone at the table to hear.

You start to feel all eyes on you as she causes a scene.

"This means nothing to him! You are just an entertainment." she continues.

You feel a surge of embarrassment as you realize what's happening.

Toto looks at you two, his eyes wide with surprise, but he doesn't intervene. Your bosses are standing nearby, their faces frozen in shock.

Irina shows you the stunning diamond ring on her hand and holds it up for everyone to see.

The table you attend falls silent, and all eyes are on you. Humiliation hits you as you realize the scope of what's happening.

"You think you can just waltz in here and steal my man? Toto is marrying me," she says again, her voice dripping angrily. "Me! Stay the fuck away!"

Irina flings back into the crowd, her words echoing in your mind.

You feel tears stinging in your eyes as you turn to flee the party.

"Don't even bother to come back. You are fired." Raphaël addresses you, firing you in the spot, catching you preparing to leave, his gaze burning with triumph and victory.

The sounds of laughter and music fade into the distance as you stumble into the night air, your heart heavy with sorrow.

Léo and Chloé look astonished as they watch you leave after witnessing the show Irina put on.

Your heels are hitting the floor faster, and the trail of your fitted gorgeous gala dress sways behind you.

You know that you will never be able to show your face at this place again and that no one will ever look at you in the same way after this.

God, you are so mad at Toto and even more heartbroken!

A loud knock comes at the door; maybe your aunt left work early. "Coming!" you look like a mess with swollen eyes from all the crying and feeling like shit and heartbroken, destroyed, dusted, you name it.

Toto's tall figure greets you when you open the door.

"How yo-?!" you look at him, eyes filling with anger and tears again.

"Ava," he interrupts you. "She got your address and sent me in a car here."

He reads your intention to close the door to his face and stops it firmly with his muscular arm.

Toto invites himself into your apartment. Standing beside the worn-out cupboard, he looks out of place, especially in that expensive tuxedo.

Gosh, he looks so dreamy, fuck him!

"Irina was completely wrong. You are not entertainment; what happened with us was real; you are important to me, more than you imagine." He goes straight to the point, not wasting time making things clear.

You feel a couple of tears run down your eyes. Lots of emotions for just one night.

He reaches closer to wipe them with his fingers. "I shouldn't have allowed Irina to talk to you that way and embarrassed you. Please forgive me. For all. We were on a time off when I met you."

"Irina? You thought that was his sister. You heard Holst asking him about her at brunch, along with his mom," You stupid girl!

"I called off the engagement for good." He looks straight at you and closes the steps between you.

"You did?!" and you die to add the "for me," but you contain.

"Do you still want me?" he asks, leaning closer to your lips, his breath brushing your mouth.

"Yes," a beg escapes your lips.

Toto is there to apologize for the hurt he caused. He wants to reach for you, to hold you close, but he doesn't know where to begin. So, instead, he does the only thing that feels right at that moment.

His lips find yours in a tender kiss, at first gentle but exploring, as if trying to find his way home.

You respond with a soft sigh, and your hands roam over his back, muscles reacting to your gentle touch.

Your mouths open to each other in a deep, consuming kiss, tongues darting and twisting, exploring every spot of the other's mouth.

Before any of you knows what is going on, you stumble your way towards the bed, Toto's hands finding the hem of your short nightgown, pulling it up and over your head, revealing your naked body.

The sight of your bare skin is enough to take his breath away.

Toto's fingers trace the curves of your breasts, thumbs flicking at your stiffening nipples as you gasp and arch into his touch.

God, you always feel so good.

"Fuck," he mutters, bending his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. The taste of your nipple is intoxicating, and he moans in pleasure as his lips close around you.

Toto's mouth works its magic on each flick of his tongue and grazes of his teeth; you get wetter, your arousal building up.

Then his fingers find your folds, slick with need, and he spreads you open, fingering that pussy he very much loves.

He groans at the contact, his cock throbbing in response. He needs to be inside you. He needs to lose himself in you.

Clothes go out of the way.

Toto looks up at you, asking for consent, and with one swift motion, he enters you, his cock sliding into your wet, welcoming heat. You gasp as he fills you, your body adjusting to his size.

He doesn't move yet. He gives you time to get used to him. His eyes never leave yours as he waits, his breath hot against your skin. The anticipation is unbearable, and you rock your hips against him, urging him to move.

Toto growls, low and deep in his throat, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into you. The force of his thrust pushes your body down against the bed, and you cry out as pleasure shoots through you.

The feel of Toto inside you, filling and completing you, is unlike anything.

Toto's thrusts become harder, more urgent, driving into you with a force that had you moaning out his name over and over again, lost in the pleasure of the moment.

The sound of your sweat-slicked bodies slapping against each other, the wetness that escapes with each thrust, fills the small room.

Your breasts bounce with every move. You are so close to the edge, your orgasm building deep within you. Toto feels your inner walls begin to flutter around his cock, the sensation driving him wild.

"Fuck, Toto!" you cry out, clutching at the sheets as your body trembles with pleasure under his thrust.

He repeats the motion over and over again, your body shaking beneath him, your moans desperate. Toto feels your body tighten around him and your inner walls milking his cock.

With a final, frantic thrust, Toto lets himself go. He cums hard, filling you with his release.

As you both come down from your high, Toto collapses onto you, his body panting and slick with sweat.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both catch your breath.

Toto presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing against your skin.

"Toto, I... I..." you try to build the courage to say.

"Yes?" His voice is husky but caring.

"I- I love you." You are all red, looking down, unable to face him.

He pulls your chin up tenderly with his finger before kissing your lips.

Before you dare to confess: "I never loved someone this much, I... I want a life with you and you to be my future. Could, you, I don't know, think about it, maybe, you know, you could... take me... with you to London, it sounds good."

A trail of kisses comes your way. "I will think about it, but let's sleep first. It's almost 4 a.m." he rubs his eyes and wraps you around his body.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted too; a lot happened." You kind of laugh and move to enjoy the view of his naked body, caressing him till he falls asleep, and you, too.

As sunlight creeps into your small room, you wake up disoriented. It's a hot day, and the AC is off.

"Toto?" you call his name; his body is not next to you, and you hear sounds from the kitchen.

"Is he making you breakfast? How sweet!"

You get on your feet and quickly pull some clothes on. You don't want to miss that moment for your life.

You pull the slightly already open door of your room to be greeted by an unexpected scene.

Surprisingly, your aunt is there, cooking breakfast for your mom. You look around the apartment, confused.

"Surprise!" your mom lets out from one of the chairs on the small round table. "Oh, it's only me, honey!" your mom informs you, thinking you are looking around to spot her family. As usual, believing life revolves around her.

"Are only just you two in here?" you ask.

"Ahm, yes..." your aunt says, holding the pan. "Well, no, if you count the ghost that lives here, the one who likes to throw my flowerpots."

"It's a cat!" you add before walking fast back to your room. Then you look at the clock, fuck! It's almost 1 p.m.; it's not breakfast time. It's lunchtime!

You pick up your phone, no new texts or calls from Toto; maybe he is dealing with shit after what happened. It's too bad you cannot go back to the Club.

What is that?!

You notice a folded piece of paper on the nightstand. You feel the fine paper on your fingertips as you open it:

"I'm sorry to do this to you, kid, but I can't."

And just like that, he exits your life.

Join us at The Wolff Pack Discord Server > https://discord.com/invite/tpgArxqbfd

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toskarin · 7 days

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A question of curiosity - assuming you play them due to your involvement with a bunch of them, what are your favourite kinds of characters (be it mechanically or narratively) to play in TTRPGS? And do you have any associated anecdotes to go with them?

courtesy readmore

mechanically kinda depends on what's on the menu, but if it's combat-focused, I personally really enjoy characters who "deny" things

not really the kind of character who I'd ever expect a GM to put in their element on purpose (I usually make a conscious effort to remind the GM of things I'm capable of so that I don't trample on any fun setpieces) but definitely the kind of character who modifies objectives just by being in play. I also like magic-users in concept, but that's more of a flavour thing

I think that's reflected a good bit in the kind of narrative play I enjoy, too. when I make a character, I prefer to do it with the rest of the party in mind, less to make the character "compatible" and more to make them sharply contrast in ways that encourage the other characters to have moments where they can reaffirm who they are (both in narrative and out of narrative)

there's a fine balance to strike here. on one end of things, you risk yes-manning so hard that the party quickly becomes a problem solving engine with a single striking surface. on the other end of the things, you risk being The Chaotic Neutral Guy

the space in the middle there represents the characters that people often want to regularly interact with, but rarely want to play. the sort of character who isn't actively disruptive, but raises a lot of red flags when they suddenly show enthusiastic agreement for what you're doing. the kind of character you almost need a diminished sense of discomfort to play without getting in your own feelings about

I adore playing characters who are catered to find plot hooks in other players' characters and tug them just enough to pull them to the surface

most parties have characters who disagree on things that aren't easily resolved. that's always fun, but (because people courteously tend to avoid conflict) it's very rare for those conflicts to come up without GM prompting, and "create productive conflict between two characters without leaving out the rest of the characters or starting a fight between players" is often an equally uncomfortable situation for a GM

lots of fun directions to take it!

have an arc that would benefit from a character taking charge but their player doesn't feel comfortable just Doing That? it helps to have someone else try to take charge who obviously should not be allowed, just to get everyone behind the alternative

have someone with a pure heart who doesn't really get to show that in a party of players who don't want to be mean? maybe someone who's a little more morally-compromised could give them a window for explaining what they actually believe

have a character who's part of some mysterious cult that nobody else is going to find the time to look into? the party could benefit from having a nosy character to justify cracking open that backstory

GM needs to fuck something up to remind the party of how dangerous things are? why not add to the mood by showing what your often-cold character looks like when something manages to actually upset them

[WARNING: DOING ANY OF THIS WALKS THE PRECARIOUSLY THIN LINE BETWEEN BEING COMPELLING AND BEING ANNOYING]

observant readers (well, those who have followed for a while) might have noticed I periodically go on rants about the much-maligned "evil character in a good party" and how both sides of the argument represent a communication and courtesy breakdown. that also very much ties into this sort of thing. I won't go over Tolerable Villainy 101 again, but you get the idea

distilled, I like playing the sort of thoroughly worldly bastards who often end up important in their own right, but mostly on accident, by virtue of being important to what makes other characters compelling

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genderkoolaid · 1 year

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Do you genuinely believe we can somehow change the hearts and minds of billionaires and politicians in power in for example the USA in a way that will actually result in a radical change in and improvement of conditions for folks currently oppressed under capitalism in the USA and hopefully globally? If so, how?

This is coming from someone who really would like to believe pure nonviolence is possible but who does not see much of an actual way forward for that. That said I do not see those billionaires and politicians as "nonhuman", I don't think that's productive and I think dehumanizing anyone who is factually a human person as a practice is dangerous so I am in agreement with you there. Thanks for your time if you choose to share your thoughts.

What I like about Against the Logic of the Guillotine is that it isn't for pure nonviolence. It breaks down the false binary that our options are "let the streets run red with blood until our every thirst for revenge is slaked" or "punching nazis makes you as bad as them 🥺"

& i think that binary is tempting because it absolves us of a responsibility to think deeply about things. if all revolutionary violence is good and justified, then you don't have to think too hard about the violence, you just see it & condone it. If all violence is bad and morally evil, then you still don't have to think too hard to condemn it. Our options are like, moral baby food.

But if we reject that binary, then there is no easy answer. Its not as easy as "yes leftist violence is always justified" or "any violence ever is always unjustified." You have to ask yourself, what am I doing? Why? What does this accomplish? Who is affected by this? What do they have to say? It makes us look at the actual nature of our violence and pick it apart and see where we have fucked up and where we might fuck up again. Its a lot more messy and also requires that we form relationships with others & genuinely listen to what they have to say. Its much much harder than Violence Good or Violence Bad but its also much more capable of adapting to the needs of people in the complicated situations where we find ourselves.

My opinion is that we will not reach anti-capitalism and anti-imperialism without violence. But more than anything, its because the systems in power will not let us. I think the foundation of the Revolution (in a more abstract sense of the word) must be community. We should focus our efforts most on building local networks of mutual support. If people suddenly find themself in a community that has free public food gardens & a community fridge, where people are already practicing transformative justice, etc. etc. then it will become materially obvious that we don't need to rely on the current system to survive. It will become clear that the current system is more of a hindrance to what we could do if we were not being controlled. And then people will be more likely to support any revolutionary violence that becomes necessary, because they will see their neighbors and know that when the dust settles, they know how to care for each other through shitty situations. Violence should really be the topping on a cake of community & indispensability politics.

Also this line from AtLotG really changed my perspective on "punishing the rich":

The worst punishment anyone could inflict on those who govern and police us today would be to compel them to live in a society in which everything they’ve done is regarded as embarrassing—for them to have to sit in assemblies in which no one listens to them, to go on living among us without any special privileges in full awareness of the harm they have done. If we fantasize about anything, let us fantasize about making our movements so strong that we will hardly have to kill anyone to overthrow the state and abolish capitalism. This is more becoming of our dignity as partisans of liberation.

"If we fantasize about anything, let us fantasize about making our movements so strong that we will hardly have to kill anyone to overthrow the state and abolish capitalism" really sums it up for me.

#sorry if this is kind of a mess i am So pain and fatigue rn #my body is taking disability pride month way too seriously #m.#ask box

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thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels · 5 months

Text

This sweet plague that follows me (this violence that I call my own)

This is how it feels to take a fall - series masterlist here

pairing: takami keigo x reader (gender neutral)

length: 2.1k

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

warnings: lots of blood but not from keigo or reader, it's just kinda everywhere, this entire fic is a biohazard, they're mentally ill but they're in love

a/n: back on my hawks shit ig turns out it never ever goes away

Keigo thinks, as he lets the door shut behind him, that maybe this life of his was inevitable - this sacrifice was unavoidable. He thinks that, perhaps, there are some people who need to spend their lives fighting, who need to beat their fists against flesh and split their lips on the bloody knuckles of their rivals.

There are people who find peace only in war, and Keigo, so often, wishes he were not one of these people. As he kicks his boots off and tosses his phone on the side table, stepping further into his entryway, he thanks whatever's out there that he, at least, doesn't have to do it alone - that he's found someone to build a home with in this violence of his.

He doesn't bother changing out of his hero uniform when he sits on the couch, slouching into the cushions. It was a rough patrol - one that left him with scrapes and bruises, blood dripping from his jacket, drying on his hands. Maybe, he thinks as he rubs his palms together, the dark red coming off in little flecks, settling into the carpet, maybe if I was someone else, this would bother me. Maybe if I was something else.

But the violence in him stays, wrapping around him and choking him from the inside out. He stares down at his hands, palms facing up as he glares. How can I say I'm good when they've done so much bad, he thinks. There's a sort of desperation in him as he reaches for the remote, turning on the television, wanting some sort of background noise to drown the whirring of his thoughts out, to drown his voice out, to drown him, to -

But then there you are, on the news - still working. Still fighting. Still bleeding. Keigo chokes, his hands balling into fists as he watches, as he sees you, blood marring your hero uniform. Not really your blood, he notes, but a stain, nonetheless. And there's still that wild look in your eyes, a ferocity that couldn't be stamped out. The reporter drones on about your reputation, your blood-soaked, violence-stained reputation. Brutality, war, violence - all for the sake of peace.

