#six whole footnotes
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[Album of the day] World Eaters - Demo MK-1
Guelph, ON // 2020
[Genres] death metal, war metal
[Themes] In the grim darkness of the far future, there are only riffs...
[FFO] Warhammer 40K*, Bolt Thrower, Chainsword
[Thoughts] You can't traverse the waters of death metal for very long without encountering Warhammer 40K in some form, and I'll confess I count myself a fan.** But you don't need to be a capital-G Gamer to appreciate this ripping demo, a solo project from multi-instrumentalist David Gupta. World Eaters's riffs are as violent as its namesake***, guaranteed to have you itching for the mosh pit. The first two tracks, "Devour" and "Baneblade," will pummel you with energetic rhythm, an auditory siege culminating in the death/doom hellscape of "The Warp" (my very favorite World Eaters song to date).
I picked this demo because I think it's rock-solid, but I'd like to talk about World Eaters's other releases as well. Grinding Advance (2021) is their second EP, doubling down on everything in Demo MK-1. "Armoured Spearhead (Hellhammer)" is six minutes of unbridled energy; "Expedition / Tomb World" is nearly nine minutes, the latter half containing clarinet-infused Nile worship;**** there's even a cover of "Running Up That Hill."
World Eaters's new split, Mothman and the Thunderbirds vs World Eaters, adds two new great tracks to the WE catalogue. It's also the first release without drum programming; joining as the second permanent member, Winter Stomp***** adds ass-kicking blast beats to the bands repertoire. I'm very excited to see more future releases with her style.
Now that Winter Stomp has pledged her gory chainaxe to the sonic blitzkrieg of the World Eaters, the duo have been able to play live. Living outside Ontario I can't say I've been to one of their concerts, but I bet they split skulls; if you live near Guelph, check them out.
Also, I would be remiss for not mentioning that World Eaters has always been very charitable with the profits from their music, leading several donation campaigns for Guelph Pride, an LGBTQ+ nonprofit local to World Eaters's hometown. Winter Stomp has also designed and printed some booty short merch reading, "Be Gay Do Heresy," which tempt me every Bandcamp Friday.******
Thanks for reading the long post today. Keep on killing, maiming, and burning.
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* If you're unfamiliar, Warhammer 40K is a popular tabletop strategy game played with painted miniatures and rolling dice. It's popular with metalheads because the lore is so metal. Indulge me in a quick tl;dr.
It's the 41st century, and the Imperium of Man has spread through the Galaxy under the tutelage of the God Emperor. Though once great, the empire was split 10,000 years prior due to infighting from his übermensch sons, the Primarchs. Now the empire is spread thin across too many star systems, losing the fight against three main threats: the Xenos (other alien civilizations), the Heretics (those who question the authority of a fascist theocracy), and Chaos itself (arcane beings from the Warp, the non-space between wormholes).
The God Emperor sits as a corpse upon his throne on Terra, every ounce of his psychic abilities maintaining the Astronomican, a beacon guiding spaceships throughout the Warp. Every day an increasing number of psychics are sacrificed to fuel his powers, for if the beacon fails, the Imperium collapses and humanity falls.
There are no good guys, and there is no hope. For in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
** Never actually played anything Games Workshop except Necromunda, though I've read a fair few novels. I prefer wargames that won't bleed me for money and bury me in rules, so I mainly play Mantic Games's Kings of War and Firefight. One book for all the rules and force lists at a fraction of the price.
*** The World Eaters are a faction of heretical Space Marines worshipping one of the four Chaos Gods: Khorne, the Blood God, who sits upon a throne made from the skulls of those slain in battle. They are also my favorite faction; he kind of has a Conan-esque backstory of fighting in gladiatorial slave pits. And we all know how much metalheads like Conan.
**** The Egyptian musical themes are themselves referential to the content of the song: Tomb Worlds are the hidden domains of the Necrons, a xenos race that conquered the Galaxy aeons before humanity even gazed at the stars. Annoyed by the emergence of other upstart civilizations, the Dynasties of the Infinite Empire transferred their consciousnesses into mechanical bodies, intending to slumber in hidden tombs until the juvenile races extinguished themselves.
But occasionally something wakes the soulless early, by delving too deep in ancient ruins or experimenting with ancient and unknown tech. And what they find is always ruthless extermination, for the destruction of a Necron's artificial body does not kill a mind capable respawning eternally into an army's worth of mechanical warriors.
***** She's apparently from the Netherlands. Neat.
****** I already have one of their patches on my metal jacket. Very stylish.
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[From the band/label]
Thought for the day: A coward always seeks compromise.
David Gupta: Guitars, Bass, Vocals, Drum Programming
Psychic screams from the Immaterium are:
Adam Ujhelyi (Teleportise, Hellbreather)
Justin Krawczyk (Frank Reynolds, BatBoy)
Derek Prince-Cox (Wakeless, Yuzun, ex-Arise and Ruin)
Stuart Charlton (First World Famine, Inverted Serpent)
Nik Wever (ex-The Story Of..., Time the Destroyer)
Recorded, Mixed and, "Mastered" by David Gupta at Doyle House.
World Eaters logo and Demo MK-1 artwork by Meytheus Rexy, @meytheusrexy_art
#Bandcamp#full album#album#music#metal music#death metal#war metal#warhammer 40k#warhammer 40000#wh40k#40k#world eaters#demo#listen to demos#canadian metal#canadian music#underground music#underground metal#underground artist#six whole footnotes#guelph pride#guelph#riff worship#album of the day
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conflict, conceal, confess | minho
kinktober day 31: thigh-riding
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 18.1k (💀)
genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)
warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia
summary:
“Why don’t we call a truce?”
Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”
“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”
“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.
It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”
“Your brother is such an asshole.”
You wondered how many of your conversations with Felix had started with those exact words. In the years since childhood, there had probably been countless variations of this very situation: you collapsing into a seat near Felix, ready to unleash after biting your tongue for however many hours beforehand.
His reaction was second nature at this point. Without even glancing towards you, Felix paused in the middle of rolling out what looked to be shortbread dough and turned to switch on the coffeemaker. “What is it this time?”
“Do you remember how many new people signed up to debate at the start of the year? Had to be at least twenty, right? Maybe thirty?”
“At least thirty,” Felix confirmed. “I gave out blondies to every person that signed up. The entire pan was gone in like an hour.”
Yes, you remembered that day. Specifically, you remembered Felix holding up the empty pan with a big smile on his face and proudly declaring how many people had shown interest in joining. And you’d had to figure out how to politely break it to him that the hordes of first-year students walking back and forth in front of his table were eyeing a little more than just his baked goods.
Sweet boy. Sweet, innocent, oblivious boy.
“Guess how many are left,” you challenged him, eager to prove a point.
Felix frowned, thinking it over. “There were still about fifteen when I was last there. So, ten?”
“Six,” you exclaimed, balling your hand into a fist and planting it onto the tabletop for dramatic effect. “And Minho made one of them cry today.”
In just a few years, you and Minho had transformed your university’s debate team into one of the most successful in the country. You’d won awards, you’d attended international competitions, you’d gained notice from several notable figures in academia. Membership of the debate team had gone from a minor footnote you’d discard in an application to a badge of prestige, of recognised talent.
Minho’s standards were high, shockingly so, but he got results. As a second-in-command in all but name, it was usually up to you to run damage control, to nudge members towards persevering instead of walking out the door. The good cop to his bad cop, the carrot to his stick. You’d be tempted to call it exhausting, were it not for the undeniable rush of satisfaction whenever you succeeded in building up a member where Minho failed.
Lately, however, your efforts were starting to fall short. In just eight weeks, over twenty recruits had quit before team selections had even finished.
“Oh, jeez,” Felix muttered. Before he could say anything more, the coffeemaker chirped behind him, and he wasted no time pouring you the biggest cup he had lying around.
You motioned it over with greedy little grabby-hands, accepting it with a smile.
Felix returned to his shortbread dough and picked up a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Why did they cry?”
You made a vaguely displeased noise through a mouthful of coffee, only managing to word a response when you set the mug down. “I don’t even know. This week’s debate was on the ethics of nuclear power, and I could tell she took pretty much all her talking points from Wikipedia. I assume it was about that. Minho probably got all Minho about it and tore her to shreds.”
Felix paused. You wondered if it was just because he was concentrating on his cookies, until you realised he was hesitating. “…I don’t know. I know Minho takes this stuff seriously, but he’s not the kind of guy to make some poor kid cry over debating.”
“Why not?“ You asked, and you can’t stop the bitterness creeping out into your voice. “It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”
“Oh…” Felix said, eyes widening in realisation. He lifted his head up to look at you, sympathetic. “Shit, yeah. I’m sorry.”
For the most part, you’d gotten over your experience in high school debate club, but the memories still stung a little.
You’d been so eager, signing up the very second you were eligible, talking Felix’s ear off about how excited you were, how much you were looking forward to it. You’d known that Felix’s older brother - a year ahead of you - was somewhat of a big deal in the club, and you’d maybe imagined him taking you under his wing. Looking out for you, encouraging you with gentle feedback and a warm smile.
You’d gone into your first debate, attempted to expand upon the few points you’d known about the topic, and shyly waited for Minho’s counterarguments.
He had stepped up to the microphone, levelled you with a blank stare, and eviscerated every single argument you’d made. Pointed out every logical fallacy, every gap in your research, every misspoken or poorly worded statement, everything. He’d cut you right to the bone, with zero mercy.
You spent the rest of the club meeting holding back tears, ran all the way to Felix’s house as soon as it was over, sobbing your eyes out – and actually, maybe that was the first of many “your brother is an asshole” exchanges.
Huh. Funny how things come full circle like that.
When Minho returned home about a half-hour after you, you’d stormed into his room and demanded to know why he would treat you so badly. Did he want to drive you away from the club? Did he secretly hate you this whole time?
You’d never forget his response. The shrug he gave you, the arch of one eyebrow as he took in the sight of you, burning with rage, fists clenched by your side. The fucking sigh.
I just thought you’d do better than that.
What a fucking thing to say to a fourteen-year-old. Especially one that looked up to him the way you did.
And, deep-down, there was a certain sting that accompanied his words. Something you could never bring yourself to admit out loud, not even to Felix. An extra flash of pain, because back then you’d…
Whatever. It was ancient history.
You had almost quit on the spot. Instead, you dove headfirst into researching the next week’s topic, determined to beat him, paranoid about every little mistake he might pick at.
And that…
Well, that was your life for the next nine years. Even that one blissful year when Minho had graduated, the year you’d taken over as head of debate club, the year you’d gotten your team all the way to nationals - he still didn’t leave you in peace.
He’d turned up to that final competition, gaze intense, face neutral. You’d spotted him in the audience, unable to tear your eyes away, watching every little twitch of his jaw, every tiny shift in expression, and knew he was picking apart your arguments. Waiting for you to trip up and fail in front of everyone.
It felt like a glorious ‘fuck you’ when your team won that year. You’d held that trophy, looked right into Minho’s eyes, and wanted to scream ‘I fucking told you so’ right in his smug face.
Ugh. Asshole.
“It’s all in the past,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug it off.
Taking another swig of coffee, you reached over and poked Felix’s shoulder, grinning.
“And besides…Minho isn’t the one coming with me to the U.N. next month.”
“Next month,” Felix repeated, slightly in awe, matching your excitement and then some. “Holy shit, it’s so soon.”
It was. In just a few weeks’ time, you’d be standing in front of a U.N. committee giving a speech on commitment to environmental preservation with your best friend by your side. You’d worked for this for months, years even. And you’d be doing it together.
“I’m afraid I have bad news about the U.N. speech.”
You sat there, horrified, as your supervisor – Dr. Koning – shuffled the papers on his desk with a grave expression. “What? What happened? Don’t tell me it’s cancelled.”
“It’s not cancelled,” Dr. Koning said, before pausing. “…But it has been postponed. Certain recent global events have pushed it further down the agenda. The speech will happen next January.”
“January?” You repeated, and horror quickly dawned on you. “No, wait. Felix can’t do January. He’s studying abroad next semester. There has to be some other…”
“I’m afraid there’s not. I’ve tried to speak to the few contacts I have, but changing the agenda of the United Nations is…well, a little beyond our capabilities, I’m sure you can understand.”
“But this is just as much Felix’s speech as it is mine. It’s on environmental preservation, he’s the one that’s specialising in environmentalism, he can’t just get dropped like…what if he flew back for the U.N. speech? That’s doable, right?”
“Even if he could, he would still be missing the weeks of preparation leading up to the speech,” Dr. Koning reminded you, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Unless he withdraws from his study-abroad program, I’m afraid we have to give his spot to someone else.”
You felt like you’d just been punched, right in the gut. Felix couldn’t withdraw from the program. It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen this university in the first place. He’d spent months competing for the limited spaces at the best partner university, he’d e-mailed the faculty there ahead of time to begin networking, he’d based his entire career path on the connections he could make there.
Even the fucking United Nations wasn’t worth the damage his future plans would take if he dropped out of studying abroad.
“…Who’s taking his spot?” You asked, quiet, defeated.
Dr. Koning looked down at the papers, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, there are a few candidates in mind. But at such short notice, there’s really only one feasible choice. One of my colleague’s PhD students, you might know him. Lee Minho?”
…No.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
You choked on the sudden anger bursting from your chest, trying your best to push it down before you started cussing out Lee Minho right in front of your professor. Finally, you were able to respond through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know him. We don’t…really get on.”
Dr. Koning frowned, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are there any incidents I should be aware of?”
“No, nothing like that,” you said. “Just…it’s been a thing since we were kids. We don’t like each other.”
“Well, we can look for others…” he said, before trailing off. Frowning, he leaned forward slightly, granting himself an air of conspiracy, like he was letting you in on a secret. “But, honestly…if this is something you feel comfortable setting aside, just temporarily, you should know that Minho really is the best candidate. By quite a wide margin.”
Of fucking course he was.
You let out a deep breath, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to start massaging your temples.