We get our hands dirty so that normal people don't have to. That's what you'd always said to him. Keigo never had the heart to tell you that he didn't think either of you deserved to have to be these things.

But neither of you got to choose this life - this calling, thrust upon you. Neither of you chose to be raised this way, trained this way, a violence so ingrained in you that you cannot be anything else anymore.

There are few things Keigo gets to choose in this life. Loving you, though - that is something he chooses every day. Waiting for you - that is something he would choose until the end of time. So he waits, turning the TV off with a sigh and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. As he sags down onto the couch, he can't make himself care about the blood that seeps into it - although he wonders idly how many new couches he could buy with the money he makes from wrapping his hands around other people's throats.

But they're villains, he reminds himself. But isn't he? Aren't you, for the things that you do? Keigo, most of the time, doesn't think he knows where the line is anymore. You always do, he finds, and as he listens to the sound of the front door clicking open, he finds himself breathing a sigh of relief that you're back, that some tether to morality and sanity has returned to his life.

"Hey birdie," you call softly, and it's wrong, the way your voice comes out soft and tender and delicate; it lurches in contrast to the way you pull off your jacket, heavy with the weight of blood, and let it drop onto the floor with a dull splat. But he looks at you - at your eyes, warm and soft and loving. A trickle of blood trails down your temple and the couch cushion dampens under his weight, blood seeping into it.

Whatever, he thinks. I'll call the cleaners in. It's not like it would be the first time. It's not like it will be the last. Keigo leans forward, tips himself onto his feet so that he can make his way over to where you still stand in the entryway.

"Hey, dove," he says softly. When he gets to you, he holds your face in his hands with a gentleness that feels like it shouldn't belong to him, a benevolence that feels stolen, his hands having been wiped clean hastily on his pants, leaving trails of crimson behind.

But he just smoothes his thumb across your cheek, maps himself out a clean spot so he can press his lips to it, and the touch is so soft that you find yourself holding your breath, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. Because when, you think, did touch become so soft? And when did we become deserving of it?

"Leave it here," Keigo shushes you softly, prying ever so gently at your clenched fists to loosen your grip on whatever happened out there, his nose brushing against your cheek as he speaks against your skin. "Leave it out there. It's safe in here." That's all it takes, really, a sigh leaving you as you let your head thump against his shoulder, fist loosening enough that he can tangle his fingers with yours and bring you closer to him. The blood on you presses against him, staining his jacket more. Neither of you find it in you to care - it's not the first time, and it won't be the last.

"You need to clean yourself up," you mumble against his shoulder, fatigue seeping into your voice. Keigo huffs out a laugh, poking your side gently.

"You're one to talk," he quips back, but there's no real bite, especially when he moves to tug you down the hallway toward your shared bathroom. You grumble as you walk after him, letting him pull you by your hand as you pretend to put up a fight. But there's never really any fights here, in this home that you share. Keigo thrives on it, notably - being able to take care of you, being able to channel that fight in him into protectiveness and have his hands heal for once.

Back when the two of you were younger, when you were both hot-headed rivals battling for the top hero ranking, you'd always argued that there was peace to be found in war.

"Don't you understand, Hawks?" You'd said to him. "You can't have one without the other."

He never knew what you meant by that until you had him sitting on your kitchen counter for the first time, cleaning blood from his face. He hadn't known your touch could be so tender, until then.

Now, of course, it's second nature to you both, the way you smooth a hand across the nape of his neck as he lifts you to sit on the bathroom counter. Now, there is nothing but softness between the two of you, a gentleness found only in the privacy of your own home. You watch, through tired, hooded eyes, the way his wings twitch and flutter, spreading slightly to take up more space, to block your view from the mirror if you were to try to turn. He always does that now - you pretend not to notice and he pretends not to know.

You remember the first time you'd come home like this, when your relationship was still new - tentative and stumbling. He'd never seen it before - the tug of war that takes place in the doorway of your home, the attempt to put the fight aside for the night and learn to be human again. Oh, how bad you'd been at it then, pulling your hands away from his and spluttering concerns about getting blood on him, about leaving your marks on him.

"I'm already all marked up," he'd cooed, taking your hands and pressing them to his chest, letting you feel him, solid and warm and yours. "I've already got my own stains. There is no mark you could leave on me that I wouldn't thank you for." You'd laughed when he said that, a pitchy, tired noise.

"You and I really are the same, aren't we?" You'd said. Keigo had found himself agreeing.

But when he'd taken you to the bathroom to clean up, the same way he does now, you'd caught sight of yourself in the mirror. The blood that dripped from your face and the wild look in your eyes were so familiar to you, but when they knocked against Keigo's tender grip on your waist and fluttering kiss to our cheek, the softness of it all made your breath stutter, panic rising in you. There is anguish in love when it is something so foreign, you'd thought. You couldn't articulate that, of course, as you buried your head in your hands and sobbed. But Keigo knew - he knew from when you'd helped him that first time, in your kitchen. He knew from excusing himself to the bathroom after, just so that he could clamp his hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs. You'd been right, of course - the two of you really are the same.

"Where'd you go, baby," your voice snaps Keigo back to the present, your finger flicking against his forehead gently. He grins at you, cocking his head to the side as he stares.

"Just thinking about you," he says, and you roll your eyes. "You want a shower?"

"Yes please," is your answer, but he stops you from moving, murmuring a stay put against your lips before giving you a quick kiss and stepping away to get the shower running. You slide over on the counter, smiling at the glare he shoots you as you move to lean sideways, turning the tap on and beginning to scrub your hands in the sink.

"We're about to get in the shower, dove," Keigo points out as he reaches a hand under the spray, frowning and adjusting the temperature.

"I just want my hands to be clean," you say earnestly, and he finds he can't fault you for that. He stares at his own, for a moment, before moving to the other sink, scrubbing at his palms with soap and water as steam begins to fill the room.

"You take your showers too hot," you point out.

"You take them too cold," he retorts.

"Maybe we should stop showering together," you pout teasingly, drying your hands on the towel Keigo's tossed you while he shoots you a look.

"As if. Get in, dove, before I make it hotter." You roll your eyes at his words, but slide yourself off the counter nonetheless, letting Keigo peel off the layers of your uniform as you do the same for him.

"Thank you, Keigo," you say quietly, slipping into the shower and turning to see him follow after you. As if he wouldn't, if you weren't checking. As if he could do anything other than chase after you.

"You don't have to thank me for this," he says easily, using a hand against your cheek to bring you forward, resting his forehead against yours. "You don't have to thank me for loving you."

"But still," you press. "It's nice, isn't it?"

"Of course it is. But it's also deserved," he points out. You smile.

"For you, too, then," you say. "You deserve this softness, too."

"Well," Keigo drawls, but you don't miss the way he wraps his arms around you to tuck you into his chest so that you can't see the blush creeping over his cheeks. "Good thing I have you to give me that, then, hm?"

"Yea," you laugh, burying your head in his chest and watching the way the water runs red, stains of blood blurring off your skin and disappearing. "Good thing."

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transmutationisms · 1 year

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I would love to hear more of your thoughts on House & its relation to the detective genre ! I think that house (completely accidentally and very badly) stumbles into a good critique of how doctors & medical structures view addicts & disabled people, with house being a horrible hegemonic mr malpractice to his patients frequently yet half is series is unironically just about all the injustice/mistreatment he faces because his doctor colleagues can’t see him as a person but only as a problem to be solved/rehabbed/therapized/institutionalized/treated like a child with stolen candy/treated like a criminal. and then it also randomly takes an incredibly pro MAID stance. which isn’t really part of this but I just remembered how batshit insane that show was. and then chase killed a dictator and I feel like the show was squarely on his side for that one. Anyway. Do you have thoughts? I really like house.

ok here's my house md take. like a lot of medical dramas, the show essentially relies for its dramatic appeal on the construal of patients as gross, weird, and stupid—rubes who are too uneducated and self-serving in their petty lies to solve their own bodies, and thus need the intervention of house to fix them. this is standard for the genre, although slightly meaner on house than on some other examples (cf. grey's or even the older and soapier generation of these shows). i don't even think house committing malpractice is all that new; it's relatively common as a plot point that positions the noble rule-breaking doctor as someone who 'does what needs to be done' and skirts the bureaucratic red tape to follow their own superior judgment. what makes house more interesting is that from the get-go, house himself is both a doctor and an unwilling patient. in itself this isn't a tension that's new to the medical soap (injuring a major character is pretty par for the course) but house's particular interactions with the ruling biomedical epistemology are, as you point out, characterised by hostility and resistance, and the show frequently either sides with house, or at least leaves it somewhat up to the viewer to decide whether house is right to resist the pathologisation that cuddy and wilson try to impose on him.

this is kind of a tricky line to walk for 7 seasons or however long the show is. my recollection is there are episodes, for example, where it's very clear that house's pain is physical, and the writers use this to morally justify his vicodin use. this is obviously not a full-throated defence of opioid users, but it is at least pointing to a position on chronic pain that allows for the possibility that for some people, long-term use of drugs with a high addiction potential and side effects is legitimately the best thing. but, this messaging is also undercut by the fact that it's primetime television, they need to make drama, and there are definitely also episodes where house is framed as potentially lying about his pain, or at least mistaking a somatic problem for a physical one, which the writers often (not always, but often) present as evidence that actually, house shouldn't be trusted to make his own decisions about drug use, and ideally should be 'de-toxed' and probably sent to cbt or whatever. of course all of these considerations are also contextualised by the fact that house is, again, not just a patient but a doctor: his right and ability to make these types of calls for himself is, it's suggested, a result of his having attained medical education and credentials. the patients who come to be treated by him are seldom, if ever, given this same level of consideration or presumed to have sufficient self-awareness to make their own medical decisions. this isn't to say they're portrayed entirely unsympathetically, but ultimately the narrative engine of the show relies on house being the smartest guy in the room (though ofc, sometimes tragically 'held back by his addiction').

so, although there are moments on the show that genuinely transgress some of the norms of the med-drama genre, i have never agreed with people who thought that the show as a whole was presenting any sustained critique of the medical system, the treatment of chronic pain/disability, or the power-imbalanced doctor-patient relationship. ultimately all authority on house md is supposed to emanate from the physician, or the physician's superiors (cuddy as a 'check' on house, though sometimes a failed one! again because of the need to generate drama for like 140 episodes), and at its most radical the show is really only capable of presenting house himself as an out-of-control aberration whose existence strains the existing system rather than being produced by it.

this is where i think the comparison to the cop show genre becomes more clarifying. house md never made a secret of being an interpolation of the detective genre, specifically sherlock holmes. however, i'm not sure i've ever really seen writing on the show that analyses what effect this actually has on house. like police, doctors are tasked with maintaining certain social norms; the dichotomy between policing and medicine isn't even a solid line, as criminality is frequently rhetorically construed as a pathology in itself and medical authorities can and do have recourse to carceral systems in order to discipline and confine recalcitrant patients, the 'criminally insane', addicts, and so forth. (policing has historically also been understood in a more expansive sense than how we use the word today; our understanding of the medical/public health system as separate from police authority is arguably more to do with university credentialling than the actual exercise of social and political power).

so, if we want to be serious about the portrayal of medicine in popular culture (i am always serious about this) then we're necessarily talking about broader systems of power, social control, and discipline, and doubly so on a show like house that is explicitly inspired by detective fiction. this is where house md is most ideologically objectionable to me: as with the trope of the cop who breaks all the rules, house is basically positioned in one of two ways throughout the show. either he's a lone genius who alone is willing to achieve noble ends (cure) through distasteful means (breaking into patients' homes, berating them, performing risky interventions on them, &c), or—and this is rarer on house but does happen—he's portrayed as genuinely crossing an ethical line, in which case he's a kind of monstrous aberration from the normal, ethical functioning of the medical system, often represented metonymously by the objections that cuddy, wilson, or house's underlings raise. in both of these cases, as with copaganda, the function is ultimately to reinforce the idea that doctors, though occasionally capable of human error, are prima facie wiser than their patients, looking out for their patients' best interests, and performing noble social roles as healers. house, ofc, is very rarely willing to admit that he has any underlying ethical motivations, though much of the show is driven by the flashes where he is revealed to 'secretly' care about another person (often wilson) and anyway, the construction of an ethical society in which all individual actors are motivated solely by selfish interests is a very established rhetorical move for those interested in defending liberal capitalist societies (cf. charles darwin, thomas malthus, adam smith, &c).

because of television's need to generate profit via audience engagement, house md always relied on a certain level of shock or at least provocation in order to sustain itself. so, there are certain aberrations from the more overtly doctor-valorising medical dramas, like the suggestion (sometimes tongue-in-cheek) that house was better at his job when he was mildly high on opioids. this was, for the reasons outlined above, never a serious entry into political critique, but it was at least refreshing in a certain way as a departure from, eg, the portrayal of addiction and drug use that we see on grey's, which is completely limited to the medicalised AA narrative of 'recovery' as a battle against the malevolent intervention of an external chemical agent. which is to say that although house md is ultimately reactionary in the way we should expect from an american tv show, it did at least dabble in a certain level of caustic iconoclasm that allowed limited departures from the genre conventions. even with what was ultimately a pretty solid vindication of the anti-opioid narrative, the show does stand out in my mind as one of the few very popular presentations of any kind of alternative stance on chronic drug use. that it's usually put in house's own mouth means it is occasionally legitimated by his epistemological authority as a physician, though ofc ultimately this authority is challenged not through a critique of the medical system, but by presenting house as individually and aberrantly licentious, undisciplined, and insane—and his chronic pain/disability are both a justification for this, and a shorthand for conveying it.

#house md

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courtingchaos · 2 years

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Dangerous

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Summary: Ooo, aren't you the little viper at Rick's party. Eddie want's to see how hard you bite.

A/N: Look, I'll never write fuckboy!Eddie like @newlips or @carolmunson, and this isn't even truly fuck boy Eddie. This is like hand wavy, vaugly fboy!Eddie. Anyways, I got rip roaringly high last night and busted this out, honestly kind of proud of myself for getting it all out in one go? 3k and I was barely awake for it. Anyways, enjoy!

Warnings: Drug use, alcohol use, blow jobs, general douchbaggery from both reader and Eddie. (18+ NSFW)

The black Audi pulling around the front of Rick’s is thumping loudly, testing the limits of the bass in the trunk. There’s an ever so slight rattle of metal and Eddie hides his laugh behind his cigarette. The car stops with a jerk and the under lighting shifts from purple to white when the driver door opens, deep bass pouring out.

“Just get out of the fucking car then!” The woman who gets out yells and slaps the roof of her car. Eddie rolls his eyes at the jostling vehicle, the shadow of bodies inside shifting around until the back passenger door opens and two girls spill out laughing. They’re adjusting their dresses where they’ve hiked up high on their thighs and clutching their phones. The driver points at the house, party in full swing inside and makes a face at them. “Get the fuck inside!”