“…Maybe,” you relented, even if it took every ounce of willpower you had. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good to hear,” Dr. Koning said, smiling. “I really do hope the two of you can work together on this. Both of you have shown astounding potential. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
“…Mm-hm. Me too.”
It was a cold, crisp Monday morning, and you found yourself stood on the steps of the lecture halls. The expression on your face was enough for the dawdling first-years around you to give you a wide berth, allowing you to scroll through your e-mails in peace.
Scroll through your e-mails, and wait.
For him.
Felix had mentioned that Minho was sitting in on a talk from a visiting financial expert on the state of global economics, and you figured now was as good a time as any to confront him about the speech.
…And by ‘confront’, you meant ‘patiently and politely open channels of communication’. Of course.
Fuck, it was freezing.
You shivered, pulling your scarf just a little tighter around your neck, and exited out of your e-mails to shoot a text to Felix.
You
Who in their right mind voluntarily sits in on an economics lecture at eight o’clock on a Monday morning?
Lixie
…
i mean
…literally you last week
You
OK first of all
That was a fucking Guillaume Van Bebber seminar
The man has a Nobel prize
Second of all
That wasn’t a Monday
Third
Shut up
Lixie
ok no cookies for you
You
Wait no, what??
I take it back.
Take it all back.
You’re my bestest friend in the whole world.
Bestest and smartest.
Waittt
You were so distracted texting Felix, you didn’t notice the doors to the lecture halls opening, and the slow stream of students beginning to file out.
You did, however, notice a familiar voice.
Your head snapped up to see Minho at the top of the steps, talking with who looked to be the guest lecturer. The two were standing still, rather than walking along with the rest of the students, positioned just out of the way so they could continue whatever conversation they were having without interruption.
Cool, even more waiting.
You shifted your weight, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat to keep warm, and watched as Minho continued to speak – and, unbelievably, managed to make this lecturer laugh.
You blinked.
What the fuck? Minho didn’t make people laugh. He made them miserable, yes, but never laugh.
And then, suddenly, as if he could sense your insults, Minho looked over and locked eyes with you. His eyebrows raised slightly, probably in surprise at seeing you on campus so early in the morning. You made sure to maintain eye contact – an old habit with Minho, by this point. You hated being the first to look away, it always felt like weakness.
He turned away, saying something to the lecturer with a slight incline of his head.
The lecturer blinked, before nodding. You watched as, with a warm smile, the lecturer extended what looked to be a business card to Minho.
Minho accepted it, the two exchanged one final handshake, before Minho turned on his heel and descended the steps.
Towards you.
It was a little unfair, you wanted to grumble, that Minho always looked so put-together, no matter the time of day. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, perfectly suited for the chilly October morning air, under a tailored beige overcoat. It looked designer, the plaid pattern on its lining looking vaguely familiar, but that was standard for Minho’s wardrobe. You’d known since you were a little kid that Felix’s family had money.
Like, fuck-you money.
You forced your eyes up to his face before they travelled any further downwards, but you knew from a glance that Minho was wearing some form of tight black jeans. They were a staple of his wardrobe, and you hated them. You hated any and every reminder of Minho’s…
Well, Minho’s fucking tree trunk thighs.
Which you also hated.
With a passion.
He did dance as a kid. And some kind of equestrian thing in his teenage years – because, again, fuck-you money – which all contributed to…
You know what?
Didn’t matter.
Because you hated them. They weren’t worth mentioning.
“We need to talk about the U.N. speech,” you said, as soon as he got close enough, cutting straight to the chase.
“OK,” Minho nodded, approaching closer. You paused, confused, as he showed no sign of slowing. He drew closer and closer, and something tightened in your chest, as he–
He brushed past you, shoulder nearly bumping yours, continuing onwards past you.
You stilled, rooted to the spot for a moment, blinking at the empty air where he had just been standing.
Shock quickly morphed into incredulous anger, and you turned sharply to storm after him, blown away by his rudeness. “Hey, where – what the fuck?”
Minho paused, turning to face you, halting so suddenly that you almost bumped right into him. You stumbled back a step or two, before righting yourself, as Minho asked. “…Wait, did you mean now?”
The way he said it, confused, as if you were the strange one for not specifying the obvious.
“No, I was thinking in three weeks. But let me just check my calendar first,” you retorted, deadpan. “Yes, now. Why else would I be here?”
“For classes,” Minho pointed out, gesturing to the lecture building he’d just exited.
You opened your mouth instinctively, before pausing.
Because the honest answer, that you were here because you’d been waiting for him, now sounded…
“…Look, are you free to talk about the speech or not?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest.
Minho stared at you for a moment, before giving you a shrug. “I’ve got about an hour before my next class.”
“Good.”
“I usually get coffee around this time, while it’s quiet.”
“…OK? Good for you?” You said, frowning slightly.
Minho kept staring, looking…strangely expectant.
What, he wanted a pat on the back for having coffee in the morning?
Finally, with a sharp exhale that could almost be mistaken as an exasperated sigh, Minho turned away and set off walking again.
Rude. You were literally just having a conversation? Now, he just expected you to follow him?
Ugh.
Reluctantly, you did just that, having to quicken your pace to match Minho’s stride with those…fucking gargantuan legs of his.
Legs that didn’t matter. Because you didn’t notice them. At all.
To your surprise, Minho didn’t head for Muffin House, the main coffee shop on campus. That was your go-to place for caffeine – it was cheap, they had a bunch of muffins in different flavours, and they had an irresponsibly large number of discounts on extra espresso shots for students.
Instead, you had to follow Minho down a little side street nestled between two of the towering science blocks, cut across a near-deserted car park, and finally took a right towards a quiet little pocket of buildings on the edge of campus.
You would have walked right past the coffee shop entirely, were it not for Minho suddenly ducking through the doorway of a non-descript stone building. You paused, and it was only after looking up and studying the front face of the building that you noticed the sign for Kwon’s Koffee.
Inside, it looked indistinguishable from other coffee shops on campus – except it was far less crowded, with only a few tables taken up by exclusively postgraduate students.
This was definitely one of those little insider-knowledge haunts for PhD students, like Minho. And the idea almost made you want to hate it on principle.
You joined the queue behind Minho, gaze wandering toward the board of coffee specials.
…Fuck, OK, they did look pretty good.
Still, the principle of the matter remained.
“You realise Muffin House was so much closer, right?” You asked, glancing at Minho.
Minho made a face. “Yeah, but their coffee is shitty.”
“No, it’s not!”
“It’s always bitter.”
“Yeah, because it’s made to go with the super-sweet muffins,” you said, slowing your words as if trying to explain the concept of taste to a toddler. “They balance each other out.”
“Which means if you don’t get muffins, you’re shit out of luck,” Minho pointed out, and glanced over his shoulder at you. “And I never get them.”
You stared at him, genuinely affronted by this statement. Yet another thing to add to the colossal-sized list of reasons to dislike Minho. “What? Why? How?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”
“How are you and Felix even related?”
“It’s because of Felix,” Minho argued, and you had to admit, your interest was piqued. “Who do you think was the test subject for all his recipes?”
“What, were they bad?” You asked, intrigued.
Minho smiled ruefully. “Some were. But the most dangerous ones were the great ones. There’s only so many whole pans of brownies you can inhale before your body just rejects sugar on sight.”
Huh.
You forgot, sometimes, how close Minho and Felix were. It didn’t entirely fit in with your general doctrine of ‘Minho = The Worst’ so it was often banished to the back of your mind.
You supposed even the absolute dregs of humanity usually had at least one redeeming quality.
…Wait, this was coming dangerously close to an actual conversation with Minho.
“I think you’re just a coffee snob,” you dismissed with a shrug.
Minho rolled his eyes, and that brief façade of reasonable humanity vanished. “If Muffin House figured out how to brew coffee without burning it to shit, I’d drink it. But they haven’t yet, so…”
You opened your mouth, already raring to start an argument, but it was at that moment that the person in front of Minho in the queue finished ordering. Minho turned away from you, and walked up to the counter.
You followed closely behind, and it was only when your attention shifted from Minho to the person behind the counter that your eyes lit up.
“Seungmin?”
Seungmin blinked, leaning to the side just a little to look over Minho’s shoulder at you, surprised. “Oh, hey! Long time no see.”
Seungmin had been a stalwart member of your debate team for the first few years of undergrad, until he landed a job as research assistant for one of the most respected professors on campus. You had a lot of good feeling towards him, not least because he – along with Felix – often acted as the mediator between you and Minho.
He must have remembered that role too, as his gaze soon shifted back and forth between you and Minho, and his brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, are you two getting coffee? Like, together?”
You saw Minho bristle out of the corner of your eye, and you fought back a scoff. Did he really find it so insulting to be seen in public with you? “Yes, we are.”
Seungmin’s eyes flickered between the two of you again. “…Voluntarily?”
Minho answered this time, seemingly through gritted teeth. “Apparently.”
“Huh,” Seungmin said, mostly to himself. “Interesting.”
“Can we order now?” Minho asked, impatiently.
Seungmin shrugged, ignoring Minho’s rudeness, and set about taking your orders.
(Of course, Minho took his coffee black. Pretentious motherfucker probably had a whole thing about palate and bean aroma or whatever. You threw in a muffin with your order, to spite Minho more than anything else.)
It was only at the end, when it came to payment, that Seungmin looked up again at the two of you. “Are you guys paying separately, or…?”
That was kind of a dumb question.
“Separately,” you said, pointing out the obvious.
“Very separately,” Minho echoed, giving Seungmin a very pointed look.
Impressively, Minho’s glare did little to change Seungmin’s expression. In fact, Seungmin only smiled a little wider, calmly reverting back to his standard customer service script. “…OK. Cash or card?”
After payment, it only took a few minutes of waiting for your coffee before you found yourself sat at a table in the corner of the coffee shop, facing directly across from Minho.
The two of you sat there in silence, coffee in front of you.
How did you…how did you even start a conversation with Minho that wasn’t an argument? Usually, you relied on him to say something incorrect and pounce on it.
Now? You had to figure out how to be…nice. Civil. All because of this dumb speech.
You watched Minho shrug off his coat, turning in his seat to drape the coat over the back of his chair. The black turtleneck he was wearing underneath was surprisingly form-fitting, and when he turned back around to face you and pick up his mug, your eyes dropped down to your own cup before you gave into the urge to scowl openly.
Sometimes, you wondered if it would be harder to hate Minho if he were less attractive.
It was a thought you crushed down the second it came into your head, but you couldn’t entirely deny it. There had been moments, unspeakable moments, when you started dating someone, that your brain betrayed you and compared them to Minho. It was like he had to just…infect every part of your life. He had to ruin everything.
You swallowed, curling your fingers around the handle of your mug, tapping the edge of it with your thumb. “…So, the speech.”
“The speech.”
“I assume Koning already talked to you about it?”
“Yes.”
“…And?” You said, resisting the urge to scream. This was like pulling teeth. “Your thoughts?”
Minho sat back in his chair, eyeing you closely. “Why the U.N.?”
Easy question. So easy, you’d almost call it moronic. “It’s the U.N. It’s literally where I want my career to take me.”
“You want to work at the U.N.?” Minho asked, and you could almost mistake his tone for interest.
“Yes,” you said, confidently, half-prepared to defend yourself in case Minho decided to find your ambition laughable. Screw him. “The Human Rights Council, preferably, but I wouldn’t say no to a job in the General Assembly.”
“Who would?” Minho remarked, deadpan.
“Ergo, a speech there. It wasn’t easy, but we managed it,” you said, not even pretending to be humble.
“…It’s impressive, honestly. What you’ve achieved.”
“What me and Felix achieved,” you corrected him automatically, but honestly, you were a little thrown. That sounded…dangerously close to a compliment. From Minho.
“Koning said it was your idea,” Minho said. “You came up with the proposal, and you were the one ballsy enough to actually submit it to the U.N.”
“Yeah, but the speech is literally on environmental preservation–”
“International NGO commitment to environmental preservation,” Minho interrupted, and you bit down the sudden flare of anger that he felt the need to correct you on your own fucking speech topic. “International commitment is your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”
“And Felix is literally specialising in environmentalism,” you reminded him, and it was then that one of your biggest concerns about this whole situation reared its head. “Which reminds me, actually, why did they pick you to replace him on it?”
Minho stared at you for a solid moment, eyebrows slowly raising, as if he couldn’t believe you were being serious.
You felt yourself bristling, growing defensive. “What? You’re a politics student, not–”
“My master’s thesis was literally on environmental activism. I help teach undergrad classes on green politics and ecological efforts in government policy. How do you not know this?”
…OK. So, fine, maybe you didn’t pay that much attention to what Minho actually studied. Why would you? You imagined it would only piss you off more, reading through his fucking glowing examples of academic writing – like, seriously, in your second year of undergrad, one of your professors used one of his essays as a literal example of how to do the assignment.
You scoffed, lifting your coffee up to your mouth, muttering under your breath. “Ego-logical efforts, more like.”
Minho tilted his head, clearly having heard every word you just said. “What was that?”
You stared him down, taking one long, unabashed drink of coffee, before setting your cup down. Maintaining eye contact, you forced your most innocent smile. “Nothing.”
Another moment of silence fell between the two of you, as Minho’s mouth twitched. You could tell he was very tempted to call you out, and you almost wanted to dare him to say something. Going this long without some kind of conflict with Minho felt…weird. Strange.
Instead, Minho sighed, and you couldn’t imagine the visible shock on your face when his expression actually softened towards you. “…Look. I know you really wanted to work with Felix on this. It’s really shitty that this got taken out of your hands.”
…What? What the fuck was happening here?
He continued. “I’m sorry you got screwed over like this.”
What the fuck was in this coffee?
“I’m not trying to butt in and mess with everything you’ve prepared,” Minho said. “I genuinely just want to help you. I know we’ve got…issues.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement.”
“Sometimes people just don’t get along,” Minho said, eyes flickering downwards to his mug as he took a sip of coffee. “But I hope we can be professional about this.”
You fought the urge to scowl, but you couldn’t quite stop yourself from clenching your jaw at the assumption.