Eddie would know Lisa’s voice anywhere, the shrill yell a constant out of Rick’s girl. The two that fell out of the Audi keep giggling and flip her off. Lisa looks like murder but her passenger window rolls down and there you are giving the giggle twins a cold stare. It seems to sober them up a little when your long green claw points at them intently, gold rings glinting on your knuckles. “Get in the fucking house and find a fucking seat.”

“Okay red, damn.”

Eddie watches you slap a hand on the outside of the car door and the two girls scatter inside, rushing past him where he’s partially hidden behind a pillar on the porch. Lisa gets back in and starts to drive off but not before he catches your eye and you wiggle those talons at him. He refuses to admit he's interested.

Danger danger danger

It’s not the fullest Rick’s has ever been but there’s too many people for Eddie to be comfortable. He didn’t even want to come tonight but Steve had some girl here and Rick had asked him if he was coming which meant he was supposed to be there. And now you’ve shown up with Lisa and it’s just feeling like the night could go sideways fast.

Eddie has seen you around a few times but he’s not even sure what the fuck it is you do here most nights. You’re not one of Rick’s girls, you aren’t pushing and you don’t seem to be with any of the other guys. Watching you walk up the driveway, head buried in your phone while Lisa talks at the side of your head, he thinks you might just be here for moral support.

“-and they’re just gonna start fucking each other in my backseat? I just got that fucking thing cleaned I don’t want pussy all over my fucking leather!”

“They know to stay out of trouble.”

“They are trouble. Hey Eddie.” Lisa all but purrs at him and it makes his skin crawl. It’s not that she isn’t hot, but the idea of getting caught with her would mean a lot of bad, bad things for him. She’s also too god damn loud for his liking. “You hanging out in the shadows like a ghoul?”

“Waiting on Steve.” He doesn’t move from his post, leaned against the column. Smiles at Lisa and then slides his eyes over to you where you’re still typing furiously on your phone. “Busy night?” That gets you to look up at him, all long lashes and gold liner around big eyes. They look black in the dim light out here and he feels like he’s staring into a viper tank. Your all curvy lines under your tight black dress, gold accents glittering against your hands. Gold hanging from your ears. Gold around your neck. It all feels like a warning to him.

“You saw those two assholes. Gotta babysit.”

“Is that what you do around here?” He asks, hears Lisa laugh before she walks in, leaving you two in the doorway.

You shrug. “Not all I do.” You look him up and down, taking in his outfit. He’s tall, lean under his torn jeans and tight black shirt. It’s hot tonight and you can see where the fabric clings to his chest; all his rings and necklaces and bracelet glint under the porch light. His curls hang in the humidity, skin luminous under all the black ink on his arms and neck.

“What is it you do again?” A sarcastic tilt of your head and now you’re both smirking at each other. You know Eddie, you’ve heard about him, seen him around. You're about to make another jab when a loud commotion kicks off inside followed by the unmistakable sound of Steve’s laugh.

“Babysitting.”

Eddie pushes off his post to go find out if Steve is in trouble and leaves you to click away at your screen, watching him retreat into the deep thrum of the party inside.

Eddie was intending on convincing Steve to leave but he’s been too busy watching you move around the house. Never too far from Lisa and keeping an eye on Brittany and Becca, the troublemakers. One of them has already tried to get at him and he cut her off, doesn’t even look down at her. “Absolutely not.”

He watched you laugh from across the living room, dark red lips that match your dyed hair, cutting into a smile when you tapped Lisa’s shoulder to tell her. The short black dress you’ve got on clings tight and inches up your thigh when you lean to whisper in her ear. He follows the curve of your thigh up to your hip and over your chest, neckline low where your tits are pushed up and almost over. The thin gold chain hangs low and shimmers against your cleavage, skin glowing with a sheen of sweat in the humid house.

Eddie rolls his eyes and sighs at himself. His phone has been going off all night, Dani blowing up his notifications and he hasn’t cared. Doesn’t want to give you the time of day, knows you’re just gonna be another pain in his ass like Dani and Kim and Theresa and whoever the fuck else he has saved in his phone.

Busy trying to scroll through all the ‘wyd?’ texts he doesn’t notice you sneak up beside him until you’re leaning on the same wall, candied almonds and rose rushing up with you.

“Hey Nosferatu.” The ice in your drink clicks around the plastic cup. You smile at him like you’ve got a really good secret to tell him and he can’t help the little curl of his lip in your direction.

“You done babysitting?”

“Eh, they’re somewhere around here.” You chase the straw in your drink, pink tongue poking out to pull it between your lips. “I was waiting for a good time to come bother you anyways.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah! You’re all broody over here for most of the night. Steve fucked off and it looks like you don’t have any other friends to hang out with.” Another sip. “I can be your friend.” Sharp eyes under sharper eyeliner. He knows better. Should.

“I have plenty of friends.”

“Aww.” You pout, leaning into him, body pushed fully up against his side. “Who doesn’t need more friends?” Your hand rests on his bicep but you walk your fingers down his arm till you hit his hands holding his phone. Pinching the corner of it you tug once and he relents. You grin up at him quick and open his contacts to ‘add new’. Before you hand it back he watches you scroll through the names.

“Dani?” A gasp of mock disbelief. You lean closer to whisper, “she’s got a big ol’ boyfriend don’t you know?” He just raises his eyebrows at you. Before he puts his phone away he looks for your contact, ‘Red’ with fire emojis around it; flashes the screen at you.

“Clever.”

“Mhm.” You suck up the rest of your drink and shake the ice around for a second. “I’ve been told I have a very clever mouth. Lotta me is clever.” He knows better. He does but he still keeps his eyes on yours. Still reaches out and takes your cup to set on the table. Still matches his grin to yours when you ask if he wants to smoke. “Let’s go be friends somewhere quieter.”

The basement is quiet except where the music bleeds through the ceiling. You’d thrown yourself on the worn couch and unbuckled your heels from your ankle. Eddie had watched in rapt fascination while pulling out his pre roll and fishing around for his lighter.

“You gonna share?” A giggle that doesn’t belong to you, you’re not a giggling woman.

“You’re really good at this.” Eddie says around the joint. Lights it and gets a deep pull while you sit and have the audacity to look confused.

“Good at what?”

“Getting what you want.”

“Oh yeah.” You laugh for real then, pretense dropped for a moment. Holding your hand out for him to pass the joint over, he just takes another drag. Another pout and you sit up ready to snatch it out of his hand when he closes the short distance between the two of you. Grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks, leans down and blows the smoke over your painted lips. He can feel your face pulling into a smile under his fingers. Hears you breathe deep, watches your tongue poke out again to lick your lips and he spots the gold stud.

“You’re dangerous.”

“I don’t have to be.” An arch of your manicured eyebrow and honestly, fuck it. He’s gotten this far and you haven’t gutted him yet with those claws. In fact he can feel them creeping up into his hair, pulling it back away from his face so you can move up and kiss him hard. He’s stuck kneeling over you, holding out the joint over the back of the couch and balancing himself on the other hand while you hold on to the back of his neck. It’s all tongue and teeth until you bite his bottom lip too hard and he rears back. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, just wanted a taste.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh come on Eddie.” You surge up into his space making him rock back on his heel. “You look like the type that likes a little pain.” You’re mocking him a bit, but your hands are trailing down the front of him to hook your fingers in his belt. He’s finding it a little hard to care about you being a bitch right now. Staring him down while you slide the buckle open slowly, watching him take another hit that he blows in your face again.

“Are we fucking or fighting I can’t tell.” His hand is up under your jaw quick. A tight hold that doesn’t quite hurt but he’s keeping you in place while he places the joint gingerly in the middle of your lips.

“Please shut the fuck up.” A real smile from him when you don’t reply and just suck on the smoke. You get the button on his jeans undone, pull the fly down and he shifts, pulls your face with him when he leans back against the couch. Guides you around and you get what he’s doing when you climb off the couch and kneel between his spread knees on the cold concrete. Eddie let’s go of your face to pluck the joint away and the last puff trails out of your lips after it. He sees you ready to say something and cuts you off.

“Don’t.” Turns his head away for a moment and you tuck your lips in to your teeth and grin to hold in a laugh.

He slouches down further when you run your hands up over his thighs and pull down on his open jeans, nails running over the black ink peeking out between his rucked up shirt and the band of his boxers. The weed is starting to settle in, feels it in the droop of his eyelids. He watches you through his lashes while you run your hands over him, squeezing his cock through his jeans. A hiss around a mouthful of smoke and you pull at his boxers so you can get your hands on him.

His cock springs free and hits his stomach and you’d almost say he’s pretty. Pale like the rest of him except the head, flushed dark pink like his lips. When you run the tip of a finger up the underside his head lolls back and you see his hand flex against his thigh.

“I’ve heard about your work from Kim.” He lifts his head to stare down his nose at you. “My work.” He says flatly.

You glance down at his dick. “I’m impressed so far.”

He huffs a laugh and brings his hand up to your hair that you slap away quick.

“Don’t fuck up my hair, it took me forever to get it all up.” You scowl at him and that and the slap sets him off. He doesn’t move for a second before reaching up and finding the hair tie in the mess of your bun and pulls it out. Flings it across the basement floor and buries his fingers in at the crown of your head to pull at your hair. There’s a fight in the back of your throat that’s taken over by a gasp. You reach your hand up, lick a long stripe up your palm before grabbing his cock and giving him a few lazy strokes. There’s a rumble in his chest and he pulls your head closer, can hear the wet of your mouth when you open to run your tongue over the flushed head. Your tongue is soft and when the bar catches on the underside ridge he bucks up into your hand. When he drops his head back again you finally wrap your lips around him fully, bobbing your head down to meet your fist. You know he isn’t going to give you the satisfaction of sound, but the flexing of his hand in your hair is enough to tell you everything.

“Fuck…” he whispers to the ceiling when you roll your tongue around him, sucking hard and pumping your hand. The scratch of your acrylics distracts him with goosebumps, enough he doesn’t hear you pop off of him, letting a line of spit fall onto your fist, wet sound louder than the party upstairs. When you lean down and suck one of his balls in your mouth his leg jumps and he feels the vibration of your laughter in your closed mouth. His hand pulls harder at your hair and you moan, rolling your tongue around his sack and pumping your hand faster along his length. He almost crushes the joint in his hand, moves it to clutch it between his lips, muttering around it while you work him over.

“If you wanted to suck my dick you just had to ask.” You hum around him before coming up for air, hand still stroking his cock. “Didn’t have to do that whole dance up there.” He lazily points up toward the living room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Your mouth is wet, eyes watering slightly but none of your makeup has budged. He’s also impressed. Nudges you forward again and you open wide, sticking your tongue out to tap the fat head of his cock against it. Between the sound and the feeling of that little bearing hitting him the heat creeping up his abdomen moves faster. His hand tightens in your hair again and you speed up your hand, switching between running the pad of your thumb and the tip of your tongue over the sensitive spot just under the head.

“Don’t fucking move.” He mutters.

You settle down right up against his thighs, tits pushed up against the cushion under him, free arm thrown over his thigh hugging him close. You flutter your lashes at him and the last few strokes you squeeze him, running your tongue up the underside of his cock and the only warning you get is the impossibly tighter grip on your hair holding you in place. His eyes squeeze shut and he comes in long spurts, hitting the back of your throat, low groan breathed out from deep in his chest. You slow your hand down, pulling at him till he taps the back of your hand; wait until he opens his bleary eyes to close your mouth and run your thumb up along your chin where a dribble of his come leaked out. Eddie watches you suck on your thumb and make a show out of swallowing. You smile at him like a cat that got the canary.

Danger Danger Danger

“Well,” you stand up slowly and pull your dress down a little, “that was fun.” Lean forward and take the roach out of his mouth and kill it, stubbing whatever is left of the ember out on the side table. You pull his own move on him and the let the last hit trickle out from between your puffy lips across his own bitten ones.

“I really hope you text me Eddie.”

He’s quiet for a beat, watching your eyes flick between his own.

“Depends on when I’m free.”

“Who else is gonna suck your balls, huh?”

He laughs out loud, breaking the weird tension finally.

“Well then what did Dani do to get a new purse?”

“Not that.” Eddie says while tucking himself back into his underwear and buttoning his jeans. You’re putting your shoes back on and his eyes linger on your ankle where you do up the small buckle there. The search for your hair tie is fruitless and he almost feels bad until you start to shake your hair out and he gets to watch you flip it around, tits bouncing with the movement. You run your fingers through it and lean down to get your phone from between the couch cushions, shooting him a wink before heading back up the stairs to the party.

“I guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson smut #My work #my fic #yee fucking haw

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whetstonefires · 6 months

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I think a part of the reason I feel so connected to JGY and XY is that I, too, think everyone is lying about what a good person they are. Sure, there may be a few genuinely good people, but those are in the minority and never claim the title.

I don't know about never; some people are pretty straightforward.

And in some ways the whole point of the concept of 'a good person' is that the feeling of losing the right to consider yourself one can impose instinctive recoil from doing wrong, in situations where you don't have the leisure of working your way through an ethics diagram and choosing the logically moral path before reacting to a situation. It has practical utility.

But that system can backfire pretty horribly too, in a lot of ways. It can be hijacked by definitions of 'good' that actually make you recoil from ethical acts because they're deviant. It can lead to disappearing up your own ass lmao.

And definitely the threshold for 'talking about how you're a good person' enough that it makes you suspect as either a) a liar or b) someone who values that self-image over objective reality and other people's wellbeing is. Not very high.

Jin Guangyao, ironically, is one of those people who's so performatively A Good Person in his public life that in retrospect it looks like a red flag. Which knowing this about himself in an ongoing fashion ofc just reinforces his own cynicism about everyone else lmao.

Even Lan Xichen, who I think he may see as a genuinely good person, he also sees as an easy mark who will reliably choose what is comfortable over what is 'right,' if you just structure the scenario to make that an easy choice that's easy for him to justify.

Xue Yang's bitterness is in many ways more exciting than Jin Guangyao's because he has a way more unusual relationship to reality, but it does share a lot of notes.

The role of deception in his psychology fascinates me because as far as I can tell he's as instinctively straightforward a person as Lan Wangji, albeit along quite different lines involving a total lack of impulse control, but has adopted 'deceit' as a weapon against the wicked world in the same way he has adopted 'murder.'

But when he feels someone is not merely lying but papering over bad behavior with principles they are not living up to he is livid.

People claiming to be better than him because they're 'good' when 'good' is a construct of privilege, is the underlying idea he's not equipped to articulate. Except he takes that and applies it to 'hitting me to interrupt my random murder of some guy who happened to be within arm's reach when I wanted to hurt someone.'

Which isn't like philosophically perfect, but the underlying problem he's actually reacting to is that he understands the social contract as a lie that has never protected him but seeks to control him, while protecting rich men it has no power to control.

Which it is fair to be mad about, but then his feeling is that since that's the nature of the world and all people, he is entitled to amass for himself the power to inflict hurt without consequences as much as he possibly can, and to use it against the vulnerable for fun, and no one is entitled to interfere.

Which brings him to a place where he is violently angry at anyone talking about trying to treat other people well as a value, because either they're a hypocrite and a liar or they threaten his entire system of rationalization for why he can be The Worst and still In The Right.

'Everyone is equally bad, actually' is like, an understandable take for anyone who's had cause to become embittered. Everyone is free to make whatever philosophical peace they can with the world and by and large there's no ethical weight to any such opinion, in itself.

But it's an ideological crutch people tend to wind up leaning on very heavily when they can't or don't want to take responsibility for their own behavior.

Which is an approach that Xue Yang, Jin Guangyao, and Su She all share, and which not only is shitty of them, it...traps them in a wheel of doubling down on their own worst impulses because rather than going 'that was bad and I shouldn't do it again' they've repeatedly invested all this energy into making what they did actually the correct thing, according to their interpretation of the context. Which means they're more likely to do it again.

(I think this is how Jin Guangyao became a serial killer, for example. He followed a doing-a-murder-impulse and then internally doubled down on how he had nothing to be ashamed of, so he was more likely to do it again, every time.

Wei Wuxian's strain of self-righteousness about his revenge was less...thorough than Jin Guangyao's, because he had the benefit of going after people on the opposite side of a war from him while Meng Yao's first known murder plot was against a shitty boss. But it probably didn't help him not try to solve army-shaped problems with mass murder, even after that stopped being allowed.)

If any of them had just like, zero moral sensibilities they would have created very different problems, and very possibly fewer of them. It's making a central goal of your operations 'self-vindication in your own internal narrative, created retroactively via reframing' rather than 'figuring out what I think I should do and trying to do that' that traps them in the self-reinforcing murder pissbaby vortex.

So if you look at it one way, these three villains are themselves perfect examples of how pursuit of the 'feeling of being good' (or at least 'not the bad guy') can make you worse.

Notably Wei Wuxian was also extremely sensitive to hypocrisy in his youth; it was the only part of Madam Yu's behavior he was ever shown objecting to. But he's sufficiently mellow and cynical from regret and burnout by the 'present' timespan after his resurrection to just get disgusted and alienated about it, rather than outraged.

He wasn't even all that mad at Xue Yang, though honestly that may be partly because he stopped entirely characterizing him as a person at some point during their interaction. Like, there's no point being angry at someone whose moral sensibilities operate exclusively on the plane of 'is this unfair to me' for manipulating and destroying people who were good to him, and then getting obsessed with his own self-pity about it. This is not a person who understands how not to be, metaphorically speaking, a cannibal.

And Wei Wuxian did know better and still got roughly the same result, so what business does he have getting angry?

Anyway yeah those two villains are both delightfully relatable if you sit down and put their perspectives together; they are clearly operating with the same basic suite of human needs and emotions as everybody else, without that being in itself particularly exculpatory, which is honestly refreshing. They've just got the most fantastically toxic interpersonal habits that knowing them counts as some level of Suffering A Curse.

Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang do both stand as scathing rebukes of the society that created them. But within the narrative, wherein they're people, the fact is that each of them had agency and one of the things they chose to do with it was develop rationales for why they were the most special little guy and everything was someone else's fault.

And their moral nihilisms, while also grounded in serious trauma, ping me as emotional masturbation of this variety.

#ask #hoc est meum #Anonymous #rambling about ethics and villains lol #this isn't an organized essay but it's the best i'm going to manage #wei wuxian #xue yang #jin guangyao #meta #mdzs #this is why wwx is not that invested in how the underlying machinations made his bad choices 'not his fault' btw #spending too much time chewing your own vomit narrows your view until you can only be selfish #jiang cheng is also somewhat trapped in the pissbaby vortex #but he did get deliberately stuck there by people who loved him (his mom and wwx mostly)#and he has much higher standards than the villains about who he takes it out on and how #and there is a non-zero chance he will claw his way out post-canon #which none of those three was ever going to do no matter how much time and paradigm shifting information you gave them #so i cut him more slack

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theragathas · 9 months

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WELCOME TO THE RAGAVERSE!!

WE SPEND TOO MUCH TIME ON THIS BLOG, PLZ ASK OUR RAGATHAS ANYTHING (as long as it is not nsfw, question that is suggestive or sfw are fine)

Amanda (From Mafia x Coffee Shop AU)

One has to be cold and brash in a job like hers, however that doesn't mean they can't be nice as well! Amanda's the type to switch from calm and collected and harsh and deadly at the drop of a hate. Who says hopeless romantics can't make it look like an accidental?

Cleric!Ragatha (From Dungeons of Dragons AU)

As a follower of the god of justice Tyr, she knows the right path no matter what rules one has to break to give proper punishments for those who deserve it. But that doesn't mean she's the BEST at giving advice. Of course, when you're forced with necromancy powers, who would be?

Ragavamp (From Supernatural AU)

She is THE most unhinged out of all of the Ragathas. This half abstracted vampire like variation of the ragdoll has a very inconsistent personality. She goes from conscious, to rambling, to cryptic, to even acting similar to Kinger. Although she tries to be presentable, her need for blood as to stop abstracting isn't exactly the most likable thing

Sinful!Ragatha (From Sinful Circus AU)

One word to describe Sinful! is: Depressed wet dog. She's clumsy, accident prone, and easily harmed. She pretends that everything's fine but it's REALLY NOT FINE. It's actually really sad sometimes to see her just take the brunt of anything and everything that she endures, and there's a reason she has a satchel of needle and thread in a bag where ever she goes

Swap!Ragatha (From Swap AU)

Chubby and mean, Swap is basically the Jax in the room. She constantly plays pranks, bullies, and torments anyone around her. She uses her looks to control the AI jester of her world so she could get away with all of it too. Having a bit of a surperiority complex, there's nothing she won't do just for any sort of reaction- inlcuding things that end with her getting harmed

BlossomCloud (From Warriors Cat AU)

She was once a clan cat but now she live comfortably with her wife and her other friends in a human house, proud mother of six kits. She is one of the most friendly Ragatha, maybe a bit too much.

LC (From The Literal Circus AU)

An acrobatic and a trapeze artist in the circus, she is the Ragatha that worries a lot while pretending everything is fine. She is a great listener but she didn’t get paid enough for listening people’s trauma.

Red (From Red Riding Hood AU)

Quiet huntress, Red with her trusty shotgun roamed the nearby forest. She was never the type to socialize, hence why she lived alone with her wolf.

Gluttony (From Circus of Hell AU)

One of the seven deadly sin but was surprisingly a people pleaser. Her nice attitude didn’t quite match up with her status, neither does her looks.

Hades (From the Goddess AU)

Goddess of the underworld, despite being a god, she is quite close to morals. Hades is a calm and gentle goddess who loved her wife deeply.

Mafia (From Mafia x Pimp AU)

Mafia is a brutal and selfish person but she often mask it with sickly sweet words or tones as to not scare others away from her. She is the only one that haven’t get together with their AU’s Pomni.

Agatha (From Country City Girl AU)

Farmer girl in the country side, butcher in the small village, she was a bit dense when it comes to love. Trying to court Pamela with a wheel of cheese…

Ragamaster(From Ragatha Ringmaster AU)

The ringmaster of her AU, she is a con-artist scamming others online. Never trust her words unless it had details. Ragamaster is much of a carefree AI that likes to sit back and see the chaos unfold while taking notes. Also she said she is the only one without a Pomni?

AI!Ragatha [Cyber AU]

The only remaining AI of her line, AI Ragatha's entire existence is dangerous. Other AI Ragatha's had a habit of acting on their own an doing what they believe is best, which is why they were recalled and destroyed in the first place.

Apocalypse!Ragatha [Apocalypse AU]

In a world where literally any day you could die and join the undead, Apocalypse Ragatha is here to keep everyone's head on their shoulders. A fierce leader who protects her crew of survivors. Howver one day she went mad when her precious Pomni was bitten, now strike with madness and denial Apocalypse Ragatha will do anything to bring her Pomni back.

Giantess!Ragatha [Songbird AU]

A lone giantess on an island by herself. Giantess Ragatha has picked up quite the hobbies in order to keep herself busy, she just loves animals and talkin about her Pomni. (**Never ask her about her Pomni**)

Cyber AU, Songbird AU and Apocalypse AU belong @fenrirfoxxer

Warriors Cat AU, The Literal Circus AU, Red Riding Hood AU, The Circus of Hell, The Goddess AU, Mafia x Pimp AU Country City Girl AU and Ragatha Ringmaster AU belongs to @inkyprism

Mafia x Coffee Shop AU, Dungeon of Dragons AU, Supernatural AU, Sinful Circus AU and Swap AU belongs to @nobody-nexus

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theamityelf · 2 months

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(Most of this post was made before I finished the movie. It gets addressed later.)

"Does it really count as being a good person if you're getting a reward for it?" This movie has an interesting attitude toward the activity of goodness where hardship is inherently moral and nothing you do actually counts; only the circumstances around it.

We are encouraged to feel sympathy for Red and ignore any wrongdoing because of her circumstances, and we are encouraged to ignore anything Chloe does right because her circumstances make it easy.

Which...I mean, I guess it's not the worst exploration of Attribution Theory, but it sets up this world where the only lesson to be learned is that anyone who does harm has a good heart and a sympathetic reason, except high school bullies I guess. There is no reason to feel any sympathy for school bullies. They are bullies because they are fundamentally unkind, and you are being bullied because you are fundamentally kind. The worst thing you can be is a school bully, and the meanest adults in your life are probably mean because they were bullied in school. Good news; because you're unhappy now, you're morally in the clear to make someone else's childhood unhappy when you grow up. They'll feel bad for you when they hear about how hard you had it.

Ella had a bad childhood and made sure her daughter's childhood was happy. Her daughter goes back in time to meet a young version of Ella who feels disdain for her privilege. Not inherently a bad thing; just maybe a weird zag on the happy scene from the beginning. It's like they wanted to teach Audrey or Chad a lesson but couldn't, so instead they used her.

If they wanted to teach Chloe some moral lesson other than "You should feel bad for having nice parents," the line Ella gave Red about how her mother is kind when others are unkind to her would be a much better choice! Instead of showing us a version of Bridget who is this angelic being who tolerates all manner of mistreatment, make that Ella. Because that's the actual story of Cinderella?!

Let Chloe react to Red's rudeness with dislike, the way she already did. She was nice to Red, Red was rude, Chloe immediately formed a negative judgement of her character. She goes back in time, sees her mother constantly taking the high road with mean people, hears that line about how hard it is, learns a lesson. That's so much more coherent with everything we already know than making Ella really wry and condescending toward pretty much everyone and giving Bridget the halo.

But I'm not going to post this until after I've finished watching the movie, in case they turn it around. If you're reading this, I've finished the movie and I still agree with myself, lol.

Okay this is me after the movie, and they did manage to pull something together as far as Chloe's arc being that she abandons her legalistic view of the world to a more utilitarian morality. There are aspects of the execution that I don't love, like I feel like they didn't do enough to set it up before the payoff, but they definitely did something coherent with her character. I might do a how-I-would-rewrite for this one.

I will say, the vase scene is the one my mind keeps going back to. Chloe breaks the vase. She does accidental harm. She apologizes and doesn't seem to fully understand that apologizing isn't going to fix it, because she was raised in a positive environment where intentions matter. Ella, angry about the vase, basically explains that her intention doesn't erase the harm. Okay.

But neither does penitence. The resolution of this scene is "Let's give her some space because she's mad," not "Let's do anything to make things better for her." Maybe helping her with her chores later was supposed to count as that, but it more reads as a learning montage for Chloe than any attempt at atoning for the accidental wrong she did.

Bridget is wronged and turns that into a dictatorship and abusive parenting. She has no agency in the harm she does; she is just a machine where if you input "unhappy school dance" she will output "evil queen". I kind of thought that preventing this one thing from happening to her in her teens was going to prove an ineffective way to change who she became, and maybe they were going to address some deeper issue with her worldview that would resonate with one of the protagonists. Maybe connect her lesson to Chloe's, since they seemed like they wanted to connect Ella's situation to Red's.

But no, this one incident at a school dance turned her from a cheerful, nice person to an evil queen, preventing it makes her nice again, there is nothing else to it.

For the record, I'm not mad; I'm fascinated.

That was a first watch, so who's to say how I'll feel later, lol.

#disney descendants #descendants rise of red #red daughter of the queen of hearts #chloe charming

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youhavelessproof · 3 months

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mob Dickie Jaydick AU anyone?

mob Dick is a thing we've seen in canon before and it will not leave my mind so y'all get to deal with ramblings about it. :) (Crutches and also a timeline where he never met Bruce.)

brainstormed this in the bottom Dick server, but here's me trying to summarize it.

general premise: no capes AU where once Dick escaped juvie he went and killed Zucco. (not quickly, he was 8, but he's a smart kid,) and then decided well police are useless, so I'll just help people myself. (very similar to how be became Robin, but like. more real world vigilante justice which is more morally questionable than fictional vigilantes.) Dick is a part of a mob at any given time because it makes doing what he was already going to do easier. which mob changes because he's not really part of the mob to be part of the mob and it's more a access to resources thing. Dick is allowed not wear a face mask/helmet because no records of him existing really exist. he was a circus kid that just ended up placed in juvie. he doesn't have records. Jason on the other hand is just a normal fucking dude. (probably a priest like that one timeline but I've never been religious so I wouldn't really know how to write it. but I could try.) also yes obviously Jason's life has not been easy-peasy or whatever but in comparison he is so very normal.

they meet at a bar or diner or something and Dick uses Jason to get some dudes of his back. probably an "I'll owe you, but I need you to kiss me right now." regardless, Dick had no intentions of actually getting Jason interested in him, but I mean. look at him.

their meeting should've ended at that, but Jason is involved now because he keeps wanting to see that pretty boy that definitely had knives and a gun on him but. pretty 🥺

also I just wanna clarify that Dick is not killing bad people to prove a point. he doesn't even necessarily see what he's doing as 100% right. the systems are corrupt and he knows it, but he also knows he is one man with 0 resources if he didn't get involved in crime. he can't change the systems as one man, but he can help people sleep at night. (kinda think of it like fanon Red Hood. except with less "I know I'm right." because Dick is not concerned about being right, he's concerned with helping people.)

which leads to a lot of conflict with cop Babs. because she doesn't agree at all with what Dick is doing, but also? he's so... gentle with victims. and he doesn't try and hurt Babs unless she tries to arrest him. he seems like an upstanding guy but also he has a kill count. and it is not a small number.

there's no past of present Dickbabs btw. they can be a little flirty at times, but Dick wouldn't date a cop and Babs thinks Dick is too self-righteous anyways.

Jason also has moral objections, (whether just personally or because of religion depends on the priest thing,) but he understands Dick on a deeper level than Babs. he's been at the bottom, he's had to steal to live, he knows. he just wishes that Dick didn't kill. didn't cross that line. it's not a deal breaker, but it is a point of tension.

Dick is basically talking to Jason sporadically at first. nothing much but some surface level conversations, but they're more than Dick usually has with people. Dick is thinking about trying to shut out Jason because he's just a guy and he's gonna get himself hurt. like. really hurt. Leslie encourages him to talk to Jason though because she's known Dick for forever and she says he needs the company. (Leslie does not agree with what Dick is doing btw, but she found him hurt when he was like 10 and became something a confidant for the boy. plus, Dick trusts her enough to bring victims to her when they need help.)