You could be professional.
You could be insanely fucking professional.
“Yes, I hope we can,” you said, your voice perfectly level. Calm. Composed. Professional. “So, actually, until this speech is over…why don’t we call a truce?”
Minho blinked, caught off-guard by your choice of words. “‘Truce’?”
“Yeah. Until the speech is done, we’ll try to be nice to each other. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. You backtracked slightly. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”
“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.
It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again, for the next few months?”
Minho didn’t answer immediately, clearly thinking the proposition over.
You took another sip of coffee, trying your best to leave it at that. But you couldn’t help but add, pointedly. “I mean, I don’t think it’ll be hard for me. But if you think you–”
“I’ll manage,” Minho interjected, dryly, unimpressed. “You’re the one who starts it most of the time, anyway.”
“I don’t–” you bit your tongue, taking a second to claw back your patience. “…I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure.”
You sat just a little taller, frowning. “OK. So, we’re decided.”
“Yep.”
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
“…Good.”
“Good.”
“Great,” you said, maybe just a little eager to get the last word. Maybe.
It was only when you took another sip of coffee, content with yourself, that Minho dropped the sudden curveball. “My housemates are throwing a Halloween party this weekend. Maybe you should come.”
You very almost did a spit-take with your coffee. “What?”
“If you’re so interested in a truce,” Minho added, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the table, and that was when you recognised the invitation for what it was.
A challenge.
Minho was absolutely trying to get you to chicken out.
You straightened your shoulders. “I’d be happy to,” you said, and it sounded vaguely threatening.
“Great, I’ll let them know.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” Minho said, his words so edged, you could imagine them slicing into you.
Yeah, this truce was definitely going to last.
This was a terrible idea.
You hesitated on the pavement outside of what was very obviously a Halloween party in full swing. You’d purposely waited a little, hoping to avoid the awkward early stages of house parties, your imagination filled with dreadful images of being one of the first to show up and having to make conversation with Minho.
The later, the better. More people to act as a buffer, and a better excuse to get drunk.
Hopefully, fingers-crossed, maybe Minho had already gotten absolutely wasted and wouldn’t even notice you were there.
Bolstered by the thought, you shot a text to Felix – who should already be inside, having volunteered to swing by early and help his older brother with decorations – to say that you were here.
OK.
Breathe.
Go.
You marched up the path towards the front door, refusing to be distracted by the partygoers scattered around the front yard, smoking and chatting and one couple leaning against the wall and already looking very handsy.
The front door was open, and you made your way inside, senses alert for any sign of Felix (to approach) and Minho (to avoid) as you did so.
The house was impressively large for student housing – of course it was, Minho lived here – and yet, every room held a crowd of people. Dancing, drinking, having fun. A drunk girl, dressed in what looked to be some variation of zombie Disney princess, stumbled into you, giggling apologetically as she did. Her drink – a can of something, maybe a bottle – was icy-cold as it brushed against your thigh.
You should have worn something longer, you thought. Your costume was cute, and dare you say, maybe even kinda hot, but it was not cut out for any temperatures colder than a room full of warm bodies. Just the walk up to the house had you shivering, just a little.
Your hunt for Felix led you from room to room, as you tried and failed to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes at the size of this place. Someone had set up tables – multiple – for beer pong in one room, while another room hosted an impressive speaker system for dancing, while another room was all softly-lit and calm background music, clearly the designated room for quieter, laid-back conversation.
A layout that checked all the house party boxes, sure. But a terrible place to try and track someone down.
Eventually, somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, and it was here that you wondered whether you should just give up for a second and grab something to drink. You’d find Felix at some point, hopefully. Just as long as you didn’t run into…
“Oh.”
You turned at the voice, instinctively, but on second thoughts maybe you should have pretended not to hear.
Minho was standing in front of you, leaning against the kitchen counter.
And he…
He looked…
Holy fucking shit.
From the fake blood on his billowy white shirt and the painted-on bite mark on his neck, he was clearly some kind of vampire. Someone – maybe Minho himself – had applied the subtlest amount of eyeliner, and between that and the rumpled dark hair, and the…
Fuck, those were leather pants. Skin-tight.
Oh, you had to leave right now–
“Hi,” you said, standing your ground.
“You’re late,” Minho noted.
It was only then that you realised Minho was part of a loose cluster of guys, all of whom turned to see who Minho was talking to.
And one of them, to your intense relief, was Felix.
“Hey!” Felix greeted, wandering over to throw an arm around you in a half-hug. He was a cheerful drinker, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help your confidence a little to see someone so unambiguously happy to see you here.
When he pulled away, you noticed that the little hand-drawn stitches around his neck had already started to smudge. Miraculously the little fake plastic bolts on either side of his head remained intact.
“I like your costume,” Felix told you. “It’s very…pink.”
“It is very pink,” you agreed, looking down at yourself.
When you glanced up, you caught the way Minho’s eyes flickered upwards too, as if he’d just finished looking you up and down.
You tensed a little, preparing yourself for some kind of critique. Lee Minho, champion appraiser of cheap Halloween costumes.
To your surprise, however, Minho quickly averted his eyes and took a deep swig of the drink in his hand.
“I like your costume too,” one of Minho’s friends chimed in. He was kind of cute, all dark hair and big brown eyes, so adorable that his werewolf costume came across as looking more like a chipmunk. “What are you?”
You smiled, relaxing a little. “The most accomplished woman of our time.”
The guy blinked, looking briefly thrown for a second, eyes back on your costume as he tried to decipher who you were.
But Minho, astonishingly, cracked a half-smile. Which, for Minho, was practically a laugh. “Are you Barbie?”
“Yes,” you admitted, reluctantly, half-tempted to lie just to be petty. Except, damn it, no more pettiness. You’d agreed.
“Barbie is the most accomplished woman of our time?”
“Princess. Astronaut. President. I am prepared to fight you on this.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I’ll win.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, and again, his gaze flickered downwards. What, was it so shocking to see you in pink?
You shifted your weight, and you almost folded your arms over your chest before you remembered what the neckline was like on this dress. Maybe not.
Unbeknownst to you, Felix and Minho’s friend exchanged a look.
Clearing your throat, you turned your attention to the large and varied alcohol selection littering the kitchen counter. “So, what can I get to drink here?”
“Minho can talk you through it,” Minho’s friend suddenly announced, patting Minho on the shoulder. Minho blinked, tearing his eyes away from you to look at his friend. “I’m gonna go find Chan, he promised me a beer pong rematch. Felix, bro, you should come with.”
Felix hesitated. “…Actually, maybe I–”
“Nah, come on,” Minho’s friend insisted, hooking his arm with Felix’s, cheerfully pulling him away. “Be my cheerleader.”
You stared, as it dawned on you that your biggest support in this minefield of a conversation was being frogmarched away.
Right. OK. Alone with Minho.
Cool.
You chanced a look back towards Minho, only to find him still watching you, and you quickly diverted your attention to the alcohol again. Smoothing down your skirt, you forced yourself to shrug. “I thought about coming as Frieda Dalen, but I figured no one would get the reference. She was–”
“The first woman to speak at the U.N., yeah.”
You snapped your head back to stare at him, bewildered. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Minho raised one eyebrow, and you were genuinely irritated that, in combination with the hair and the blood and the outfit in general, it almost…almost maybe twisted something in your gut. “My first official university debate was about the history of women in global affairs. She was a good factoid. 1946, right?”
You fought the urge to scowl as you confirmed his answer. “Yep. 1946.”
And, because even the tightest of leather couldn’t dull your burning dislike of seeing Minho smug, you pressed him further.
“Do you remember which country she was the delegate of?”
“No,” Minho admitted, tilting his head slightly to one side as he looked at you. After a moment, he straightened up from where he’d been leaning, gaining an inch or two of height in doing so, forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to continue meeting his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”
His words should have sounded patronising.
Except, there was a strange edge to his voice, almost a playfulness but not quite. Not a lightness, because it definitely didn’t feel light. It felt kind of heavy, actually.
If you didn’t know any better, you would almost mistake it as…
“Minho!”
Both of you jolted at the sudden shout, barely having the time to turn towards it source before a tall guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask and ridiculously pretty long, blond hair staggered into Minho and hugged him.
You blinked, too caught off-guard to even appreciate the bemused expression on Minho’s face as the pretty guy mumbled into his shoulder. “Minho, I think…I’m druuunk.”
You took that as the perfect opportunity to back out of this…interaction with Minho, even as something strange twisted inside of you. You quickly grabbed the closest drink you could and retreated out of the kitchen as fast as your dignity would allow.
You needed to drink. And maybe dance. Anything to distract you, before your mind wandered anywhere dangerous.
This wasn’t working.
Drinking your problems away was a terrible idea in and of itself, but you’d been tempted to give it a go. After your second drink, however, you were blindsided with the intrusive thought of getting wasted and throwing up in Minho’s bathroom, and all the humiliation that could go with it, and it had warned you off alcohol for the rest of the night.
Dancing, your alternative solution, had worked for the first hour or so. You had let loose a little, but as your drink-fuelled buzz slowly faded, you found yourself growing increasingly uncomfortable by the stale air and the press of warm bodies. You were getting hot, something under your skin beginning to itch.
You needed to get out of here, just for a moment, to clear your head.
With crowds of people blocking your way to the front door, you decided on a different path towards some peace and quiet. Upstairs was mostly left untouched, understandable since there were no drinks to be found and no music playing, and you breathed out a sigh of relief when you reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner, and found an empty hallway.
Perfect.
Before you could think twice, you sat down on the floor, your back against the wall. The relief of taking a break from standing in these heels was immediate, and you let your head loll backwards, closing your eyes.
You just needed a few minutes here, you decided. Just to recharge.
“What are you doing?”
You didn’t open your eyes, but you felt your expression immediately sour. Of course it had to be the worst possible person to find you here, alone and close to misery, sitting in the hallway.
Minho approached, or at least, that was what you gathered from the sound of his footsteps. He came to a halt fairly close, pausing, and spoke up again.
“How are you this wasted already?” Minho asked, and there was surprisingly little amusement in his voice at the idea. In fact, you’d almost mistake it for concern.
“I am distressingly sober, actually,” you replied, slowly opening one eye to glare at him, but it was half-hearted at best, and you closed it again. “Just needed some quiet. Had a headache.”
Minho didn’t say anything in response. In fact, it was silent for so long, you started to wonder if he’d walked off without you even noticing, when he suddenly spoke up again. “I know a good place for quiet. And for fresh air, if you want it.”
Slowly, you opened your eyes again, fixing him with a look of suspicion. Admittedly, whatever he was suggesting sounded like the perfect place for you right now – which was exactly the reason you were so suspicious. “Where?”
“It’s pretty nearby,” Minho said, and to your disbelief, held out his hand.
Your eyes flickered from his face, to his outstretched hand, to his face again, before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself up to your feet by yourself. To his credit, Minho withdrew his hand smoothly, seemingly unaffected by your refusal to take it.
“After you,” you said, still reluctant to let down your guard.
Minho nodded, and set off down the hallway, going just a little further from where you were sitting, and stopping in front of a door. With a glance back to you, probably checking to see if you were still following, or if you’d lied about being sober and collapsed while he wasn’t looking, he opened it and wandered inside.
You took a few steps towards it – and then caught one look inside the room and halted dead in your tracks.
That was…
Was that…?
“Is that your fucking bedroom?” You asked, in pure disbelief.
Minho stopped, turning around to look at you, and how the fuck could he look so calm about this? “…Yeah? Last time I checked, why?”
“Why? Are you…” you trailed off, scoffing, before putting on your best Minho impression. “‘I know a good place, come follow me’ and it’s your bedroom. Come on.”
“I wasn’t…I was talking about the balcony. There’s a balcony through…” Minho gestured vaguely towards the far wall, where you realised the huge ceiling-to-floor curtains hanging there must be hiding the doors to it.
Of course he has a balcony.
Of course.
For once in his life, Minho looked just the slightest bit ruffled as he finally caught on to the incredibly obvious implications.
He swallowed. “Look, if you’re not comfortable, that’s–”
You interrupted him with a scoff. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
In fact, to prove just how comfortable you were, you marched into his room, forcing yourself to appear entirely unbothered.
“See? Fine,” you said. “Just, maybe lead with the balcony thing next time, so you don’t look like some massive sleaze.”
Again, Minho’s reaction surprised you. Instead of anger or annoyance at your accusation, Minho cracked another half-smile. “Fair.”
…Yeah, you really weren’t used to this whole ‘nice’ thing between the two of you. It felt weird, like the very foundations of your dynamic were shaken by it.
As Minho led you towards the balcony, you tried your best not to look too closely at his bedroom, as much as your curiosity protested otherwise. The most detail you got was that it was fairly neat, fairly clean, and he had a stupidly large bed. Which, you know, Minho, fuck-you money, that made sense.
You point-blank refused to dwell on it.
As soon as he slid open the door, you quickly leaned forward and breathed in that refreshing cold night air, and felt your headache fade just a little. It was only when you stepped out onto the balcony that you truly felt yourself relax, and the tension built up in your head began to ease.
“Better?” Minho asked, and you heard him come up from behind you, coming to a stop beside you to look up at the night sky. You couldn’t make out many stars from here, thanks to the light pollution of the city, but it was still undeniably a pretty cool view.
“Yeah,” you admitted and, begrudgingly, you turned towards him to mutter. “…Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I won’t be too long out here,” you added, feeling the weirdest need to justify accepting this kindness from Minho, to downplay it. “I’m not exactly dressed for October weather.”
Minho paused, keeping his gaze fixed on the night sky above and very much not on you. “Yeah.”
…Yeah?
You frowned, unable to stop yourself from feeling slightly defensive. “I mean, you’re one to talk.”
That got his attention. Suddenly, Minho had no problem looking at you. “What?”
“Your pants, Minho. Did you paint them on yourself?”
And you realised then and there that you must have made some kind of error, because Minho looked genuinely amused. Glancing down at himself for a moment, his eyes wandered back up to meet yours, and there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. “What, do you like them?”