Dick still has Roy as a friend in this AU and they are close but also Roy has a government job that Dick isn't thrilled with and Roy is not thrilled with the murder. they are best friends, but they have a lot of... tension we'll call it. (Jason will have something of a friendship with Roy, but it is mostly formed from mutual concern about Dick.) also Donna is here, but I'm gonna say she does not live in Gotham so y'know. she also doesn't like murder, but Dick's her boy so it's... not fine, but it doesn't matter.

Dick and Jason end up in a friends with benefits situation because Jason assumes Dick would not be willing to commit to relationship considering everything around him and Dick assumes Jason would only want him for his body. they are both stupid. (/affectionate.)

possibly also a marriage of convenience at some point so that Jason can't testify against Dick. how Dick would even get caught in the first place? good question, have not gotten there.

anyway one last thing: Dick does not share his name like. at all. Donna knows it and maybe Roy too but generally it's either aliases or nicknames people call him. so when he tells Jason his name is Dick it is a big deal.

"see you around." "Dick." "huh?" "that's my name. Dick." "in that case, see you around, Dick." "see you, Jace."

anyway this AU will not leave my brain. I like role reversals when they're done in a specific way and this one just itches my brain.

also some quick little things: * I have no idea if Babs is a cop in any DC timeline, however the reason I chose this is so that she can still interact with Dick on some level. because while I don't like Dickbabs personally generally, she is an important character to Dick and I think her being to cop that's chasing him fits better than Gordon. * Roy used to be a government agent in mainline canon. I don't particularly love it for him, but I understand why they chose it and it is canon. I am not making him work for the government out of nowhere or just to fit into the narrative. there is a basis for it. * yes I do recognize that not everyone that is important to Dick has been included. I have not fleshed out every role in this AU and haven't decided what Kori, Wally, etc. will be. * as I mentioned in the post itself, priest Jason is canon to a specific timeline in the DC comics. you can like or not like it, but I am not pulling it out of my ass. (the flashpoint timeline which yes is supposed to be a bad timeline, but my point stands.) * "where's x member of the Batfamily?" I don't know. Tim is probably doing fine just living a normal life. Damian might not even exist. I will probably include Damian just because I love Dick parenting him, but like. I have no idea where the rest of the Batfamily is and this ain't about them. /lh * just because something is in a canon DC timeline does not mean I think it's in character or a good character choice, (looking at you cop Dickie), but I am saying that I think it's fair game for AUs. (like really anything is fair game for AUs, but you hopefully know what I mean.)

sorry to get a bit defensive, just thought I'd explain some of this AU upfront just to deal with some misinterpretations that might happen in one go. <3

Mob Dickie and Normal Guy Jason my beloved. maybe I will explore you in an actual fic someday.

#jaydick #dickjay #moon's ship talk

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horizon-verizon · 4 months

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Have you met Daemon Targaryen ?? No seriously, what book did you read? For god’s sake, did you read the scene with Blood and Cheese? It’s unspeakably horrifying! We are supposed to come out of that room realizing that nothing is worth this, that a line has been crossed and innocent lives utterly destroyed, that the man who ordered this is not roguish, but GENUINELY EVIL AND MONSTROUS. Daemon is responsible for ordering his 6 year old great-nephew killed. That the Greens betrayed Rhaenyra does not mean they can be held to account for everything the Blacks did for the rest of the war. This is Morality 101, Daemon is a grown man who knew exactly what he was doing, if he wanted to avenge Lucerys death, why he didn’t murdered Aegon or Aemond?

Really, I know that the ASOIAF fandom is full of male obsessed pick me, but how is it that Daemon, sexual predator and child murderer, never lacks for defenders? Are people just confusing their archetypes and thinking of him as an appealingly roguish and dashing rulebreaker? Because, no, he’s just a blatantly and consistently terrible person. He’s a bland and deathly boring parody of Oberyn (and it’s highly offensive to Oberyn because he seeks vengeance for the violent death of his sister and her babies, while Daemon violently murder children and drive their mother to insanity and suicide).

*EDITED POST* (6/11/24)

We are supposed to come out of that room realizing that nothing is worth this, that a line has been crossed and innocent lives utterly destroyed, that the man who ordered this is not roguish, but GENUINELY EVIL AND MONSTROUS.

Anon may be answering to this post or any of the last dozens of helaena posts.

So....apparently, you didn't think this way when Lucerys (13) died, who was the first child who was killed in cold blood by his older uncle, Aemond (19) after said dude rushed after him, incensed and eager to prove his masculinity after Maris Baratheon mocked him for not fighting this 13 year old. Who killed a child who was acting as an envoy, who was acting as an envoy because their side decided to takeover the Red Keep to hold a council to persuade/force them to crown Aegon and usurp Rhaenyra, thus pushing the blacks to search/survey those who would be at their side in case a war broke out?

Who drew first blood? Who was the first to kill a child? Who invited the inevitable anger and grief of the family of the murdered child? This isn't Romeo and Juliet where the origins of the rivalry are unknown, lost to time.

Who created the heft of the conditions that lead to Rhaenyra's usurpation?

And when did I say Daemon was just and deserved to wreak revenge through a another child's murder, anyway? IF HE ACTUALLY ARRANGED B&C. Show me where I say that, anon. There's such thing as "nuance",

(if Daemon actually did it, bc again link above where I note that GoTHistorian of TikTok explains how it may not have actually been Daemon bc it was just too strategically stupid and risky, and Daemon has shown enormous restraint during the black council--for him, or the expected/reputed version of him--it could have been a party who wanted to either push the sides to war or want to sow discord amongst the greens and withi the blacks as well) Daemon was wrong and responsible for his own response, yes...AND it wasn't an act he just decided to do willy-nilly, as if the other side hadn't done anything likewise.

Look, I'm sorry that not everyone is as sympathetic or as hateful towards Daemon AFTER said kid's adult relatives decided to begin the war in the first place and murder Rhaenyra-Daemon's child. When they were never in any actual danger from either person (you'd have to prove that Daemon was making plans to and under Rhaenyra's nose other than vibes, aside from his last act w/Nettles, he has performed no serious act of rebellion against Rhaenyra's authority/clearest orders). No, his laughing, making fun, and ignoring his own nephews in favor of Rhaenyra is not evidence of him actually plotting their deaths. Does that mean that every time someone you hate or hates you laughs at you, they have to be willing to murder you if they have the chance? The nephews didn't present any sort of active threat, but neither was Daemon really fond of them bc--as the text states--they made him more insignificant....or more likely, bc they happened to be the scions of his own rival, Otto/the Hightowers instead of someone like Aemma Arryn, who was both his first cousin (through his aunt Daella) and from a more dedicated house. We have never seen Daemon perform violence against a perceived enemy unless there are imminent or already-done attacks done against him and those close to him. The greens attacked, so he went after them.

Yes, it ruins Helaena and leads to her suicide. Yeah, murder is bad, and yes this was a tragedy...did you (Aemond) have to invite the anger of the other side without the assurance of meeting them in arms?

And once, more, if we trace the fault, who exactly taught Aemond to be so hostile and mocking of his own nephews? To see Rhaenrya as "stealing" his and Aegon's supposed "birthright"? Since you claim to have read F&B? To inspire him to stoking his rage and jealousy towards the ruin of these "bastards" who he feels has what he is owed--again, not just recourse for the idea, but actually the "birthright"?

I suppose the counterargument is that Jaehaerys' death was "more" tragic or horrific bc he was younger than Lucerys and he wasn't on a dragon or had anything substantial to protect himself. But Lucerys' dragon, Arrax, was way smaller and younger than Vhagar. He was lunchmeat. And Lucerys was still much younger than Aemond, his killer while also being a child himself as Jaehaerys' childness was to Daemon's adultness.

how is it that Daemon, sexual predator and child murderer, never lacks for defenders? Are people just confusing their archetypes and thinking of him as an appealingly roguish and dashing rulebreaker? Because, no, he’s just a blatantly and consistently terrible person. He’s a bland and deathly boring parody of Oberyn (and it’s highly offensive to Oberyn because he seeks vengeance for the violent death of his sister and her babies, while Daemon violently murder children and drive their mother to insanity and suicide).

Well, do you know who Lestat the Vampire is? He's a sort of "rogue" figure in his own way--while being one of the most charismatic figures in literary and fiction history. Called the "Brat Prince", too. Also hates to be told what to do, but very loyal to those he loves. I imagine that some fans' love or awe for Daemon is similar. Lestat is also an objectively terrible person...doesn't stop people from loving and "loving" him for his unpredictability and ability to shake stuff up. People like devil-may-care attitudes with hearty hearts who nevertheless value loyalty, and Daemon's got it all that. So does Oberyn. Both are extremely loyal to their houses and families and indifferent to every one else.

Also part of it is that many of the stuff that people accuse Daemon of doing bc of HotD, he can't have done or he wouldn't have done not out of morality but because it'd bite him in the ass--therefore he's not as "crazed" or irrational as some make him out to be. What's offensive to some people is the disingenuous and/or misinformed indictment of a person--even when that person is evil OR morally ambiguous. Because that disingenuity is more often not about them but about stifling the roguish behavior, the disorder element or because they feel that this attitude reflects an event they experienced at the hands of someone like this character and perceive/relive--like the greens and Otto did--it is a way for people to resist or become some sort of threat to their own plans. Last one may be too personal & reaching, but I'm covering my bases here so I won't have to repeat myself.

I also wouldn't say that Oberyn was a "good" person either. We should probs be careful: but one could say that there's an indication that the way he raised three of his eldest his daughters into them also not doing great things to kids--or planning to--in his name for revenge shows a lack of real care for altruistic morality on his part. Oberyn himself, yes targets the right person, but this doesn't mean he also wasn't doing crazy shit--Obara's mom? Alayaya, the 16 year old prostitute he has sex with while at KL?

And before we say Daemon and the maidens, IF Daemon did that in his youth...

and Oberyn did that to Obara's mother in his youth // Oberyn sleeping with 16 year old Alayaya in his adulthood (42-43)

Daemon didn't continue to sleep with young girls into his 30s or by some evidence b-y-the-text like he did in his late teen-early 20s. There's more evidence from the respective texts to say Oberyn is still sleeping w/teenagers into his 30s and 40s while with Daemon it's much more up in the air officially. Me, I think he didn't--the greens/maesters/people around Dragonstone and Driftmark and KL would have talked of it either against Rhaenyra or just to gossip.

Well. Doesn't look good for your guy.

Look, I do like Oberyn, but I'm not going to say he was Mr. Angelman, that he was Daemon's moral superior either--esp to women, compare his morality to another person, or erase Daemon's decision to sublimate his own claims to support/protect his own family by the Gods Eye episode to do so.

Oberyn, Elia/her kids--Daemon, Rhaenyra/their kids.

It certainly doesn't help that Daemon is a character we have no PoVs for, and we see Oberyn through other characters' PoVs--namely Tyrion's. Or that we aren't in Oberyn's head. Much easier to paint Daemon as categorically worse if we just desire to without feeling the need to support our own thoughts with text-based evidence. But by text-based evidence, Oberyn is not at all a moral superior to Daemon.

I really hope to god you are not also a DaemonxNettles truther. Please. The "sexual predation" better be more about him and Rhaenyra, where it's much comparatively more plausible. The mentioned comparison to Oberyn is sending red flags.

#asoiaf asks to me #blood and cheese #hotd fandom #Alayaya #oberyn martell #daemon targaryen #oberyn's characterization #daemon's characterization #character comparison #agot characterization #fire and blood characters #lestat the vampire #lestat de lioncourt

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casterintherye · 2 months

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Descendants 4 is Insane

The politics and themes of new Descendants movie is so bizarre and I just fucking need to rant into the void about it so bear with me. This will be long

-We're introduced to Red as "the only one standing up against the Queen of hearts", in a vigilante outfit that is so obviously in her exact style and doing various acts minor vandalism over a catchy pop song. Like she breaks some stuff and splashes paint on her mom's portrait and that's it. Lyrics like "appetite for destruction" are sung as she cuts flowers and breaks vases. It doesn't come across like she's in any way a liberator or fighting for justice, she is literally just having a rebellious phase.

-The Queen of Hearts is so obviously an Authoritarian dictator and this treated with such levity by the movie compared to the actual actions she takes. She stages a fucking coup (very easily I might add?) against Uma and nearly gets Cinderella, one of their most beloved public figures, executed, and yet Red spends most of the movie complaining about how her mom doesn't like her clothes. She's mad she can't leave Wonderland and can't go to the fancy boarding school and not that innocents are regularly being executed and freedoms are restricted

-FURTHERMORE, when Red goes back in time and meets her mother, Bridget, she is shown to be extremely caring and empathetic, completely opposite to her characterization in the first act to the point I still don't fully believe they were the same character. From vague lines said before they travelled, Red and Chloe deduce that a prank pulled on her mother during a school dance was the reason for her sudden shift in personality. Obviosly, the idea that one act of high school bullying can make a very normal, nice girl into a facist dictator is absurd, so I thought this was a very obvious bait and switch, and that throughout the movie we would see that Bridget's persona was some sort of mask hiding her evil nature. NOPE. They stop the prank being pulled on Bridget, and when they travel back to the future, she is nice and normal and not a dictator. HUH. In the canon of this movie a couple of school bullies pulled a prank so bad that it turned an empathetic caring young girl into an oppressive authoritarian presumably responsible for the death of thousands

-Also, about this prank: Red and Chloe spend a bit of the movie trying to figure out who pulled it in the first place. They witness an altercation with Bridget and Uliana (Ursula's little sister?) and her gang of villains, and are led to the very obvious conclusion that it is Uliana who will prank Bridget. She is oppenly saying she willb take revenge and everything. This would be a very logical conclusion if this wasn't a movie, in real life this is how these things work, but the thing is THIS IS A MOVIE. First rule of mystery in movies is the most obvious answer is never the real answer, there always has to be a twist.

My next thought was Cinderella. In the present, there are lines that suggest tension between The Queen of Hearts and Cinderella, and they are shown to be close friends in the past. If it was Cinderella who pulled the prank, it would give a reason for the sudden break in a seemingly very close relationship and also tie into Chloe Charming's arc about how not everything is black and white, and that good people can still do bad things. This was such and obvious and easy way for this movie to go, there is even a scene where Ella gets mad at Chloe for breaking something on accident, and is shown to hold grudges, and there are regular comments made by Chloe about how her mom isn't as "queenly" in the past as she is in the present. This would be so easy, it was literally my first thought. But no. The easy answer is the answer. In the movie whose message is morality is complicated and the heros and villains aren't always clear, the obvious villains are the obvious villains.