You stilled, faltering just slightly, before retorting. “I’d probably like the cow they’re made from more.”
“Don’t worry, they’re not real leather,” Minho quipped back. “If that’s your only issue with them.”
“Well, you know, the fake leather industry is actually…” you trailed off, because your comeback sounded lame even in your head. “Whatever.”
The two of you fell into a silence, both watching the stars for a moment, listening to the thud of the bass downstairs and the muffled cacophony of voices.
And then, quietly, reluctantly, Minho spoke. “…Can I ask you a genuine question?”
If it was about the pants, you might actually throw him off this balcony. “OK. You’re not guaranteed a genuine answer, but go ahead.”
“The U.N. speech. It was your idea. If you want to go into human rights, why are you doing a speech about the environment?”
You paused, genuinely flustered by his question. Your response came out jumbled. “I don’t…you know, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, environmental damage is having a huge impact on–”
“Yeah, but that’s not what the speech is actually about. It’s a great speech, but why isn’t it on a subject youwant to do?”
“Who says? You? You don’t know what I want,” you shot back, irritated, refusing to admit that he’d touched a nerve.
Rather than snapping back at you immediately, Minho took a deep breath, calming slightly. “…You’re right. I don’t. I shouldn’t assume.”
What was this? You didn’t want him to agree with you, you wanted an argument. This ‘nice’, truce stuff was really starting to grate on you. “Exactly.”
“It’s just…it’s important that you do what you want, and not try to shape yourself around other people.”
“I don’t,” you argued. “Maybe what I want is for you not to attack every little decision I make. Like you always do.”
Minho’s brow furrowed, his stance shifting slightly. It took a second to realise that he was appraising you, eyeing you thoughtfully.
“You…really seem to dislike me,” he noted.
“Oh, do I?” You remarked, bitterly.
“Why is that?”
You let out a deep breath, mostly out of frustration, but also a little out of exhaustion. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to construct some kind of response.
There seemed to be a multitude of answers to that question. Minho was arrogant. He was atrociously blunt in most social settings and seemed indifferent to the hurt he caused others. He had an exorbitant amount of money and had very few qualms showcasing it. He scared away almost every single new debate team recruit because he was apparently allergic to the concept of constructive criticism. He’d ruined more than one relationship you’d had. Apparently, you talked too much about him, but there were only so many ways to honestly answer questions about your day or how you were feeling without mentioning how aggravating Minho was in some capacity.
But honestly, the more you thought about it, the more you felt yourself slipping back into the shell of that little fourteen-year-old, looking up at the cool older boy with wide eyes and hoping for just one kind word.
And it made you feel so…small. Pathetic.
“Because you’re an asshole,” you stated, simply.
Minho stared at you for a second, before frowning slightly. “I mean, not really.”
…Oh, he decided to say just exactly the wrong thing there, didn’t he?
“You absolutely are. Like, objectively,” you argued. “You literally made a girl cry last week over debating.”
“What? Who?”
“That first-year girl. Dark hair, super perky. You know, when she’s not crying her eyes out.”
Something approaching recognition dawned on Minho’s face, but to your surprise, his expression dimmed slightly. “Oh, her. She told you it was about her debating?”
Well, not in exact words, you wanted to say. But it wasn’t hard to read between the lines, given what you knew Minho to be capable of.
“OK, then what was it about?” You asked.
“She came up to me after our last meeting and asked for some tutoring,” Minho said, before giving you a very pointed look. “As in, a specific kind of ‘private’ tutoring. Very specific. And she was not subtle about it.”
You blinked. “…What?”
Minho’s brow furrowed, visibly searching through his memory of the incident. “To be fair, I might have laughed in her face. In my defence, it was less about her and more about the audacity.”
You pictured the scene, of that girl coming onto Minho, his face when he realised what was happening, and the worst part of you maybe wanted to smirk a little. But you would not indulge it. “Still, sounds like you could have been nicer abut it.”
“OK, yeah, I feel a little bad. But no, it wasn’t over her debating skills. I might be harsh, but you think I’d make someone cry over that and not give a shit?”
Every ounce of amusement drained out of you in an instant, replaced by something cold. “I mean…yeah, you’ve done it before.”
“What? When?”
He didn’t know?
How could he not know?
You might have finished sobbing by the time you’d confronted him, all those years ago, but hadn’t it been extremely obvious?
You stared at Minho for a good few seconds, waiting for him to slip up, to give up the joke. But all you got in return was a genuinely confused expression on his face, waiting for you to clarify what exactly you were talking about.
Oh.
Yeah, he really didn’t know.
Shit.
You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at one particularly jagged edge of your thumbnail. “…Me.”
Minho stilled. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your head, searching your face. “You cried?”
Oh, fuck this guy. You stiffened, embarrassment roiling in the pit of your stomach, and snapped, seething. “Just forget it–”
“No, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. When you braved a look over at him, you didn’t find the smirk you were expecting. Minho looked genuinely chastened, watching you with a deep but unreadable emotion. “I…didn’t know.”
You didn’t like this, you didn’t know how to handle…earnest Minho. Where the fuck did asshole Minho go?
“It was just the once. It was my first debate, and you were a dick about it,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug.
“Oh,” Minho said, with such a strangely specific tone that you couldn’t help but look over at him. There was a look of dawning realisation on his face, and the slightest hint of…
Embarrassment?
“I think I remember that,” Minho said, sounding vaguely horrified. “…This is going to sound dumb.”
Minho? Dumb? And aware of that fact? “…OK.”
“And a little pathetic.”
“Good, go on.”
“But I think, at the time…I was hoping you’d ask me for help.”
You stilled, trying to comprehend the string of words that had just left his mouth. Trying to forge them into anything that made even the smallest bit of sense.
“…And you didn’t, I don’t know, think about offering your help? Before humiliating me in front of my classmates?” You asked, and you almost surprised yourself with the way your voice shook with an old, familiar anger. “That didn’t, you know, maybe occur to you?”
Minho turned his whole body to face you head-on, hand curling around the balcony railing at his side. It was in that moment, seeing him entirely, that you glimpsed that blunt, ruthless young man that had cut you so deeply all those years ago – and saw, for the first time, how small he really was. That memory had taken up so much space in your mind, had warped itself until Minho towered over you, a titan, a symbol of each and every one of your failings.
Now, for once, a new image appeared. An awkward teenage boy, too embarrassed to admit that he wanted to be something in your eyes.
You softened, just for a second.
And then, remembering yourself, remembering all that had happened between the two of you since then, you came back to your senses.
“And what about everything after? It’s not like you were nice after that one little misunderstanding, you picked at everything I did for years.”
“In my defence, neither were you. You refused to speak to me unless you had to for years,” Minho pointed out. “And I realised how much you could do, what you could achieve–”
“If you kept being an asshole?”
“If I held you to actual standards,” Minho corrected, and for the first time in this conversation, he was starting to get heated. Good. “The next time the club met, you wiped the floor with seniors. Seniors. You were just as good as me, and you barely had experience.”
A compliment from Minho, however begrudging and biting it was, had a dangerously addicting effect on you. Actually, maybe the begrudging part only made it better. “And what? That pissed you off?”
Minho’s expression faltered, just for a split-second, and that spoke more than any confession could.
“It did,” you said, half-shocked for a second, before pressing on. “So, you wouldn’t get off my fucking back foryears. You even turned up at nationals after you graduated, hoping I’d fall flat on my face.”
“Is that what you think?” Minho asked, incredulous.
“What else would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe…” Minho stopped, before letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Never mind. Forget it.”
You wanted to press him further, but the anger that had sustained you so far was starting to flag a little.
This was just…exhausting, sometimes.
You let out a deep breath, just as a cold October breeze decided to kick up, making you shiver. Instinctively, you folded your arms over your chest, tucking your hands into your sides to get just a little bit of warmth.
Maybe it was time for you to leave.
You looked over at Minho, opening your mouth to say something–
Only to catch his gaze openly, unmistakably, dipping down towards your cleavage.
You stopped.
You stared.
His eyes moved upwards again, finding yours, and he realised he’d been caught.
He tensed, just for a second, and you watched a tangle of emotions play out across his face before he settled on a neutral, blank, composed expression. But he didn’t speak.
He just…looked at you.
Waiting for you to say something? Daring you to say something?
It was hard to decipher, because at that moment, your brain was still 100% stuck on the fact that Minho had been checking you out.
Because that wasn’t some little accidental flicker, his gaze had stayed there.
Minho had been absolutely, undeniably, checking you out.
For all your complaints about the cold weather, it was starting to get very warm out here.
Why the fuck wasn’t he saying something? Anything?
You swallowed – or, well, you tried to at least.
Something had awoken, deep in the pit of your stomach. You felt it starting to unfurl, slowly, your nerve endings beginning to prickle.
“Are you…” you didn’t finish the question, you couldn’t finish the question, because the words ‘are you into me?’ were so laughably alien that they just refused to leave your mouth.
Minho waited, expectant for something, searching your face. Whatever he found – or didn’t find – was enough to make him speak.
“What?” he asked, and it was that same voice he had in the kitchen. Quiet, loaded, just a touch lower in register that almost made your breath catch.
It was like he was challenging you. Goading you. Wondering whether you were too much of a coward to finish that question.
You needed to ask. You needed to say it.
Come on, you were about to talk to the fucking United Nations in a few months, surely you could handle asking one question to Lee fucking Minho.
“Are you…attracted to me?”
Already, you were starting to cringe internally. Already, you were preparing for the worst. You tried to reassure yourself that it was fine, that when he said ‘no’ you could call him out on staring at your chest, he had no room to speak, it was a logical question, it…
Except Minho didn’t say ‘no’.
He didn’t say anything.
And the longer he looked at you, the longer he stayed silent, the more obvious his answer became.
…Oh.
That…
Maybe you were drunk, actually. Surely you had to be. Because the idea that Minho found you attractive didn’t drive you off like you thought it would.
Minho found you attractive.
Minho, the man with an ego so large it could smother a man, a superiority complex so vast it could bring awe-stricken observers to tears, that Minho…found you attractive.
Huh.
As you stared back at him, you were hit with the sudden thought of kissing him.
Which would be a terrible idea.
Because Minho was Minho and just because he was into you, just because he was perhaps objectively maybe a little good-looking, just because he’d admitted that all these years he’d seen you as an intellectual equal, just because he had the kind of thighs that could probably crush a watermelon, he…
He…
You paused, mind-blank, before rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.
The first few seconds were strange. Of course they were, it was surreal to feel someone’s lips on yours and know this was Minho, holy shit. You could feel how still he was, how shocked, and you knew he must have been on the exact same wavelength.
And then, he closed his eyes, his hand lifted up to gently cup your cheek, and everything clicked together perfectly.
This felt right, like really weirdly right despite it all. Some kind of base level of brain chemistry was screaming about how right this was, and it had you shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
Was this a bad idea? The two of you had to work together for the next few months, you should have been aiming to keep things strictly professional, personal issues could complicate–
Minho let out the tiniest exhale, recapturing your lips immediately, and your thoughts stopped dead in your tracks.
Fuck professionalism, you’d earned this, you’d been working your ass off for months, you deserved to take satisfaction whenever you could get it.
You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up slightly to press the entirety of your front against his. He was warm, shockingly so, and when his free hand moved to press itself into the small of your back, you chanced parting your lips just a little.
Minho followed suit, deepening the kiss, angling his head just slightly. Everything about his touch, how he held you, it was all so strangely gentle in comparison to the usual way he treated you. As if you were an illusion, like if he squeezed too hard, you might disappear.
One of your hands came up to run your fingers up his neck, through his hair, and the drag of your fingernails coaxed a quiet hum out of him.
Every noise you pulled from Minho, every little reaction, felt like winning an argument. It felt like a strange natural extension of your debates, isolating the weakness in the other’s defence and targeting it.
You let your fingers tangle in his hair, biding your time, and when you tested a sharp little twist, you heard his breath catch.
Minho went still, just for a second, just enough to take a deep breath, before grabbing your hip and swinging you around, pushing you up against the sliding balcony door, trapping you between it and him.
The impact was enough to knock a gasp out of you, and he pulled away briefly. You watched him, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath heavy, as he tried to form words. “Fuck, are you–”
You pulled him back to you, a hand fisted in his shirt collar, too impatient to let him finish the rest of his question. Your kiss was rushed, insistent, and you took your time before you pulled away to mutter against his lips. “I’m fine. Just…fuck it, just keep kissing me.”
Minho’s head dipped towards yours, briefly, as if he were about to do just that – before he paused. “…Ask me nicely.”
“Fuck off,” you snapped, impulsively, heat rushing to your face.
He pulled his head away, his whole body even, until the two of you were just barely touching. He lingered, teasingly close, an amused glint in his eye. “Why, is that want you want? Me to fuck off?”
You didn’t know if he was being sincere or not. You never knew if he was being sincere or not. That was Minho, through and through.
You scrabbled for an answer, brain still sluggishly working through the fact that you weren’t kissing anymore, chest rising and falling with every quickened breath. You found your words, looking him directly in the eye, tilting your chin up slightly.
“Kiss me,” you said, practically venomous, before setting your jaw. “Or I’ll find someone else to do it for you.”
You didn’t know why that was the threat you made. Logically, it held no weight – Minho might have been attracted to you, but would he really care if you kissed someone else? You half expected him to laugh you off, and wander off back to the party without even a glance back at you.
He did neither of those things.
In fact, the teasing look in his eye vanished completely. His gaze turned so intense that you wondered if he could burn a hole straight through you.
When he finally spoke, he was deceptively calm, his voice perfectly even as he noted out loud. “I see. So, that’s how we’re playing this.”
You barely had time to process his words, before his mouth was back on yours, almost feverish, and with a newfound harshness.
You met him with just as much enthusiasm, matching him move-for-move.
A gentle Minho was too complicated. A soft, kind Minho forced you to confront some preconceived notions that you were very happy to keep unchallenged.
This Minho, the one who dragged his right hand down your side, the one who gripped your hip so tightly you could imagine it bruising, this was something you could handle. Something you didn’t have to overthink.
Because, fuck, you really, really didn’t want to think right now. You were sick of thinking, your whole life was thinking.
Minho’s hand slipped downwards to your thigh, his palm sliding around to the back of it before he lifted your leg up slightly to slot his thigh right between yours.
The instant he lowered your leg, you realised exactly what he’d done. Immediately, you felt the press of him between your legs, subtle enough to allow plausible deniability, and yet too firm for you to just ignore. To make matters worse, you were now just slightly off-balance, your foot just brushing the floor.
You couldn’t lower it, you couldn’t regain your balance, without pressing down even more on his thigh. You tried anyway, and the friction resulted in your first whimper of the night, light and breathy against him.
Minho’s grip, still on your leg, tightened.
He dropped his head to press his mouth to your neck, kissing at the skin there – and then he clenched his fucking thigh muscles, and your resulting moan slipped out right by his ear.
Your hands scrambled for him, clutching his shoulders, breath heavy as you tried not to rock your hips. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction, you absolutely refused to. You grabbed a fistful of his hair again, pulling by the roots to drag his head back upwards so your mouths could meet again.
Your kiss was now heated, almost clumsy. You caught Minho’s bottom lip between your teeth and nipped, enjoying the way he hissed, the way his tongue licked over where you’d done it, the way his left hand came up to your face – not to cradle this time, but to clutch, to grip.
His right hand moved up to your ass, giving it one firm squeeze, before suddenly and very deliberately pulling you down and along his thigh. More noises fought their way out of your mouth, and you were too weak to resist just one roll of your hips, chasing that same friction. It had barely been a few minutes, and you could already feel yourself starting to ache, heat beginning to collect at the apex of your thighs.
It was gratifying to learn, when you pulled Minho even closer, forcing the full length of his body to press against yours, that you weren’t alone in that. You felt something firm beginning to press into your hip, and when you slid your hand down to confirm what it was, palm sliding against it, Minho inhaled sharply.
You grinned against his lips, and squeezed him through those damned fake-leather pants.
He groaned, eyes drifting shut for just a second, before suddenly snapping open.
“Come on,” he said, swallowing, and took you by the wrist. Before you knew it, he pulled you away from the balcony door to slide it open again, and hurriedly tugged you inside.
You had been a little too distracted to notice how much colder it must have turned outside, but inside welcomed you with a warmth that radiated through your whole body.
But it took you a moment, brain still in a thigh-induced haze, to realise the full extent of what it meant to be inside.
To be inside Minho’s bedroom.
You hesitated as Minho slid the balcony door shut behind you, drawing the curtains together.
You stared ahead, eyes on that huge bed – and the first hints of panic seized your chest.
Quickly, almost unthinkingly, you grabbed Minho by the arm and pulled him. He stumbled, clearly caught off-guard, but he went along with it, letting you pull him to you and turn, pressing him up against the wall.
Easy. Your back was to the bed now, removing it from your sight, and that strange new weight of anxiety disappeared entirely. You went back to kissing him, hands back in his hair. Your new comfort zone, apparently.
Apparently, however, you didn’t entirely fool Minho, who must have picked up on your tension at least a little.
“I thought,” he murmured, between kisses, and made no move to grab at you like he had outside, “you might want,” more kisses, “some more privacy.”
You hummed, non-committal, your concerns already disappearing as you tried to figure out how to get Minho’s leg back between yours again without outright asking.
“Outside, people can…” he paused, probably because your nails had scraped along his scalp almost accidentally, and he shivered, “hear.”
You pulled away slightly, hiding how breathless you were, fixing him with a playful look.
“Hear what?” you challenged, pretending as if you hadn’t literally moaned in his ear just a short while ago.
Minho didn’t answer, but you knew that expression. It used to keep you awake at night, anger burning through you at just the thought of it. He was smug.
Surprisingly, the sight no longer filled you with burning rage – but it did prompt you to back him up against the wall again, stepping right back into his personal space, and pull his head down to kiss you again.
He relaxed into you, soft and gentle as his hands eased over your sides, which only served to wind you up more. Frustrated, you tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and out from where it had been tucked into his waistband, and let your hand snake up under it.
You had learned over the course of the evening that Minho, as mouthy as he liked to be around you, wasn’t the most vocal partner you’d encountered. Maybe that would have discouraged the average person, but you knew Minho. You’d known him for years, you knew every tell he had, the meaning behind every hint of body language.
You knew that when Minho’s breath caught, as your hands ran up his stomach, up his chest, exploring his upper body, it was basically his equivalent of shaking with anticipation.
You took the hint, grasping his shirt with both hands and pulling it upwards. The shirt – some kind of billowy white poet’s shirt, the kind with the little lace-up ties at the neck that he’d left undone and open – was loose enough to remove easily, and you let it drop without a second thought.
Even now, despite everything, you were reluctant to stroke Minho’s ego by openly ogling him. It was a challenge, trying to ignore the smooth skin, the lean muscle, so you dipped your head before he could see your reaction, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his collarbone.
Again, it felt like a special talent to recognise Minho’s deep inhale, when your hands brushed his chest, for the emotions it betrayed.
Your mouth descended lower, eager, towards his chest – and you let your tongue brush his nipple.
His breath caught again, and when you experimented with a quick nip of your teeth, his grip on your sides tightened briefly.
That was Minho’s equivalent of being horrendously, painfully turned on.
Your hand slid down past his abdomen, cupping him through his pants, and this time you let your palm gently grind against him.
Minho’s body shivered under your touch, and it felt like winning.
And then, suddenly, as if he had somehow read your mind, he scrambled for the zipper of your dress, determined to even the playing field. You briefly pictured denying him, pictured staying clothed while undressing Minho, having that kind of advantage over him.
Tempting, maybe. But then you imagined the feel of Minho’s hands on your bare skin, and you made your decision pretty quickly.
Minho pulled down your zipper, building anticipation as he hooked two fingers under each of your spaghetti straps and slowly peeled your dress from you, letting it pool around your ankles.
His eyes dropped, and his expression changed.
“Oh, wow.”
You couldn’t help but grin slightly, glancing down at what you knew Minho was staring at. Your underwear was a matching set of pastel pink silk, with little hints of lace and ribbon, even a bow or two. You’d taken one look at it and knew it screamed princess.
“I always commit to my costumes,” you replied, refusing to feel even the smallest hint of embarrassment. It was hard to feel so anyway, with Minho staring down at you with dark eyes, drinking the sight in, amusement long since shifted into something else entirely.
He reached forward, tracing the ribbon at the edge of your bra cup with his thumb, before letting it sweep down over the lace – and right over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. “Were you expecting someone to see it?”
“No,” you admitted, half-tempted to arch your back, just to press your breast into the curve of his palm. “Nothing about this was expected.”
Minho hummed quietly in agreement, still taking his time admiring you. He grabbed at your breast, not quite rough but not entirely gentle, fingers splayed, making sure to drag his thumb back over your nipple as he did so. “I never imagined you wearing something like this.”
You were so focused on the weight of his hand on your chest that you almost missed the implication. Almost. “Imagined? You imagined?”
Minho’s eyes darted up to meet yours, looking caught out for just a moment before his expression smoothed again. “Sometimes. Occasionally.”
OK, you had to ask. “What did you imagine?”
“Not this,” Minho stated, stubborn, refusing to give a single detail.
Your mind whirred at the possibilities anyway. What? Did that mean it was the complete opposite of this? What was the opposite of this sugary pink ensemble? Black, sexy? Leather? A whole dominatrix-style thing, was that what Minho was into?
“Tell me,” you demanded, incredibly curious now.
He hesitated, before sighing. “…You know that red skirt you wear sometimes?”
Well, that was not where you thought this was going. “Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about you wearing it at debating. You’re stood behind the podium, most of you hidden from sight,” Minho described, and his voice slowly began to shift. “I’m stood behind you, like I’m reading your notes over your shoulder. You don’t look at me, but your legs part, just a little.”
Your breath caught, as his left hand brushed against your inner thigh, fingertips stroking circles into the sensitive skin there.
“You let me slide my hand up,” he continued, and slowly, his hand begins to drift upwards. “Because you want me to know you aren’t wearing anything underneath.”
Holy shit.
“And you want me to feel how wet you are, waiting for me,” Minho said, pausing his hand just a few inches from the edge of your underwear, waiting as he checked your face for any signs of protest.
You couldn’t imagine what exactly your expression was, but you’re certain that protest was probably the furthest fucking thing from it.
And so, his hand moved, cupping you through your underwear, feeling just how damp the fabric was. Your breath rushed out shakily at the first moment of contact, almost akin to a gasp, body shuddering.
“That’s what I imagine,” he said, and fucking shrugged, even as his thumb pressed directly against your clit.
You moaned, your hand immediately flying up to clutch at his shoulder for balance. Everything about Minho’s touch, the pressure, the pace, screamed relaxed. He wasn’t trying to do anything but just…touch you. Gauge your reaction.
You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, as his fingers continued to work small, slow circles around your clit, still over the barrier of your excessively pretty underwear.
“Should have known,” you murmured, trying not to gasp, and trying not to push your hips towards his hands. “You’re the type to tease.”
Minho’s voice came low from somewhere above your ear, as his hand moved at that same maddening pace. “Not usually.”
“Ah,” you breathed, understanding. He was on the exact same wavelength as you. Every reaction sparked from the other was a victory, to be enjoyed, to be savoured. “I get it. I’m special.”
Minho murmured something under his breath, something you couldn’t quite make out, and pressed just a little firmer against you. You moaned from the surprise of it, burying your face further into his neck.
Beneath your hand, you could feel his dick twitch, now so firm and so insistently pressing against your hand that you knew it had to be aching, trapped in those skin-tight pants like that.
You moved your hand up, struggling briefly with how tightly his waistband sat around his hips, before your hand suddenly slipped inside, fingers grazing roughly against something slick and warm and hard.
Minho finally moaned, loudly, openly, hips bucking briefly up into your hand. “Shit.”
“What was that you were saying?” you asked, innocently, running your fingers back over what you knew to be his cockhead, teasing. “About no underwear?”
Minho sucked in a breath, and from where your head was resting in the crook of his neck, you could hear him swallow. “…These were already too fucking small.”
“They are stupidly tight.”
“Don’t act like you – fuck,” he hissed, cutting himself off. Probably because you’d squeezed him again.
His free hand found its way to the corner of your jaw, prying your face away from his neck so he could duck his head down and kiss you, hungrily. You reciprocated, basking in the way he groaned against your mouth.
And then, he asked. “Bed?”
You stilled, hesitating. “…Bed?”
Minho paused, pulling away a little to take in your expression. Immediately, you did your best to smooth it out, to appear unbothered, casual, fine.
He wasn’t fooled. “Is something up?”
You swallowed, still trying to maintain your composure. “Besides your dick? No.”
Minho raised an eyebrow, and faked one short, sharp laugh. “Ha. You’re so funny when you dodge the subject.”
“I’m not dodging anything,” you argued.
He paused again, waiting, watching you. And, after a moment, he pulled his hand away from your underwear to wrap around your wrist, gently tugging your hand out of his pants.
“OK, fine,’” you relented, composure cracking. That old familiar dread returned, lodging itself in the pit of your stomach. “I just don’t…do this. All this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you, and towards the room at large. “The way it’s all spontaneous, I mean.”
“Me neither,” Minho said, calmly, still waiting expectantly. “What else?”
Fucker.
You scowled, jaw clenching, teeth gritted as you admitted. “And my experience in general, is…one could say limited.”
“I figured as much.”
“Rude,” you pointed out, vaguely offended. You’d had this man fucking shivering from just touching him. And what? Now, he was calling you inexperienced? Amateurish? Like he could tell the whole time? Bullshit.
“No, not…” Minho cleared his throat, looking mildly exasperated. It was a look you often inspired in him. “I don’t mind. That’s why I’m saying this, because I don’t want you pretending when it comes to shit like this. If you’re not going to be honest, I don’t want it.”
Honest.
Shit.
You hesitated, debating internally, weighing the pros and cons in your head. It was so fucking Minho to pick the most aggravating time to do the right thing. Of course, the one time that him being an asshole worked in your favour, he refused to do it.
“Fine,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. “Fine. OK.”
He waited, eyes on you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from averting your gaze, looking up at the ceiling.
“Technically…technically,” you repeated, with emphasis, “one might argue that…I haven’t had sex yet.”
Minho stilled, staring at you, eyes widening.
You swallowed, trying to stay firm. “It’s really not a big deal…”
“It is,” Minho argued, tersely, but when you looked at his face, there wasn’t a hint of anger. There was, however, a strong hint of guilt in his eyes. You could practically see his thoughts, the way he replayed everything he’d done tonight, the fear that he’d done too much, come on too strong, picturing you as some blushing innocent virgin he’d deflowered–
“I’ve done everything else,” you said, eager to clear up that misconception. You were far from innocent, there was just one particular act you hadn’t gotten around to. “Hands, oral, all that. Done it. It’s literally the one thing that hasn’t…like, I’ve had relationships, it just never reached the point that…”
It always went around in circles. You wanted your relationship to be serious, to be settled and firmly established and in a good place before it happened – but the time it took to get there made your partners panic, made them think that to go so long without sex, without wanting them, the relationship must actually secretly be failing. And then you’d break up, and you’d be even more guarded and hesitant the next time, and on it went.
“And I’ve been busy with school and my career anyway,” you added, swallowing, forcing a shrug. “Who has the time?”
Minho was still staring at you, but at least the guilt had faded away.
He’d made no move to get away from you, at least, so you took this as a good sign. With a deep breath, you turned around and took slow, measured steps towards that ridiculously large bed, and looked him dead in the eye as you made a point of sitting down on it.
Doing your best to sound certain, reassuring, convincing without leaving a single bit of room for doubt, you spoke.