-AND ALSO, can we talk about how there is a school where heros and villains are both attending? Like, Maleficent is classmates with Cinderella. There is a character who is the son of Morgan le fay, going to a school where Merlin is the principle. This to me could mean two things

These are the villains before they committed their crimes. Maleficent isn't Maleficent, she's just a bitchy fairy mean girl

There is no system of accountability for these kids. Hades regularly tries to steal people's souls and the school can't/won't do shit about it besides give out detentions

Both situations are utterly insane to me, number two for obvious reasons, but also becaus there are already obvious clicks of kids whose main goal is to cause trouble for the school just vibing. Morgie, Morgan le fay's kid, introduces himself as such. This means Morgan is already well known, and I don't know what other reason there could be for that other than her villainy. Villains exist in this universe, these kids are clearly just diet villains, and the school doesn't seem to give af it's raising the next generation of evil muderers right alongside the realms most precious royalty

-and lets go back to that morality thing. There's a point in the movie where it becomes clear the most reliable way to fix the future is breaking into the principles office. Chloe is opposed to this, but later comes around, and breaking the rules directly results in the redempotion of Red's mom. Cool. Combined with Red's vigilante shit it the beginning, it's a clear message for the movie to have. Except it isn't. Because while Descendants is very liberal in painting itself in an aura of "coolness" by making its main characters the children of villains, and having all these themes of moral complexity, all change is made, in univers, by working within the system and rooting out the few bad apples in an otherwise perfectly functioning liberal democracy.

The VK's coming to Auradon is, from a real world perspective, an obvious PR stunt to make Ben look good for supporting the underprivileged villains. Auradon was a world where children paid for the crimes of their parents by being forced to live in poverty and squalor, being raised by parents who have literally killed people. They are very obviously shown to be horrible parents, and yet this rampant child abuse epidemic on The Isle goes completely unexamined by the text aside from that one cookie scene in the firsts movie. This would be cool to examine becuase it literally works perfectly with the stories themes, but it just doesn't. The King and Queen who made this system are never painted as anything other then a bit misguided, and not like, literal war criminals. All violence before this point has been shown to be evil, even if it was being done in the name of fixing this fucked system (Uma for example). It wants to endorse vigalante justice as an aesthetic and not in a way that would in any way challenge the real world systems of oppression it's pulling its aesthetics from. So no, this theme doesn't work. Auradon is the bad guy, full stop, and the movies can't see that.

It tries to advocate for restorative justice by giving all the Villains a "second chance", but doesn't examine any of the ways that would logically work, or the consequence of unleashing convicted killers who have a pattern for holding grudges on a society that hates them on some random Tuesday. Villains are villains because someone was mean to them in high school, authoritarianism pales in comparison to telling you daughter you don't like her outfit, and murder does not exist because it's not happening to our main characters.

Anyways Descendants is neoliberal propaganda which shouldn't be surprising because it was made by Disney.

#descendants #descendants rise of red #descendants 4 #red descendants #chloe charming #long post

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whimsimille · 2 months

Text

PSYCHOCHROMIA

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 2: Slaughter house

Tick tack

30 minutes now and you're going crazy. You look at Moonjo through your mascara-coated eyelashes, the clumps of black giving your gaze an almost predatory edge. He only smirks, a Cheshire curl of lips that deflates another question once again. It's grating. It's perverse. But you still take a sip of the cold coffee.

Your fingers moved almost subconsciously to cross over each other on top of the table—a nervous habit you had since childhood when Mom wasn't looking. She would have shot you a disapproving look if she were still alive, reminding you of Dad and how he used to beat you for being so much like him. But she wasn't here now; she couldn’t make you feel like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. She couldn't see you crossing your fingers in this room, hoping against hope that Moonjo would open up and reveal something about his past or his crimes.

"Can you tell me about your... work? How do you reconcile your actions with your own moral compass, Mr. Seo?"

Moonjo's smile widened, revealing perfect, gleaming teeth that seemed almost too pristine, too sharp. He reached for the crayon you usually leave out for Mina, a patient with regression disorder. The bright red crayon looked almost comically out of place in his large, bruised hand. Without breaking eye contact, he began to sketch on the paper in front of him, making slow and chirurgical strokes that gradually took form.

"You see, Dr. Song, extracting a tooth is an art form. It's delicate, precise. You must be gentle but also firm. One wrong move and you could shatter the tooth, ruin the whole endeavor. It's very similar to... my other work."

He paused, glancing down at his doodle. Hollow eyes, razor-thin smile lines carved out of the paper.

"I had an unfortunate upbringing. My father was a strict man—a pastor who preached about sin and damnation every Sunday. I suppose it rubbed off on me." Moonjo pulls at one of his bottom lips with his teeth, revealing the sharp edge of his incisor. There's something feral about him now, almost primal. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment—not only to share his story but also to relish in it. "I remember one Sunday, after a particularly fiery sermon about the wages of sin, he took me to the basement. There was a row of dental tools laid out on a white cloth—forceps, scalers, probes. He said they were instruments of God's will, tools to cleanse the soul. That day, I learned how to extract a tooth. He made me practice on myself first, pulling out a molar with trembling hands. The pain was excruciating, but the lesson was clear: salvation through suffering.”

Your pen hovered over the page, barely able to keep up with the torrent of his revelations. "I’m sorry for you—"

“Don’t,” he shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. “People think of God as a comforting figure. Like a teddy bear a child clings to at night, or a security blanket. It's nice to think there's someone up there who's always watching, always caring. The promise of paradise, of eternal life—it’s a comforting thought, isn't it?"

You shifted in your seat again, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way around, trying to find some sort of comfort in the movement. "But not everyone sees it that way. Some people find comfort in the rituals and the community. It's not just about fear or comfort; it's about belonging."

Seo paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were trying to recall a distant memory. "For some people, yes. But I understood that it was always in the blood, in the agape mouths and in the crushed windpipes. It was in the steel of the dental tools, the ones I used to clean my victims' teeth before... well, you know."

It was like listening to a twisted version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; the transformation from healer to killer so seamless it was almost poetic. It was like being in a surreal version of a dentist's office—one where the patients were more likely to bite you than spit out what was stuck in their teeth.

“I might not understand everything, Mr. Seo. But I do know that everyone has their reasons and their justifications. Even if those reasons are twisted and dark, yes. I know.”

The man looks up from his drawing and raises an eyebrow at you—a challenge in his eyes. You force yourself to maintain eye contact, holding his gaze even if it feels like he's seeing straight into your soul.

"If the idea of eternal punishment is the only thing keeping you good, are you really a good person? Is it the fear of hell that makes you help an old lady cross the street, or is it genuine kindness? Maybe it was other things that caused me to lose my belief. Maybe my faith was only conditional to begin with. Perhaps it was rooted in the childlike wonder I felt when I first read the Bible, like believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny."

Moonjo stretches his arm out, displaying the paper with the half-finished drawing—a crude sketch of a man in a robe, arms spread wide and eyes closed—and an almost serene smile on his face. Above his head, a halo glows bright and golden. "Sometimes when we prayed at church or at home, I would close my eyes and try to summon that feeling of awe, of connection to something greater. But it always felt hollow, like I was reciting lines from a play I no longer believed in."

You took a deep breath before speaking again, not wanting to break the eerie silence that had fallen between you two. "I understand, Mr. Seo… But what do you want me to do with this? This man in your sketch, is he supposed to represent your father, or perhaps a version of yourself?"

You held up the drawing, trying not to let your shaking hands give away your fear. There was no answer from Moonjo; he simply sat there, staring at you with those empty eyes that seemed to hold an endless well of madness. Sweat began to bead on your forehead as the temperature in the room dropped precipitously. It felt as if the air itself were becoming chilled by his presence, as if he were sucking out all warmth and light like some kind of parasite.

"Mr. Seo?" You tried again, louder this time. "Are you alright?"

He didn't respond, but instead reached over to a small pot on the table and picked up a stick of sugar-free gum from it. Popping it into his mouth with a loud crack, he began chewing vigorously on it as he stared at you intently, studying your every move as if trying to decide whether or not you were worth keeping around any longer.

“This is how they saw him. Pure and holy, a beacon of light." His voice drawls with disgust, lips pulling back to show his teeth chewing the gum. "But I saw something else. I saw an old man who'd lost control of his son, who beat him when he misbehaved and demanded silent obedience. I saw the hypocrisy in their pews every Sunday. They sang hymns of love while their husbands beat their wives at home." He pauses, nodding slowly as if in agreement with himself. "So I started cleansing them—cleansing them with my own hands and tools. It was liberating."

As he speaks, he absently fiddles with the red crayon, twirling it between his fingers before dipping it into the black inkpot on the table. A smear of blood-red color mixes with the black ink, forming an ominous stain on the wet surface. The sound of scratching fills the air as he writes his next words: 'Sometimes I imagine they scream so loud for me'.

In general, when you start working with a patient, there is no urgency, no predetermined therapeutic timeline to meet specific goals. Usually, it begins with many months of conversation. In an ideal world, Moonjo would talk about himself, his life, and his childhood. You would listen, gradually building a picture until it was complete enough to venture into precise and useful interpretations. But in this case, nothing real would be said. Nothing non manipulative would be heard. The information you needed would have to be obtained from non-verbal cues, from whatever information you could extract from other sources, like the confidential notes from the police files or the whispered rumors among the nurses.

In other words, you had to set a plan in motion to help Moonjo without knowing exactly how to execute it.

A fly buzzes aimlessly around your head before landing on Moonjo's sleeve; he casually reaches out and crushes it between his fingers, never breaking eye contact with you. The crunch of the exoskeleton is barely audible, but you can see the minute satisfaction in his eyes as he slowly pulls at the insect, dismembering it piece by piece. His jaw tightens, and you can't help but notice the pure, unadulterated grayness in his gaze—no spark, no humanity. Were the men and women he killed made out of a pair of fully developed wings on the thorax and a knobby, vestigial second pair of wings too? Had they too committed the crime of being small enough to fit between his fingers?

"You know, Mr. Seo, everyone has a different perspective on faith and morality. It's not always about fear of punishment or the promise of reward. Sometimes, it's about the simple act of doing what's right because it feels right. It's about the connections we forge and the empathy we extend to others." You spoke with more confidence than you felt. And you thought your voice sounded inordinately high and squeaky, though you could barely hear it, blood pumping so hard in your ears. "When I help someone, whether it's through my work here or in my personal life, it's not because I'm afraid of some divine retribution. It's because I believe in the inherent value of each human life. I believe in the power of compassion and understanding to bring about change, no matter how small."

Moonjo's smile widened as he dropped the insect, now crushed like an ant beneath a boot heel. Its wings had been smudged into grayish-black smears and you tried not to fidget at the thought that you were now the insect he wanted to dissect, to see if your blood was just as shiny and if your teeth would be as easy to pull out, but the rustle of your skirt against the vinyl chair caused you to twitch involuntarily.

"Do you really believe in what you're saying?" he asked, wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell, emphasizing their length and dexterity. "Or is your faith rotting in your drawer alongside your paints and canvases?"

Breath catches in your throat like an invisible noose tightening around your neck and your hand moves instinctively towards your necklace at the base of your throat—a simple silver chain holding an old Saint Christopher medal your first patient had given you when you first started working here.

You had never mentioned your passion for painting to anyone. How could he possibly know?

Quickly, you find your hand reaching for the recorder, your fingers fumbling a little, but you manage to hit 'pause' just before the next words. You can't believe what you're hearing. Your stomach churns and you feel your face go pale, yet you know that there are only ten more minutes left and you're pulling the plug on this interview. You'll have to pick it up with another patient later or simply write it up yourself based on his words, but the last thing you will do is be here when night falls.

"How do you know about that?"

He pointed toward your nails. "It's all in the details, Dr. Song. The way you hold your pen, the slight smudges on your skin... It's clear that you paint. And it's also clear that you're trying to reconcile two parts of yourself—the healer and the artist."

You glanced down at your hands, now trembling slightly. The faint traces of ultramarine blue under your thumbnail, the barely noticeable streak of burnt sienna on your wrist—marks of your late-night sessions that never seemed to completely wash away, no matter how hard you scrubbed with the lavender-scented soap from the local market.

Still, who would look at tiny bits of color strokes that couldn’t be cleaned with a sponge and make poetry out of them?

You gulp down the rest of your cold coffee, feeling its harshness sit heavy in your stomach like a rock. Moonjo watches intently as you set the mug down gently on the table that separates you from him—its metallic clank echoing off the walls like a warning bell in an empty church steeple.

"What makes you think my faith is rotting?"

"Because, jagiya, people like us... we wear masks. We hide behind our roles and our titles. But deep down, we are all searching for something. And sometimes, the very things we believe in, the things we cling to, can decay and fester within us."

"And what about you, Mr. Seo? What are you searching for? What lies beneath your mask?"

Moonjo shrugs nonchalantly, his chained hands moving up to his leather restraints as if he could snap them off at any moment if he wanted to. "Perhaps I'm searching for someone who can understand the darkness within me. Someone who can see beyond the monster and find the humanity buried deep.”

Tick tack.

Suddenly, another fly buzzes around the room. It lands on the battered oak table, right next to the crushed remains of the last one Moonjo had dismembered. Its tiny legs twitch as it surveys the scene, perhaps sensing the latent malice in the room. It cautiously inches towards your coffee mug. You shiver involuntarily as its spindly legs dance closer to the rim of the mug, delicately navigating the remnants of your lipstick stain.

Still, you just roll a piece of paper—the appointment schedule for the day, printed on flimsy office stock—and swat it away. The fly buzzes off, leaving a faint smear on the page, the scent of ink and paper mingling with the stale smell of old coffee.

It's an innocent gesture, a reflex born out of years of dealing with minor nuisances. But the act makes Moonjo stifle a laugh, a sound that is both mocking and curious. He tilts his head as if you were an interesting specimen under his scrutinizing gaze, his eyes narrowing like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

“…Or maybe I'm just looking for my next challenge." His tone was perfectly neutral, without judgment.

Even so, you felt a swell in your chest—a familiar toxic squeeze—like your lungs were eroding under the sheer weight of your work. You exhaled, fighting to remain calm. Seo Moonjo stayed under control only so long as you were calm.

"And do you think you'll find what you're looking for here, in this room with me?"

Moonjo's eyes bore into yours. "Maybe. Or maybe you'll find something about yourself that you never wanted to confront."

After a failed snack at the cafeteria—where the only offerings were a sad-looking sandwich with wilted lettuce and a cup of what could only be described as dishwater masquerading as coffee—you wandered through the dimly lit corridors of Gonjiam, still stained with the rusty marks of dried blood from the day a patient named Ji-Hoon had torn out his IV and sprinted through the halls, desperate for an escape. The metallic tang of old blood seemed to cling to the air, mingling with the antiseptic scent that never quite masked the underlying odor of despair. You needed to sneak out for a cigarette to escape the suffocating weight of your thoughts after the unnerving session with Seo Moonjo. His doodle, now folded and tucked away in your pocket, felt like a lead weight pressing against your leg.

Just as you were about to give up after minutes of wandering around and heading back to your office, Son Yoo Jeong appeared near the fire escape, her ever-present clipboard clutched to her chest and a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, suggesting she'd been rushing around the ward. Still, she was pretty with her new short bob cut, the kind of haircut that looked effortlessly chic but probably required meticulous maintenance.