“I’m happy and comfortable with everything but sex-sex happening. So, if you want that…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase the thought in your head, before giving up with a shrug. “Tough shit, I guess. That’s my line in the sand. Everything else is fair game, though, so don’t get all…weird about it.”
“I’m not getting weird about it,” Minho said, stubbornly.
“You were. Just a little. Like you’re afraid to break me or something.”
Something sparked in Minho’s eyes, and he smiled slightly. “I’d never think I could do that.”
“Good, because you can’t,” you repeated, firmly. “There, honesty. Done. So, either come over here or leave.”
“Leave my own room?” Minho asked, amused.
“Yeah,” you said, doubling down, leaning back to plant both hands behind you on the bed. “It’s my room now.”
For a second, it looked like Minho was going to laugh. And then you caught the way his eyes began to lower, following the lines of your body, the way you were sitting on his bed, clad only in underwear, waiting.
He exhaled slowly, appreciatively. “…This is happening.”
You weren’t sure if that was aimed at you, or himself, but either way it didn’t matter much when he crossed the room in a flash. Barely taking the time to plant one knee into the mattress beside you, his mouth was on yours, hand on the back of your head.
It was a gentle gesture, sweet even, how he cradled the back of your head.
So, just to be certain that he knew exactly where you stood, and exactly how much patience you had for gentleness, you took his other hand and slid it into your panties.
Minho groaned, pulling away from the kiss to look down, and you felt his fingers slip through your folds, the movement made slick and easy by the way you were soaked.
“You’re so impatient,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound particularly annoyed about it. “All the time.”
“Yeah,” you replied, unapologetic. “I know what I want.”
“Mmhm. And so do I,” he said, and pulled his hand out of your underwear. You opened your mouth to argue, to question why, until you felt his hands move to your back, to the fastening of your bra.
He unhooked it easily, sliding the straps off your shoulders. Pushing up from the bed to stand tall, Minho let the bra fall from his hands, before reaching down to grab at your waist and pull you to standing.
He kissed you again, briefly, ignoring your bewildered expression, before switching your positions – him sat on the bed, you standing over him.
“These are staying on. They’re a bitch to peel off,” he told you, and your gaze was practically glued to his hand as it ran up his faux-leather-clad thigh before he gestured to your underwear. “It’s up to you, what you do with those.”
Your hand, unthinkingly, drifted to the lacy hem of your underwear.
“…What, no preference?” you asked him.
Minho stared at you, eyes dark, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly with knowing, and didn’t reply.
Heat flooded your belly. You swallowed once, and hooked your fingers around your waistband, stripping out of your underwear before you could think twice.
He reached for you immediately, his hands on your hips, pulling you towards him. From what you could tell, he seemed to be guiding you towards straddling his lap – to which you took the slightest detour at the very last second, planting your knees either side of his thigh, the very same one that had been pushed between your legs on that balcony.
How very familiar a feeling. And yet, how very different, because now you were pressed against Minho’s naked chest, and when you kissed, one hand went straight to your bare breast, the other arm hooked around your bare waist.
Logically, you should have felt exposed – but there was very little room for logic here, not when Minho was squeezing you so tightly against him. You felt…enveloped by him. By his warmth.
It was…nice.
And then you finally let go of those last few traces of stubborn pride, and let yourself grind down on his thigh, and it was fucking fantastic.
You moaned, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his, and rocked your hips faster. His thigh was so solid under you, thick bands of muscle from a lifetime of sports, clenching and unclenching. Heat pooled in your gut, spiking with every rock of your hips, every drag of your clit against him.
You felt Minho’s hand drop from your waist to curl around your hip, gripping tightly, urging you to keep moving. You pulled your face away from his, just in case – headbutting him in the nose, no matter the context, would very probably be a mood-killer – and instead lowered your head to plant kisses on the side of his neck.
Minho tilted his head back, just a little, granting you better access, his breath escaping him in one long, shaking exhale. You were forced to grip onto his shoulder with one hand, just to steady yourself, still grinding down on him.
Tension built between your legs, pulsing with every heartbeat as you continued to grind against him, and your kisses grew clumsier. Open-mouthed, harsher, teeth scraping against sensitive skin in a way that left Minho gasping.
“If I left marks, would it…” your voice was sluggish, raspy, dazed, “would…can I?”
It was a silly question, because the obvious answer was ‘no’, he wasn’t going to want any reminders of this temporary lapse in sanity.
And yet, Minho’s reply was immediate. “Yes. Yeah, you can, if…that’s…”
He broke off, with a noise so low in his throat that you could almost feel his chest vibrate from it, as your mouth latched onto his neck.
Your movements weren’t deliberate, not exactly. You had no strict intentions of marking up Minho’s skin, but it was just whenever it felt good. With every new sudden jolt of sensation shooting through your body, you sucked, leaving a path of your own pleasure scattered intermittently along his neck, the base of his throat, the swells and dips of his collarbone.
Minho reacted to each, and when you thought to look down, you saw his dick straining against his pants, so much so that it was even starting to pull his waistband away from his skin, revealing glimpses of what lay underneath.
You watched his hand lower to his crotch, as he tried to adjust himself, to figure out a way out of his discomfort. Without thinking, you reached down and pushed his hand away, letting your own slide into his paints.
Minho sharply inhaled, as you slid the palm of your hand over the head of him, letting your fingers grow slick, before wrapping your hand around his length.
He was hard, very obviously and very painfully hard.
And all of that was because of you.
Because he wanted you.
You felt your body physically judder at the thought, your thighs clamping around his. Something sparked inside of you. Up until now, you’d been turned on – obviously. You were naked on Minho’s bed and straddling his thigh, of course you’d been turned on, but it had been manageable. Like burning coals, smouldering, blazing hot to the touch, sure, but under control.
This, seeing him like this, was as if someone had jabbed right in the heart of those coals, oxygen rushing in and flames erupting, sparks crackling in the air. No longer under control, but all-consuming and desperate.
The muscles of your core clenched so tightly that it was almost painful, and with a ragged breath, you finally began to ride in earnest.
Minho clutched you with one hand as you moaned, his other snaking down to join yours on his dick. You let him guide your hand, controlling how hard you squeezed him, how slow you pumped him. Honestly, at this point, you didn’t have the concentration for it on your own, not when your legs were starting to shake with every new press of his thigh. You could feel something build, like a wave swelling, the crest just in sight but not quite…
“That’s it,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your chest. His eyes were dark when he pulled back, watching the way you bounced. “You’re…God, you’re fucking hot, do you know that?”
His words only drove you further, stoking something within you, and you moaned in response.
“Oh, is that what you like?” Minho asked, eyes lighting at his new discovery. His moved the hand on your waist to settle on your breast, squeezing lightly. “Me telling you how good you look?”
“Minho,” you muttered, half-warning, half-longing.
“With our history, I’d have thought you liked me mean,” he continued, and you should have wondered where that smart mouth of his had been this whole time.
He leaned in, kissing your neck, following upwards, until he reached your ear.
“But that’s not it,” he observed, murmuring into your ear. His hand – the one on yours, the one helping you stroke his dick – quickened, gripping yours just a little tighter, and his breath caught for a second, before continuing. “You want to hear how good you feel. How good you are.”
You whined, your body faltering for a beat, before picking up again.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You like praise,” he said, so very confident. Knowing, almost, like there was something else to it. Something he recognised, intrinsically. “You want me to admit how…fucking perfect I think you are.”
“Minho.”
You felt him twitch under your hands, felt the way he reacted to the way you breathed his name.
“Because you are,” he said, the words falling from his lips, as you grew even more frantic. “You are, you are, you’re good, you’re perfect, you’re…fuck, keep going. I can feel how wet you are, you…”
Fuck, fuck, it was too good. Too good and yet not good enough. There were tears in your eyes and your legs burned from how tightly they were clamped around Minho’s thigh, how desperately you’d ridden him, trying to chase an orgasm you just…you just couldn’t quite…
“Maybe you should fuck me,” you whined, voice hoarse, shaking. You’d spent the last five minutes essentially edging yourself, your brain was fried, and all you could imagine was how easy it would be for Minho to pull you over just a short distance onto his dick, let it fill you, maybe it…
“Don’t. Fuck, don’t say that,” Minho gasped, trying and failing to make it sound insistent, final. You could see the effects of your words. He was tempted, he was sorely fucking tempted. You knew he was picturing the exact same thing that you were. “I’m not taking your virginity at a fucking house party. You…”
He broke off with a moan, letting whatever words that would follow die on his tongue as you squeezed him.
“I need…I need more,” you gasped, through gritted teeth. Your body was starting to betray you, your legs starting to give out before you could reach your climax.
You buried your face in his neck, panting.
“I can’t…fuck,” you moaned, before one little word fell from your lips, the one word he’d asked for so long ago, out on the balcony, “Please.”
With a sudden, sharp breath, Minho hooked his arm around you and rolled you over, pressing you into the mattress. Your hand slipped out of his pants as he moved, hurriedly, down your body.
He paused at the apex of your legs, glancing up. “Are you OK with–”
“Yes,” you hissed, your hand fisting in his hair and pushing him downwards. You were so close, you were so close, and his thigh wasn’t between yours anymore, and you just couldn’t… “Yes, fuck, please.”
You could glimpse the beginnings of a smirk as he followed your hurried pushing, but before you could even register it, you felt him lick one long stripe along you, and your head emptied of all thoughts.
His mouth was hot and wet and almost immediately targeted your clit, leaving you shaking as you ground up into his face without shame, chasing the orgasm that had been just inches away for so fucking long. You could barely breathe from it, each breath wracking your body in almost-sobs, every muscle stiff and coiled in desperation.
You felt Minho hook an arm under your leg, pulling it up so that it could sit on his shoulder, parting you just a little wider.
You arched your back, your head pressing even further into the mattress, eyes squeezing shut. When you spoke, it was barely coherent, a loose string of words. “…H-hands, fingers…please, whatever it…Minho, I’m so close, I’m…ah…”
You felt him slide in a finger – two fingers? More? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, you just knew how close to the edge you were. Your muscles were locking up, body shaking, even as Minho placed his free hand on the curve of your hip, thumb brushing your skin in small, reassuring strokes.
Your grip in his hair tightened, mind going blank, tears in your eyes as you gasped. “Yes, keep – keep…keep–”
You came, and it felt like shattering. Your body’s muscles locked, rigid, shaking, as your own moans rang in your ears. At some point, your thighs had clamped around Minho’s head, your one anchor as you tried to come back down to earth.
It was like every rational thought, anything with even the slightest bit of complexity to it, evaporated. You were left weightless, on your back, dazed. Slowly, sluggishly, your gaze drifted to Minho.
What a sight, you thought. Pretty.
His cheek was pressed into the flesh of your inner thigh, skin flushed so pink, head tilted down so that most of his face was hidden by his rumpled hair. He was kneeling, and you saw that his hand had returned to his dick. It was as if he were trying to be discreet, almost quiet, even as he desperately pumped himself.
Barely even thinking about it, you reached down. His breath caught when you wrapped your own hand around him again, letting him guide your movements once more.
His head lifted, and you caught a glimpse of his dark brown eyes looking up at you. Always so unreadable, even now, even when burning.
Your mouth moved before your thoughts could catch up. “You’re…”
You didn’t know how to finish that. Gorgeous? Annoying? Terrifying?
All of it was true, none of it felt right to say in that moment.
You just watched him, eyes locked, until he choked out a moan, squeezed his eyes shut, and came with a soft, low, “fuck.”
It felt dirty, almost voyeuristic, to watch him cum. But even if you didn’t look, you still would have heard him, you still would have felt it on your hands, your thighs. You still would have felt the way he slumped forward, head dropping to your chest, forehead pressed against the valley between your breasts, his quick, deep breaths against your skin.
You still would have felt the way it all fell quiet – until it was just you, Minho, and the impending repercussions of what just happened.
What you’d done.
What had you done?
Your head dropped back against the mattress, looking up at Minho’s ceiling but not really seeing it, as your senses slowly returned to you.
Shit. Fuck. Every other fucking expletive, they all ran through your head.
What the fuck had you–
Minho cleared his throat, lifting his head up off of you. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your face, and you tried to school your expression into something neutral, pushing down the storm of thoughts in your mind.
You didn’t know why, but you expected him to withdraw from you immediately. Maybe that was doing him a disservice, but it was true.
That was why you were so surprised by the kiss he pressed to your temple, strangely gentle, even as his usual sardonic tone crept back into his voice as he spoke. “Let’s clean up first, overthink later.”
“I’m not overthinking,” you argued immediately, because old habits died hard even in a fucking surreal situation like this.
He didn’t laugh, but there was the slightest twitch to the corner of his mouth as he replied. “Sure.”
He sat up, and you caught the way he winced, probably in newfound discomfort over the state of his…current attire. While he attempted to strip out of his ruined pants with anything close to dignity, you pushed yourself up to a seated position, trying to look anywhere but him.
What now? What now? It was all well and good for him not to overthink, but you couldn’t drive away the sudden flood of consequences that threatened to overwhelm you. Of all times, why did it have to be now, when you were forced to interact with Minho so much more? You’d have to work with this man for the next few months, fuck, you had to talk at the U.N. with him. What would people say?
What would Felix say?
Something powder-blue and soft entered your field of vision, smelling of detergent and lavender fabric softener. You blinked, looking up to find Minho offering you a towel, and you wondered how long you must have zoned out, wrapped in your own thoughts. There wasn’t quite a smile on his face – nothing so extreme like that from Minho – but there was something gentle in his eyes.
You took it, swallowing, and cleaned yourself up as best as you could. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Minho pull on a pair of black sweatpants – and when he straightened up to standing, you finally clocked the blooming purple marks littered across his skin.
“Oh, fuck, your neck. I’m so sorry,” you gasped, mortified at the blooming purple marks on Minho.
He glanced towards you, and gave you half a shrug. “It’s fine.”
They were very much not fine. They were prominent, the kind of hickeys you’d be embarrassed to leave on a long-term partner, let alone a…
A…
Well, whatever Minho was.
You swallowed. “It’s not, have you seen them?”