“Are you lost, Y/N?" Jeong tilted her head slightly, her brown eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress.

You hesitated, the urge to confess weighing heavily on your chest. “No, not lost. Just... needing a break, noona.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, there’s no need to lie, honey! It happens even with senior nurses! It took me months to find my way around here. It feels like a maze with no exit. Sometimes I still get lost, and I've been here for ten years." She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that contrasted sharply with the heavy atmosphere.

Before you could protest, she gently took you by the arm, her fingers surprisingly strong for someone so petite. She led you through a series of twists and turns, past the nurses' station, where a couple of RNs were chatting over their cups. You barely had time to register the framed prints of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Monet's "Water Lilies" hanging on the walls before she was guiding you upstairs, where nurses and aides moved in and out, their scrubs a blur of blues and greens, punctuated by the occasional flash of a brightly colored lanyard or a pin celebrating a recent vaccination.

"I'll put the water on to boil," Jeong said as soon as you two entered the place, her voice cutting through the noise. "What a miserable weather, huh? It would be better if it started raining to end this... Rainis a very strong symbol in the imagination, don't you think? It cleans everything. Have you noticed how patients like to talk about storms? Try to observe. It's interesting."

To your surprise, she reached into her oversized tote bag—a well-worn, brown leather piece that looked like it had seen better days—and pulled out a huge piece of cake wrapped in cling film, placing it in your hand. "Here. Walnut cake. I made it last night. For you. Don't think I didn't notice your pretty face getting smaller every day. I know you're not eating."

"Wow, thanks. I..."

"I know it's not conventional, but I always get better results with difficult patients when I offer a slice of cake during the session," she said with a wink.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. "I bet you do. Am I a difficult patient?

Jeong giggled with a deep, hearty sound. "No, although I also think it works well with difficult team members... which you are not, by the way. A little sugar helps a lot to improve the mood. I used to make cakes for the cafeteria, but Sangwoo made such a fuss about all that nonsense about health and safety with food brought from outside... It was like I was smuggling files to see through the bars. But I still make my cakes on the sly sometimes. My rebellion against the dictatorial state. Eat a piece.

It wasn't a suggestion but an order. You took a bite. It was delicious. The cake had a perfect consistency, full of walnut pieces, and just the right amount of sweetness. You were chewing, so you tried to cover your mouth while speaking. "I have no doubt that this will put your patients in a good mood."

Jeong clapped her hands, seeming pleased. You realized why you liked her: she radiated a kind of maternal calm. She reminded you of your former therapist, Go Eun. It was hard to imagine her angry or upset. She also had that pink shade on her, mostly on the tip of her nose. You suspected it was partly from the cold; the hospital's thermostat perpetually set a few degrees too low, partly from her habit of pinching her cheeks whenever she felt flustered—a nervous tick she picked up from her grandmother, who always said a little color in the cheeks made one look healthier and mostly because she was just pure goodness and kindness.

You glanced around the room while she made the tea. The nurse's station is always the center of a psychiatric unit, the heart of the place: staff coming and going, and it's from there that the ward is managed day-to-day, or at least where practical decisions are made. "Aquarium" was the nickname the nurses themselves gave the station because the walls were made of reinforced glass, meaning the staff could keep an eye on the patients in the recreation room, at least in theory. In practice, the patients roamed outside constantly, looking in at us, making us the ones under constant observation. Since the space was small, there weren't enough chairs, and the existing ones were usually occupied by nurses working on the computers. So, you generally stood in the middle of the room or leaned awkwardly against a desk, making the place feel crowded no matter how many people were inside.

"Here you go, my dear." Jeong handed you a cup of chamomile tea, the steam curling up in delicate tendrils.

"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed after Jungwoo dropped a big case on my lap out of nowhere. He didn't even give me a heads-up; he just waltzed into the garden and dumped a stack of files on my hands. I swear, he enjoys watching me scramble."

Jeong sighed like a teenage girl from one of those American movies, twirling a lock of her new short bob cut around her finger. "Oh, that cutie. Have you seen him this afternoon? I wanted to show him my new hair. I thought he might appreciate the change. You know, he has a good eye for detail.”

You took a sip of the tea, savoring the gentle floral notes. "He clocked out around three. Said he had scheduled a meeting with his previous seniors and his girl. Probably talking about his residency program and catching up on old times. He looked pretty excited about it.”

“Wished I was her,” Jeong sighed wistfully, leaning against the counter. “It must be nice to have a boyfriend so cute like that. Plus, he's a nurse. It makes his appeal get a boost. I mean, who wouldn’t want someone who can take care of them and look like he walked out of a K-drama?”

“Please, stop,” you groaned, feeling the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. It was bad enough that Jungwoo was the topic of many daydreams among the staff; hearing it out loud made it all the more embarrassing.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot I'm talking with Mrs. Cold here,” Jeong teased, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

“Mrs. Cold, huh?”

“Well, you know how it is. You've got that icy exterior, but we all know you're just a big softie underneath. Like a lollipop with a hard shell and a gooey center. Besides, it’s kind of endearing.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face. “Yeah, sure. Just call me the Ice Queen of Gonjiam.”

“Hey, it’s better than some of the other nicknames flying around,” Jeong winked, glancing around as if to make sure no one else was listening. “Remember when Nurse Kim accidentally dyed her hair green and everyone called her ‘The Hulk’ for months? At least your nickname has a certain... elegance to it.”

“You're impossible, Noona.”

Just then, the door to the nurse's station creaked open, and Go Sangman entered, his presence immediately commanding the room. The man was painfully thin, almost skeletal, his frame accentuated by the oversized white coat he wore. His thick glasses magnified his eyes to an almost comical degree, and his hair clung to his scalp in a desperate attempt to cover the bald spots. A dark blue one.

As always, though, he exuded a strong smell of mint gum that he was always chewing.

It was one of the few things you shared in common while you worked at a downtown asylum, and you recalled that he smoked a lot. However, he had given up smoking, got married, and had a young child since then. You pondered Sangman's potential as a father. Thought he was not a very caring guy, and yet here he was—the new employee of the month, with his picture emblazoned on the bulletin board outside the "aquarium," surrounded by an outrageous gold border.

He gave you a cold smile. "Funny running into you again, Y/N."

"Small world."

"The world of mental health certainly is," he said, as if to imply that he could also be found in other, broader worlds. You tried to imagine what those might be like, but all you could visualize was him hunched over a dimly lit desk, engrossed in the latest volume of "Attack on Titan" or scrolling through a forum dedicated to anime theories.

"How's Ji-Young and little Soo-Min?" You asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Ji-Young has become quite the entrepreneur," he finally said, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Her brownies are practically flying off the shelves. And Soo-Min... She's already the teacher's pet. Loves her new ‘Frozen’ backpack and can’t stop talking about Mrs. Kim, her homeroom teacher. Time flies, doesn't it?"

You nodded."It sure does."

Sangman stared at you for a few seconds. You had forgotten his habit of pausing, sometimes for a long time, forcing the other person to wait while he considered his response. It annoyed you now, just as it did back then.

"I’ve joined the team at a rather inopportune moment," he said finally. "The sword of Damocles is hanging over the Gonjiam."

"You think the situation is that bad?"

"It's only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the government will close our doors," he replied, his eyes narrowing as he leaned against the doorframe. "The question is, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Jeong asked, pausing mid-bite of her walnut cake, the crumbs scattering onto her clipboard. A child’s laughter at a funeral.

"Well, when the ship starts sinking, the rats run away. They don't climb aboard."

You were perplexed by Sangman's direct aggression. You decided not to take the bait. "It's possible. But I'm not a rat. And in that case, you are the one who should leave since you’re new here."

Before he could respond, a violent bang on the reinforced glass interrupted the conversation. Hanna was on the other side of the window, pounding on it with such ferocity that the glass vibrated. Her face was pressed against the glass, nose squished flat, features distorted to the point of resembling something out of a Francis Bacon painting.

"I'm not taking this shit anymore. I hate these fucking pills, man..."

Sangman opened a small hatch in the glass, the kind you see in old bank teller windows, and spoke through it. "Now is not the time to discuss this, girl."

Hanna's eyes were wild; her pupils dilated. "Discuss? What's there to discuss? You people don't listen. You just shove pills down our throats and expect us to be grateful."

"I'm not talking about this now. Make an appointment to talk in a private setting. Please, step back.”

But Hanna was having none of it. "You mean the isolation room, right? Where you can pump me full of more drugs?" Her words were laced with bitterness, and you couldn't blame her. The isolation room—Room 317, a windowless cube—was a last resort, a place none of the patients wanted to end up. The walls were padded, and the only window was a small, barred one high up on the wall, allowing in just a sliver of daylight. Designed to break the spirit.

“Go. Away.”

Hanna furrowed her brow and thought for a while. After that, she turned and went away with a heavy step, leaving behind a small condensation circle where her nose had touched the glass. Her slow shuffling step, with one foot dragging slightly behind the other due to an old injury sustained during one of her episodes, was audible.

Jeong sighed while pouting, "Poor Hanna."

Sangman grumbled, " There’s nothing poor about her. Difficult. That 's all she is."

"Do you even know why she is here?" You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the chamomile tea in your hand, before eyeing his red face, the veins in his neck bulging slightly as if he were restraining himself from snapping back.

"Double homicide," Go replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "She killed her mother and sister. Smothered them while they slept."

You shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth curling into a grim smile. "No. Wrong. She actually killed her abusive father. The one you’re talking about is Gunwoo-shi. Before calling me or other people rats, you should recognize you’re one yourself.”

Sangman’s eyes widened momentarily, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through his usual facade. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for the pack of cigarettes he no longer carried. "I don't recall—"

“Of course, you don't," you interrupted. "You’ve always been quick to judge, slow to understand. Hanna was admitted last spring. Maybe you’re too busy with your ‘research’ on the effects of antipsychotic medications on her to notice the details. She killed her father in self-defense. He broke her soul before she broke his neck.”

“Ouch!” Jeong giggled. “You deserved that, oppa!”

“That’s not funny,” Sangman retorted, rubbing his arm where Jeong had playfully swatted him. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he pushed them back up.

Ignoring them, you watched what was happening on the other side of the glass.

Hanna had joined the other patients. She was much larger than the others. One of the patients, a man named Minho with a penchant for collecting bottle caps, handed her a crumpled five-thousand won note, which she pocketed with a practiced nonchalance. Minho's eyes darted around nervously, his fingers twitching as if he were itching to add another cap to his collection.

Just as you were about to resume your conversation with Jeong about the teenager’s relationship, you noticed a stillness settle over the room. Across from you, Jeong looks like she might be sick; her face is ashen and she keeps licking her lips, a nervous habit you remember from when she first started working here. Go Sangman stays rigid near the doorway, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his mouth slightly agape as if unable to find words for once.

It was as if someone had pressed a mute button, silencing the usual ambient noise of whispers, shuffling feet, and the hum of fluorescent lights. Every head, every pair of eyes turned slowly to the left, towards the maximum security room.

You followed their gaze and felt a chill run down your spine. The double doors of the high-security wing creaked open, and there he was—Seo Moonjo. Flanked by five guards, he walked with an unsettling calmness, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying his territory. The guards looked tense, their grips tight on the batons at their sides, ready for any sudden movement. They had seen this before—patients attempting to attack their infamous new roommate in order to earn his favor and join his ranks.

As they led him towards the solitary dining area, the patients parted like the Red Sea, creating a wide berth for Moonjo and his entourage. Some of the more unstable patients reached out as he passed, their fingers barely grazing his skin. Their eyes were wide, filled with a mix of awe and fear, as if they were in the presence of some unholy deity.

"Moonjo-ssi," Yoo Gi-hyeok said, his voice trembling. He stretched out his hand, trying to touch Moonjo's face as if seeking a blessing. "Save us..."

The dentist’s lips curled into a smile, but it held no warmth. His eyes were dark, devoid of any human emotion. He allowed the patient to touch his cheek for the briefest moment before the guards shoved the man back, causing him to stumble and fall.

Gi-hyeok didn't seem to mind; he lay on the floor, gazing up at Moonjo with a look of reverence. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth slightly agape as if still tasting something—perhaps what little piece of human connection he got from touching the infamous killer or perhaps simply relishing in fear itself. Whatever it was, it made them all feel alive in some twisted way.

A savior? Or a butcher? Did the others sense the predator within him, the one that saw them not as individuals but as prey? As potential meals, are their flesh and bones nothing more than sustenance for his insatiable hunger? Did they sense, in some deep part of their psyche, that he would devour them, body and soul?

And what did Moonjo see when he looked at them? Did he see the delicate curve of their necks, the pulse of their blood just beneath the skin? Did he imagine the taste of their fear, the texture of their flesh as his teeth tore through it? Was every touch, every glance, a prelude to a feast, a silent promise of their inevitable consumption?

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—horrifying yet impossible to look away from. Moonjo continued his march towards the solitary dining area, his presence casting a long shadow over the room.

Jeong took a quick sip of her tea but spilled some down her chin when her hand shook; she quickly wiped it away with a trembling hand.

She glanced at you with wide eyes before looking back at Moonjo's retreating form. ” It's his first day here and they act like this when he's around. They treat him as if he's some kind of messiah."

With that, Moonjo and his guards disappeared behind the heavy metal door of the solitary dining area, the clang of the door echoing ominously through the now silent room.

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Kwang, Min-Jun's father, short leashes his dogs again. They were valuable, and he had no intention of losing them to a shot female doe howling and gibbering just down yonder. His son reloaded their guns and snapped them closed. That howling had chilled you and made the sweat under your arms run down your back feel like ice water. When situations become uncomfortable like this, people look for someone to guide them and in such cases, Kwang Jun steps up. He wasn’t feeling much of a hero right then—quite the contrary—but he did it nonetheless, leading the way toward an outcrop of alders jutting ambitiously from the woody fringe on your right side while you followed nervously at a short distance behind him, trying hard not to stumble over roots or fall behind too far.

Only once did he halt his stride—long enough to crush his spent cigarette underfoot—and then push ahead into the vast open area beyond trees filled with dense underbrush.

To the left, the riverbank sloped gently. Thunderstruck, you halted, wishing you could erase the sight that greeted you, a sight that would haunt your dreams—it was the sort of raw, sun-scorched nightmare that lurked beyond the ordinary—church suppers, walks along the vibrant Han River, honest labor in the factories, stolen kisses under the cherry blossoms. As you'd often told Ae-ra after her nightly story, there's a grimacing skull lurking behind every man's smile. That day, you saw it—you saw the grinning skull.

Sprawled on the riverbank was the most beautiful doe, a bullet lodged in her back. Flies had already begun to gather, buzzing around her wounds and settling in the congealing blood. Her head turned towards the gray sky, as if admiring the sparrows launching from the Lotte World Tower before retiring to the bushes. And then you notice it—a slight bulge in her abdomen. She was pregnant.

So often you read in the local paper that “the killer showed no remorse,” but that wasn’t the case here. Min Jun was torn open by what he had done, you saw it in the trembling of his lips, the quivering of his right point finger on the trigger, the way his eyes widened and darted around, almost as if seeking an escape from the reality he had created. . . But he would live. The doe would not. She had been torn open in a more fundamental way, a way that the blood seeping into the earth couldn't even begin to convey.

You have never been as quiet as you were at that moment, holding that live track. Your whole body just stopped working. Your legs felt like water, jelly, completely unreliable. Your mouth opened. You didn't open it; it opened by itself, a gaping maw trying to silently scream. You couldn't move, but you could hear, see and sense everything inside you and for miles around. It was like you were hyper aware of every rustling leaf, every distant bird call, every breath you took. You thought of church mornings at the confessional with that smelly priest, and you thought that Min Jun and you would soon be joining him in seeking absolution.

You think it was fear. You're always fearful. For what you've done, for what you haven't, for things that haven't even happened yet. The fear is a constant deadweight. A backpack full of wet cement is strapped to your shoulders, dragging you down. You were fearful of not spending enough time outside, of playing with your dolls—a Barbie with a missing shoe and tangled blonde hair that you found in the trash and the plush rabbit Dad won you at the county fair before getting drunk and hitting Mom in front of the Mayor. Fear accompanying your neighbors on their hunt.

You were fearful of not trying hard enough to be better.

"Come on, girl. Get closer. Don’t think too much about it. Her head will have a special place in our family’s house," Kwang chuckled as he finished lighting his tobacco stick, the one he always kept tucked behind his ear, before ruffling your hair and pushing you to stand in front of the bloodied carcass. "She turned out to be on our way; she turned out to be prey, kid.”

You think about the way he said it. Turned out. Not grew up to be a prey. She turned out to be prey. Like she was always supposed to be this way, and it was just hiding inside of her. And this was all inevitable. And her instincts of submission were hiding right underneath the surface when she birthed her fawn in the spring, teaching it to navigate the forest, to find the sweetest grass by the riverbank, to leap over the streams that crisscrossed the woods. Like a volcano that's seen as a mountain, the ones people live right on top of.

It doesn't look deadly until it is.

Your bones shift away from one another like nervous tectonic plates as you crack your head down to finally look at the animal’s eyes. Toes become bloated like little water balloons as you kneel in the grass, the damp earth soaking through your worn-out Converse sneakers. Your eyes crystallize and for a second, everything feels okay as you wrap the frayed, weathered cord around the doe’s neck, the rough fibers scratching against your palms.

Then you explode.

No.

You don't explode.

You slowly morph as you finish the third loop. The wick effect. Your own fat keeps you inflamed. Looking into the water of the river, you see yourself changing. Your reflection warps; your features distort and elongate. Your hair falls out in clumps, drifting away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Your eyes, once black and sharp, soften and take on the glassy, lifeless stare of the doe. You watch as your skin stretches and sags, transforming into a hide, your freckles merging into the spots of a fawn. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, but no sound comes out—only the soft, pitiful bleat of a wounded animal.

Just before you fully morph into the doe, before your mind succumbs to the instinctual fear and resignation of a hunted creature, you wake up.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You reach for the hairbrush and start smoothing down your wild hair. It always stuck up all over the place in the morning, especially after a nightmare that involved placing the corpse of a doe in the back of a truck.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. Still the same, old you: short, black hair that reached down to the chin, black eyes, and splatters of freckles over the ridge of your nose and the rest of your body. Your nightgown had slipped down during the night, revealing a pale shoulder. You stopped brushing out your hair and tugged it back up.

Your eyes caught the glint of the diamond ring on your finger, a small but noticeable sparkle even in the dim morning light. You looked outside. The sky was gray today, with a blanket of clouds promising a downpour. The kind of weather that made you want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over your head, and forget the world existed.

It's funny, isn’t it?

Sighing, you reached for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter at the far end of the vanity, only to find nothing. Jesus. Min Jun and his fucking ramblings about lung cancer and how, as a doctor, you should stop going to the hospital smelling like nicotine or weed. The endless lectures about the carcinogens, the secondhand smoke, the image you presented to your patients—it was all part of his new routine.

“Looking for this?”

You cracked your head to the side, turning to see the man himself standing there in the doorway, wiggling your cigarettes and the lighter. He was already dressed in a new, crisp suit with trousers tailored to his frame, as well as a tie that matched his jacket and polished leather shoes from Ferragamo. God, he had been insufferable since he discovered aesthetics on his social media feed, always posting pictures of himself in meticulously coordinated outfits, each post tagged with #OOTD and #Style Goals.

But, yeah, today, his clothes matched the color you always associated with him.

Yellow.

Min Jun’s yellow wasn’t the vibrant hue of sunflowers or gold. It was the jaundiced yellow of sickness, the kind that creeps into your skin and festers. It was the color of deceit, of broken promises whispered in the dark. Every time he flashed that politician's yellow smile, the one inherited from his dad, it made you nauseous. Old man Kwang, who had escalated a non-violent protest into bloodshed. It was Min Jun, though, who took Ae-ra with him that day. He paraded your girl around like some political prop to gain momentum for his father’s campaign.

You could never forgive him—not after what happened to her.

Because, in the end, it was their ambition that had taken your daughter away. A lamb led to slaughter.

Colorful flyers and bold banners invaded the city streets while chants and marches echoed in every corner—all for endorsing Kwang’s political charade. Slogans rang through speakers: "For a Brighter Tomorrow," "Unity and Progress," "Kwang Jun for the People." And Min Jun, playacting as the perfect son, had pulled Ae-ra into that cyclone of chaos. Your sweet little girl was swallowed by a turbulent crowd, lost within its confusion—her wide eyes were framed on the hospital TV screen as she clutched her new Hello Kitty backpack from Lotte Mart nervously—a maze of pink braids bouncing behind her with every step she took.

Everything around you in the psychiatric ward was fast and stressful that day, but you were stuck in tar while everyone else was on land. Sinking slowly while other people were using their legs to run in circles to help the Gonjiam Hospital with all the hurt people. Your legs didn’t work for days. Neither has your brain.

And now? Now you haven't cried since three weeks ago on the third anniversary of her death; your eyes feel dry and cold. You've tried, but there's just nothing. Even when you sit away from Min Jun and ignore his extended hand, watching things that aren't lungs move his chest up and down, praying to feel something for him, there's just silence in response.

You did love Min Jun once. At times when he was cornered, you would dive into the deep end, plunge so suddenly it would cause waves to ripple out, drawing the public’s attention away from him. You would swim to abandoned shores where you would carry buckets, helping him scoop up the murky water of regrets as he cried out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed into the horizon.

But what has he done for you? All these years of sacrifice have caused this world to erode everything that was once pure and you can no longer breathe with a rib missing. There was all of this water settling deep within the walls of your lungs, drowning you slowly.

So, after her death, he grabbed another bucket and took you to the abandoned shores, where you used to scoop up his regrets to free him from all his mistakes. And you didn’t even cry out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed because, after all these years of carrying his mistakes, how could you believe that you had become one?

“Do you mind knocking before entering my bedroom?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so grumpy at this hour!” Min Ju retorted, his voice carrying an almost cheerful lilt that grated on your nerves.

Sleeping in his office wasn’t doing the best things for his princess back; of course, you saw it as he walked in a hunched way. His loafers made no sound on the thick, cream-colored carpet, but the rustle of his suit filled the silence. He placed the lighter and the pack on your side on the vanity, making sure not to knock over the scattered makeup compacts and the crystal perfume bottle.

From the corner of your eyes, you noticed how he kicked the clothes you left on the floor after getting home exhausted from another grueling 12-hour shift. You noticed how he scoffed as he saw the patches on your faded covers, once a deep navy but now a murky gray from too many washes and your sweat.

“Did you wet the bed?” His laugh was a little louder this time, but still hollow. That was his old joke. It was stupid.

Long ago, you pretended to laugh, pretended to play along, as if to apologize in front of former friends. In front of your own eyes, for admitting such a yoke. Nothing, however, was funny to you anymore.

“No, I had another nightmare.”

The cigarette finally lit, and you took a slow drag, feeling the familiar burn of nicotine as it filled your lungs. You discarded the lighter in the jewelry holder plate, where it landed with a small clank, nudging a pair of earrings slightly askew.

He scrunched his nose the exact same way Ae-ra used to before deciding to grab all the covers, making a bundle in his arms. “Nightmares again, huh? You know, Y/N, maybe if you didn’t bring your work home with you, you’d sleep better. All that stress isn't good for you. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, letting out a plume of smoke, coughing. “I’ll get right on that.”

He received the phrase with displeasure, as always, when your "animal intensity shocked him." He fixed his eyes on you, and progressively his features transformed. You almost blushed. The constant preoccupation with reaching his thoughts had not granted you the power to penetrate the most important ones, but it had honed your intuition regarding the smaller ones. You knew that for him to pity you, you had to be ridiculous. Neither hunger nor someone's misery moved him more than the lack of aesthetics. Loose hair, damp with sweat, fell over your flushed face, and the pain, to which your long-calm features had not yet adapted, must have twisted your mouth, lending them some grotesque note. At the most grave moment of your life, you were ridiculous, his pitiful gaze told you.

Finally, after seconds that felt like centuries, his eyes briefly flitted to the divorce papers on your nightstand but he ignored them. Instead, he focused on the small details of the room—the way your books were scattered everywhere, mostly medical journals and a few dog-eared novels, a framed photo of you and Ae-ra by the Han River, and, in the darkest corner of your room, your unfinished canvas.

“You know,” Min Jun began, walking towards your creation as if he were a little boy eager to discover his mom’s secrets. “I remember when you used to teach Ae-ra how to paint every night. So sweet….”

People said that a lot. Even your own mind did, sometimes. Be sweet like before; be better for the people around you. They knew there was a gaping hole inside of you, and they poked and prodded in there, looking for bits of Ae-Ra floating around in the void. As if somehow you could reach inside yourself and pull parts of her out—parts that you lacked. But she wasn't there. She was nowhere. When a part of you disappears, you change, and sometimes it's impossible to go back to who you used to be. That's what people didn't understand. That’s what this cosplay of SpongeBob didn’t understand.

You coughed again, then took one last inhale and stubbed the end of it on the vanity’s smooth and sanded surface, ash and embers falling to the carpet like crumbs off a pastry. “Yeah, well, those days are gone.”

Min Jun touched the dried paint, lingering over the signature line that remained blank. “You know, maybe if you spent half as much time on this marriage as you do at Westlake, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

You bristled at his words, but he continued, undeterred. “You’re always so busy, Y/N. Always with your patients, your research. Think about Ae-ra. She wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want her parents to fall apart like this.” He leaned closer, his cologne—something expensive and heavy—filling your senses and making you want to recoil.

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” you snapped, your voice breaking. “You think you can manipulate me with memories of her? You think that’s going to work?”

His eyes softened. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I just want us to be a family again. I miss her too, you know. Every single day.” He reached out to touch your hand, but you pulled away, the gesture feeling like a trap.

You pushed past him to the dresser made of dark, deep oak with elegant twisted legs and gilded golden trims. You picked out your attire for the day, folding it into a bundle: a red silk blouse, black high-waisted trousers with a tailored fit, a leather belt that cinched snugly over your waist, and your usual black heeled boots, still at the foot of the bed. There was still some mud caked on the bottoms, no matter how much you had scrubbed them the night before from running after a patient. You’d have to ask Jungwoo for his shoe shining spray.

With your clothes in hand, you made your way to the bathroom. Min Jun followed you like a shadow, still grumbling something about you and your work, but you tuned him out, focusing instead on the sound of your bare feet padding against the cold, hardwood floor. Still, after twenty seconds, you had enough.

You stopped at the bathroom door and turned to face him. “Why aren’t you at work already? Taking care of Daddy’s laundry?”

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening in a way that reminded you of the time he had to tell his father that he didn’t want to go into politics. “I was actually trying to be good for you. I know your car is still at the workshop and your driver is on vacation.”

You turned on the faucet, letting the warm water fill the tub. “I’ll take a cab,” you muttered, the words rolling off your tongue with a deliberate calmness, pronounced in a way that revolutionized and exposed what was most hidden within you.

While waiting for the water, you grabbed a towel from the shelves in the back as well as a bar of soap.

Min Jun’s eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Just like you always do. Ignore the problem, run away.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you laid out the towel on the heated rack. “You’re so dramatic, Min Jun. It’s almost entertaining.”

“What’s so funny?”

You turned off the faucet and threw your head back, your hair falling behind your back like a cascade of dark silk, the ends brushing against the lace trim of your nightgown. You laughed then, a sound that felt foreign, almost unnatural, before walking towards him, cornering him against the sink. He almost dropped the bundle of sheets in his hands, his eyes going wide with a mix of surprise and something else—fear, maybe?

For the first time in a long while, you saw the old Min Jun, the rebellious teenager who once stole his father’s suits to impress you, the same boy who would sneak flowers into your school locker when no one was watching. He used to bring you daisies, your favorite, wrapped in newspaper because he couldn’t afford anything else. Now, he stood before you, a stranger in an expensive suit, holding onto wet sheets and a past that no longer existed.

After feeling helpless, unsure of what to do with yourself, not wanting to continue the same past of calm and death, and unable to dominate a different future due to the habit of comfort, you now realized how free Min was and how unhappy he had been. His past—obscure, riddled with frustrated dreams—had left him unable to settle into the conformist, half-happy world of mediocrity.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his cheek, and whispered, "Min Jun."

The sound of his name seemed to snap him out of his daze, and he blinked rapidly, trying to regain his composure.

He tried to take a step back, but the sink behind him left no room for escape. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his, and he flinched, almost losing his grip on the sheets.

“You think I don’t know you, huh?”

“W-what?”

He raised his eyes, meeting your anguished face, and narrowed them, analyzing and understanding you. There was a long minute of silence. You waited silently. You knew this moment was the first truly alive between you, the first that connected you directly. That moment suddenly separated you from all your past, and in a singular premonition, you foresaw that it would stand out as a red dot over the entire course of your life.

“Are you fucking out of your-” he began, but you cut him off, your words spilling out in a rapid-fire burst.

“Elections are coming up, aren’t they, honey? Elections are coming up, and your damn wife isn’t going to any of those shitty interviews or rallies anymore. Your wife doesn’t appear on the cameras, and it is making the public’s attention go to us instead of your father, and that is driving him mad. And now? Now I’m taking over Seo Moonjo’s case! What a perfect way to steal his lollipop, huh? So I’m guessing you’re being all sweet like that because something’s going to happen this weekend, isn’t it? A meeting or a family dinner? Or do you want to take me to bed, soften me up like a piece of meat and tell you all of the things that serial killer told me?”

Min Jun’s face flushed a deep red, his hands trembling slightly. “Are you really trying to use your psychiatric skills on me?”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Oh, darling, I don’t need to use any skills on you. You’re an open book and I know you're scared, aren’t you?” You whispered, your lips barely an inch from his ear.

“Scared that I’ll mess up your perfect little plans? Scared that I’ll drag your name through the mud along with mine.”

#lee dongwook x fem! reader #lee dongwook x reader #a shop for killers #seo moonjo x reader #jeong jian #imagine #lee dong wook #lee dong wook x reader #jeong jin man #seo moonjo

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