He paused.
“…Yes,” Minho replied, firmly, and there was something about his tone that made you stop, that made you stare at him.
He stared back, face perfectly neutral but refusing to look away. The implications were not lost on you, and your face began to warm.
Clearing your throat, you set the towel by your side and reached for your clothes, having to get up to pick up each item along the shameless trail that ran from the bed to the balcony doors, gathering them in your arms in a small, pink pile. “Please tell me you have your own bathroom.”
Minho laughed a little, nodding towards the door to your right. “Where do you think I got the towel from? Through there.”
You spent a few minutes in the bathroom, trying to compose yourself, trying to clean up properly, slipping your costume back on. The strange feeling in your stomach didn’t ease up, not even once. In the mirror, you looked almost exactly the same as you had when you first stepped into Minho’s room – but how was that possible, when everything had changed?
Fuck, just…you didn’t need to think about it. Deal with it later, deal with all of it later. You just needed to get out and get some space and distance and just…
You drew yourself up as high as you could, squaring your shoulders, and pushed open the bathroom door.
You found Minho standing in the middle of the room, seemingly in mid-step, turning quickly to face you. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was…what? Pacing?
“I can’t stay,” you stated, trying to sound firm. You mostly succeeded, were it not for the slightest hesitation you had, the faintest strain to your voice.
Minho paused, catching it immediately. “…Do you want to?”
You didn’t know how to answer that. It felt like a trap, even now, as if Minho was preparing to pull the rug out from under you. You wished you couldn’t imagine that level of cruelty, and yet you feared it, however irrational it was. “…I don’t want people to talk.”
Minho eyed you for a second, and yet again waited before he spoke, like he was trying to choose his words before they left his mouth. He settled for a very simple, very Minho statement. “Fuck people.”
At any other time, in any other situation, you would have rolled your eyes. You even felt the urge now, tied up in the same desire to go back to normal, to pretend everything was fine. “It’s not as easy as that.”
“It is,” Minho argued, but there was no irritation in his voice. Just quiet. “But I get it.”
“This was very…uh,” you swallowed. “…Impulsive.”
“Yes. It was definitely that,” he replied, and was he even capable of being any more cryptic?
You glanced away, finding it difficult to look him in the eye as you admitted, quietly. “…But, uh, good.”
Minho paused. “…Yep.”
Couldn’t he just say what he was fucking thinking? You needed to know, you needed to know if he was on the same page as you, if he was also thinking that it was too weird to just leave things like this. Silent and awkward and just…dancing around each other like this.
You swallowed, and folded your arms over your chest. You weren’t quite brave enough to look at him again yet, but you spoke up again. “Did you…have a good time too?”
And just when you were expecting another cryptic little non-response, Minho decided to cut straight to the point and catch you off-guard. “I had a great time.”
You blinked, shocked enough that your eyes darted back to him without a second thought. “…Good. That’s, uh…good.”
It was so strange to see him like this. Lee Minho, always so put-together, never a shred of vulnerability – and there he was, hair mussed, shirtless, barefoot, taking a breath as he tried to put together his next words.
“I had a great time,” he repeated. “With you. And…”
He stopped.
“And…?” You asked.
His mouth opened. Closed. And opened again. “…I…you don’t have to go.”
You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. “Minho, do you want me to stay?”
“…Yes.”
You took a step forward, tension melting from your shoulders, replaced with a new curiosity. You couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and yet…
Well, you couldn’t let him off that easily.
“Yes, what?”
He exhaled, making a sound almost akin to a huff. You recognised that sound, you knew it from debating, from arguing, from whenever you caught a weakness in his defence and pressed him on it. “Yes, I want you to stay.”
You took another step. “Why?”
This time, he scoffed, as if it could hide the slow flush of pink making its way up his neck. “You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, and wow, this was fun. “Yes, you do. You’re too smart not to.”
You grinned. “Thanks, but no. You’re going to have to say it.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I am,” you said, without shame, and added. “You’re into that.”
He sighed, and gave in. “Yes, I am.”
“Well done,” you laughed, finally drawing it out of him. “You’re into me.”
Minho eyed you for a second, still just a touch out of reach. Like he’d done it on purpose, kept just enough space to protect himself.
You watched the way he hesitated, and for once, his mask slipped and his face gave away just a peek into what he was thinking. You could see the thoughts warring within his head, the way he hesitated before committing.
“…More than just that,” he said – he confessed – softly.
Just four words, but the meaning behind them was loaded. They hung in the air, obvious, weighty, vivid.
You froze, taking them in. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know how, but despite everything that had occurred tonight, Minho still had the ability to surprise you.
More than just that.
More than just…
Oh.
That was all your brain – your proudest attribute, your big, university-educated, sharp-witted genius brain – was capable of thinking.
Oh.
“So…” Minho said, before trailing off, watching you, and eventually forcing the smallest of shrugs. “Don’t go.”
You were still reeling. You tried to make it all fit, every piece of information you had. The gentleness he’d held you with, the strange softness he’d had, the look in his dark eyes when you threatened to find someone else to kiss, the way he smiled sometimes when you were trying to piss him off, the way he just…watched you in conversations, in arguments, like he was just as interested seeing you think as he was countering the words that came out of your mouth.
When you laid it out like that, when you visualised it like points in a debate – with so many in the for argument and frighteningly little in the against – it seemed so obvious.
“I…” your words came out hoarse, dazed. “…Yeah, I can…not go.”
Minho’s eyes searched every inch of you, trying to figure out what exactly you were thinking.
“…You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, bluntly.
“You just said you like me, can you blame me?” You asked, hysteria close to creeping into your voice.
Minho didn’t reply for a second, still watching you. “Is it such a surprise?”
“Yes,” you blurted out, instinctively, until you took a second to actually think about it. “…No? Yes and no? I don’t…you’re, like, annoyingly hard to read.”
“Am I?” Minho asked, but the corners of his lips were twitching, suggesting he already knew the answer to that. “I’d say the same about you, but honestly, sometimes you’re an open book.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Especially when you stare at my mouth.”
Your eyes snapped up back to his, blinking, caught. There was definitely amusement in his gaze now, a glimpse of relief creeping in.
You scowled, face beginning to heat. “You’re enjoying this.”
He smiled, not a trace of hesitation behind it, a real and genuine smile, and finally stepped towards you. “I absolutely am.”
“Assho–”
You were cut off, as Minho ducked his head down to kiss you, and you couldn’t even pretend to do anything other than respond eagerly.
The next time the two of you got coffee, on another cold autumn morning when you were ten minutes deep into a squabble over geopolitics that you were determined to win, Seungmin had the grace to at least act surprised when Minho bought you a muffin and slipped his arm around your waist.
“Wow,” he murmured, deadpan, watching the way you relaxed into Minho’s side, even as you unpicked every thread of his argument. “Gee. Who would have guessed?"
taglist: @buntrsh @liz3056 @sunnyville36 @sleepylixie @healinghyunjin @aliceu @laikaya @the7thcrow @lynx-paw @mainexiii @springdeity @bettyschwallocksyee @kawaiiayasan @tae-kook-lover @itshoonie
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just watched gen V episodes 1-3, lets go opinions nobody asked for!!
I'm all in. It may be my black girl mc bias, but I am deeply invested.
I was really not into The Boys. The color-grading, bleak outlook on humanity, and six millionth deconstruction of superman all felt stale to me, and I wasn't a fan of incels recieving new ammo, no matter how satirical it was.
Watching Gen V though made me honestly want to give it another chance.
My one criticism is the criticism I have with most mainstream film, which is the lack of subtlety. There is a bigender character, a schizophrenic character, and a character with an ED in this show, and that is not even the half of it. I would appreciate this more if the show would talk directly to those audiences instead of seemingly spending the whole show adding footnotes explaining those concepts to the general public. But I can let this slide because a foot in the door is a foot in the door and we really need that right now.
Meta aside, oh my GOD this story. I have never been so invested in my life.
Andre and Cate haven't really grabbed me emotionally, but they're both acted so well that i'm intrigued anyways.
Jordan is really fun for me because she has a story outside of her gender. He's really direct and cool and is the exact character archetype I catch feelings for in media. He's also played by TWO actors who have blended their performances so well that I kept forgetting they were separate people.
Marie, Emma, and Sam are so perfect I could probably write dissertations on them, but for now I will settle for saying Waterworld is almost definitely foreshadowing, and if it's not it's a metaphor.
The DEAN is such good writing. They casted an actress who played a loving mother in bridgerton to be a sneak-attack villain, and I haven't seen such a good twist of expectations since Chris Evans in Knives Out.
idk i never know how to end these that's all I got.
#bitty talks#jordan li#marie moreau#emma meyer#sam riordan#gen v amazon#gen v#gen v spoilers#the boys
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Counting Turaga
So... open question to the Bionicle fandom: how many Turaga are there? Or, perhaps, putting it better: how many Turaga are there supposed to be?
Without really thinking about it, I have two not-quite-compatible mental images, which we'll call "Plenty of Turaga" and "Turaga are Rather Rare."
Plenty of Turaga comes from the original years of the saga: there are six of them, one per village, as many as the Toa. There's a footnote on BioSector01, on the Turaga page, that Greg said there were more Turaga than Toa left at the end of the story (so, "more than 58" as the page put it).
On the other hand, the rest of the saga really has me imagining fairly scarce Turaga: there's never more than one mentioned in Metru Nui, Jovan seems to have been a Turaga alone. The norm seems to be: one Turaga, one village. Metru Nui, in particular, seems to highlight this contrast: there were 11 Toa Mangai, but there's only one Turaga.
Thinking about this, I suppose that it's partly just attrition: the same thing happening to the Turaga that happened to the Toa by the end of the MU. And not every Toa is going to survive to be a Turaga.
But...
What if it's by design? What if there aren't SUPPOSED to be that many Turaga? A village may need a team of defenders, but does it really need more than one sage leader in the same way? When the Great Beings made the first Turaga, how many Toa did they expect to transform?
What really has me thinking that the ratio of Turaga to Toa probably isn't supposed to be 1-to-1 is Destiny. If it really is the case (I've grumbled about this before) that only certain Matoran are destined to become Toa, why would it be the case that all Toa are destined to be Turaga? Doesn't it make more sense for only certain Toa to be destined to be Turaga?
(Sidebar: destiny in Bionicle is basically whatever you want it to be--it's as malleable as time travel in Doctor Who, but I don't think it matters for this argument if destiny means "programmed from the very beginning," "an ever-changing, ever-adapting plan of Mata Nui to meet the circumstances," or something else. At least as long as you don't stray too far toward the edges...)
I find that I actually really like the idea that Turaga might be rarer than Toa and only the destiny for a few of them, larger because it really makes the Toa Metru take center stage: if the norm is that only a few Toa become Turaga and then an ENTIRE TEAM becomes Turaga, that means they are special, right?
From a meta perspective, of course the Metru as special: they're the archetypes of Turaga for any fan who followed along from 2001. Having it turn out that they're actually a massive reversal of what is normal makes their personal destinies fit really well with the reveal that the island paradise of Mata Nui is not actually where they belong: fans imagine Mata Nui (and plentiful Turaga) as the default for Matoran, because we entered the story there, but an island paradise (and a whole Toa team becoming Turaga) is not what was normal in the MU.
I also like it because it lets you have fun with the "who really is the destined team of Toa" story, where Mata Nui is putting forward the Toa Metru and Teridax is nudging forward the Mask Matoran. If the Mask Matoran couldn't become Toa, then what was the point of that? Lhikan would give them stones, it wouldn't work, he'd take them back, and he'd try again (right?). On the other hand, if they were able to become Toa, what's the advantage to Teridax in picking those six rather than the other six?
My proposed answer: Teridax has no idea. He can just read the signs that Mata Nui wants the Metru, so being the contradictory bad guy that he is, he figures a different set of Toa has got to be slightly worse. After all, Teridax has picked off a lot of great Toa already--the new Toa will need to be superb to do what the Mangai couldn't, and if the new Toa aren't quite what Mata Nui wants...
But what Mata Nui really wants isn't warriors; it's wisdom. The Metru do important and valiant things as Toa, but the single greatest thing they do is sacrifice their power for the Matoran, and that was an act of wisdom. When Mata Nui picked them, he wasn't only picking Toa who could save them once in battle, but Toa who could save them again in transforming, Turaga who could lead them.
I think this takes a little bit of the sting out of the end of LoMN (not necessarily a good thing--bittersweetness and loss is a huge part of Bionicle--but I think we do want our faves to be happy and significant). If being a Turaga is special and rare, then there's a eucatastrophic miracle in all six of them becoming Turaga at the end: a miracle that speaks of hope in a dark hour.
Maybe it would also explain why they founded six villages on Mata Nui: one village for each Turaga.
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Hey what happened in the 2020 season with Alex? (Sorry new fan and still learning)
omg you never need to apologise to me for not knowing things i literally know nothing
the 2020 season from the alexnation perspective was like being in a hamster ball being hurled around for 5 months straight basically but here’s the breakdown:
so for context 2019 was really really good for alex he was promoted as a rookie and he shunted a fair few times and most of the time wasn’t on maxs quali pace but red bull were the third quickest team so he wasn’t expected to win or anything. alex ultimately beat pierres points tally from his 12 races in the red bull within 7 as a rookie so like. whilst it was insane behaviour for red bull to promote him in the first place he did perform phenomenally
then we turn to 2020 pre season testing. mercedes was dominant as per (dreamy sigh) and the red bull was quick but looked. edgy. for both alex and max but ferrari were fucking nowhere so it was still like really positive for red bull bc it was basically two extra places gained and then. global pandemic. and then as a footnote to the whole you know. global pandemic. sebastian vettel was dumped from the love island villa (ferrari (everyone gasped))
and then! triple header one and the first race in austria had max running an upgraded front wing and none for alex and it was like understood i think like it wasn’t a big deal at the time
and then everything that could have possibly happened. happened. in the race and alex and lewis…yeah. but the world did in fact keep spinning!
and then alex got p4 in the second austria race (altho. significantly off of maxs pace in p3 for sureee) and everyone was like if only max had a rear gunner (wistful) which in my opinion is an insult to lewis and the w11 but whatever. nothing else really happened here other than horner and marko making kissy faces at seb during this time but that’s just contextfkdkd
so then the next race in hungary alex qualified p13 and even though max only qualified p7 and it was the third race of the season alex was getting eaten alive and george was on live tv like red bull are making him look like an idiot and he’s not an idiot and they need to fix it for him and it was like fucking hell what is going ONNN we haven’t even made it to the third race yet (like imagine anyone coming out and declaring this after australia quali this year like. wild scenes)
so then one week break and then triple header two started and during the races at silverstone they start talking in the media about when the best time to demote alex is even though the only times he’d finished outside the top six was brazil 2019 and austria 2020 which. pls consult youtube if you need further info here
they also changed alexs race engineer in silverstone so More turbulence altho completely welcome this time (simon rennie come back we love u, ur so sexc haha x)
then during the final triple header 2 race in barcelona he gets put on the most ass strategy known to man like with context this was criminal behaviour actually
and then one week break and then triple header 3 starts (do you feel like a hamster yet) at spa and unbeknownst to us all at the time but later confirmed by will buxton and dts horner is in the mf pitlane in spa propositioning seb like one more year and then you can come home which. have some decorum alex is behind you in the garage. but anyway in the general media everyone was gagging for pierre’s red bull return so there were bigger fish
anyway. SPA. they did this to my boy
and alex made the best out of it but as per the comeback kid episode of dts that everyone loves (🙃) alex was made out to be useless and it was like. wtf did you expect
THEN between spa and monza helmut marko was like oh btw alex hasn’t actually had the same parts as max for most races this year okay bye and alexnation was like…wtf. but then no one else really cared and it was like UMMM OKAY
and then monza happened and alex was in a first lap sandwich involving pierre and then second lap crashed into grosjean (alexs fault - live laugh love x) and had a huge chunk of his floor missing so finished p nowhere and then. pierre won and good for her i guess but then ex drivers were on live tv demanding alex step down for pierre which like no one has ever done this in the history of the sport as far as im aware so it was fucking savage especially when this was the first race alex had finished outside of the points for red bull in (with the exception of the two aforementioned events)
and then mugello wooooooooooooo!! alexs first podium!!!!!! i was gassed at the time but it was sort of sad looking back like if you listen to his team radio across the line from getting p7 in canada and then compare it to his first podium in mugello it’s. yeah! we were enduring it!!
and then sochi happened in its own weird bubble and alex was nowhere really got caught behind carlos hitting the wall at the first corner after a poor quali and that was that
then. triple header number four starts with horner giving alex an ultimatum of we’re backing you but we want results in the next three races or ur finished hunny which. okay
then first race of the triple header max ends up blocking alex in his quali run (live laugh love 2.0 x) and then:
YEAH
nurburgring was the they race me so hard incident. available to view elsewhere bc god knows im not reliving that!!
imola was again nightmarish. red bull media team said alex was working with a mental coach (patrick his trainer had got mental health qualifications basically) and was supporting him etc which. here comes paul di resta live on air laughing about how max wouldn’t need mental support. it was once again. brutal. especially bc he was getting a load of xenophobic abuse online already like fuck off
back on the track alex basically spun on his own but thought he had been hit and no one thought to tell him before he went into the media pen that he hadn’t actually been hit so it was fucking awkward and yeah twitter was brutal again
then istanbul happened. red bull looked promising but both max and alex finished well off so it was just whatever really lewis did a madness no one really cared about red bull
then final three races of the season started with the grosjean crash in bahrain which ended with alex on the podium and then checo won sakhir and alex wasn’t really there and then we were at the final race in abu dhabi where red bull officially signed checo (as confirmed by will buxtons analysis of the curtains. god i can’t believe this season was real)
but alex didn’t find out for like two weeks later when the season was well and truly over and was taking drinks to the factory for everyone and it was heartbreaking and then he didn’t have a seat and spent the next year saying it killed him so. yeah…TA-DA
#tldr: nearly every round of the 2020 season had smth traumatic happen#and like i don’t think alex would beat max over the course of a season maybe ever but watching the events of this year was just cruel#asks#anon#alex albon
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My experiences are far from universal, and I imagine other people experienced different things. But growing up in a Pentecostal church, Easter never felt like that big of an event. Like, yes, we're celebrating Christ's rise from the dead. I knew that. It was a fun, happy service with joyful songs from the worship team, and maybe a two-bit church play. (No disrespect to the volunteer actors). I of course knew that this moment we celebrated was like, the central, most momentous part of our faith. And yet, it also sort of felt like any other Sunday. It was almost a footnote at the end of the year. Especially next to Christmas where there was a whole season of anticipation and celebration.
When I was a teen, my youth group took us out to a good Friday service once or twice. And we even went to see The Passion when it came out in theaters. That last part at least helped really impress on me a lot of the agony Christ experienced, making Easter a little more serious. But the Good Friday services felt... empty? Boring? Redundant? The preacher might have given us an impassioned sermon, but it didn't really matter.
It wasn't until this year, as a brand new catholic, that it's really felt like a big deal. Going through Lent, spending six weeks in fasting and (being honest here) on-and-off contemplation of the Cross and what it means for us. Going to mass on holy Thursday and experiencing the horror and anticipation of what was to come. Coming back on Good Friday and experiencing the eeriness and disquiet of mass without singing, without celebration, having the contemplation of Christ's passion reinforced. And then... the Easter Vigil. The bated breath, the anticipation, knowing what's to come. Scripture reading after scripture reading weaving a narrative of God's conquest, God's triumph, Christ Jesus our Lord returning from the dead. His promises of salvation realized in his victory. The celebration and joy of the declaration that He is risen! That He lives! I've never experienced anything like this before. The Easter celebration feels real and personal in a way that makes everything I've experienced before completely pale by comparison, like the light of a candle under the morning sun. To think that the Catholics have been doing it like this for centuries.
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Soap Gets a Visitor (2/?)
Ghost becomes a ghost. Soap and Gaz have a chat.
Soap's attempts to get Ghost talking had all gone miserably. If Ghost thought he could outwait Soap, the man would only be left surprised. He was convinced that the LT was related to the cat incident. He had to have been. Soap could tell from every glance away, every pause the man held, that Ghost knew something. Something he was unwilling to speak or budge about.
It was maddening.
Soap was beginning to feel more like a dog with a particularly juicy bone than a sergeant trying to ask his lieutenant a simple question. He'd hounded Ghost at every turn, trying to sniff out the man's secrets. Of which no doubt there were many, but something about Soap's mysterious visitor had Ghost clamming up tight.
The man was even starting to avoid him, becoming more of a ghost than Soap thought possible. Except instead of haunting Soap's steps like he used to, Ghost would... well, he would turn into his namesake and disappear into their surroundings. If a man could do the physical version of ghosting in front of another's eyes, this would be it.
Soap tried not to be affected by it but he knew he wasn't convincing anyone with his 'Oscar worthy' performance. The alternative reasoning to why Ghost was ignoring him was something he didn't even want to contemplate. If it wasn't because the man didn't want to talk about Soap's visitor then— Soap cut himself off. Better to not dwell on it. He knew people were starting to worry. Perhaps it also didn't help he had been staring glumly into the wall for a good minute.
"Mate, you okay?" Gaz slides in to sit next to him. Thankfully the meeting they were in was loud enough for his whisper to be hidden.
Soap sighs and focuses on the next presenter. Ghost. His foreboding presence drew the whole room into his gravity as he stood at attention, hands tucked behind his broad back. He was standing centre front by the projector.
As usual the man seemed dismissive of all the eyes peeled on himself, casual confidence a footnote to the lieutenant. Soap traces the line of him, engraving The Ghost into his mind. He sorely missed looking at him with all the time Ghost spent avoiding him. The brooding spectre looked more like a carved statue than any mortal man should. And that voice of his. Soap had dreams about it. Many dreams.
Gaz nudges him. "Too busy daydreaming bout the Lt, huh?" He slyly whispers to Soap. "Thought there was some trouble in paradise. Guess I was wrong." The other sergeant had a massive shite eating grin strewn upon his face.
"Shut yer puss!" Soap hisses back at him, agitated despite himself. His words were louder than he'd meant it to be. A couple heads turned to look at them in irritation before focusing back in front.
Looking around briefly, Soap leans close to Gaz's ear, whispering furtively. "Look, Gaz, there's some shite. I dunno what exactly but it's gotten Ghost spooked."
"Well that explains it." Gaz says thoughtfully. "Aside from all the mandatory drills, I haven't seen Ghost around all that much." He grins mischievously. "Which is strange because if I saw your ugly mug, I'd be seeing a Ghost just around the corner afterwards."
Soap snorts. "Ye only wish ye had a face as fine as this." A halfheartedly retort back. Soap grimaces, unable to not think about the fact that Ghost had been ignoring him for the better part of a week. He grits his teeth, clenching the side of the chair hard.
A hand grips his tensed arm firmly, comforting in its solidness.
Gaz's concerned face peers up at him. "Tell me later what's up?" He asks worriedly. "Anything you want to tell me, I got your six." His eyes search Soap's for some sort of understanding.
Soap nods back, something easing in him with the other sergeant's promise to listen. If anyone were to believe him about a mysterious cat in their base, it'd be Gaz. He gradually eases his posture into something a little more relaxed.
The other sergeant leans away, his focus back on their lieutenant, thoughtful eyes noting the tenseness of Ghost's gargoyle esque impression. "Though if it's just your usual thoughts on the Lt, I might have to pass on that."
"Wheesht!" Soap exclaims. This time, Price glares at them loudly from the officers corner. A silent command to be quiet lest they wanted to attract his full ire on them.
They both shut up, unwilling to get in any more trouble. Gaz and Soap had played a prank on Price a couple weeks back that couldn't be traced to them. They could both tell that the captain was biding his time until there was something he could book them for.
The meeting goes on without a hitch afterwards: plenty of talking, tactical pointing and PowerPoints. Typical.
Gaz corners him right after the meeting ends, yanking Soap into an abandoned hallway.
"Okay, fess up." Gaz leans against the wall and crosses his arm. "What's with you and the Lieutenant?"
Soap splutters. His first instinct is to deny, deny and sprinkle some more denial onto his denial salad, but Gaz's earnest face stops him in his tracks. "There's a cat." He blurts stupidly.
"A cat?" Gaz questions, a quirked up eyebrow rising. "A cat from a mission or...?" He trails off one finger tapping at his side. Soap was beginning to regret this.
"A cat on base. It visited me one night. Laid on my bed a bunch till I fell asleep and when I woke up, it was gone." Soap cringes at his own words. Their base was patrolled nightly; a mouse couldn't squeak before it was heard and noted. A mysterious cat that showed up suddenly and disappeared as suddenly sounded patently ridiculous.
The other sergeant looks bemused. "And this relates to Ghost how?" He says, obviously humouring Soap in his words. There was a studied blankness to his expression that told Soap he was very skeptical.
"I asked Ghost about the cat and he just well," Soap pauses, unable to articulate Ghost, ghosting him in better words. "Well you saw it with yer own eyes."
Gaz hums quietly. "So you think Ghost has something to do with this mysterious cat."
"I ken he does!" His hands fly out to demonstrate. "He's been avoiding all my questions about tha' cat." Soap paces the hall, fully agitated. "The fact that he isnae saying anythin' bout it means he does ken somethin'. Why else would he keep silent on it?" His steps pick up speed. The movement felt good for his frustrated mind. This whole matter was bothering him more than he thought it would.
"Okay, Soap." Gaz hushes. "I believe you." He stops Soap in his movement, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe Ghost is the cat's owner." There's another glint in Gaz's eyes, Soap just knew he was going to say something stupid.
"Wouldn't be the first time anyone's had illicit pusses hidden in their room on base." Soap groans, the double entendre not lost on him.
Gaz continues on like he didn't hear him. "Though this would be the first time it's actually just a cat." He barks a laugh, clearly amused at his own joke.
"Real funny, Gaz." Soap gripes, knocking away the hand on his shoulder.
Gaz glances at him and sobers up quick. "Sorry mate, thought it'd be something else there." He takes a deep breath, adjusting his hat and leaning back against the wall. "If it's just The Ghost bending rules and having a pet, I don't think that's a bad thing, all things considered."
Soap bristles. "What's tha' suppose ta' mean."
Gaz shrugs. "Nothing. Just that, you and I both know the Lt could use a little more love in his life." Soap flinches a little at Gaz's words, the other man unknowingly echoing his exact phrasing to the cat oh so many days ago. "If the man has a cat and you saw it, it'd make sense he doesn't want to talk about it—not unless he wanted the cat taken away."
"Suppose that makes sense." Soap sighs. "But how'd he even get the kitty in here in the first place?" The urge to pace was at an all time high. "Cats need supplies and a litter box at the very least. All very noticeable things." He finishes weakly. The obvious answer didn't feel so obvious to him. Soap's instincts were telling him this wasn't quite right. It seemed too simple. Ghost wouldn't be this rattled if it were.
Gaz shrugs again. "He's The Ghost. If anyone could do it without getting caught, it'd be him."
"Yer right." Soap says defeatedly. What was he even thinking. The cat being Ghost's made a lot of sense. They said pets often reflected their owners and that cat looked and behaved a lot like their lieutenant: all scarred up and massive for its species. Shy too.
Gaz stops Soap again, his feet unknowingly moving him without conscious thought. "Hey if it's any consolation, the cat visiting you out of all people means it must've liked you enough to do so." Gaz pats Soap on the back heartily. "Maybe Ghost has a rival to fight for your affections."
Soap wheezes, a laugh startled out of him at the thought.
Gaz grins, lighting up at Soap's tentative smile. "Tell you what, I'll help you corner Ghost into being in a room with you for longer than 5 minutes and then you can both make up." Soap opens his mouth. "Anddd, if that doesn't clear things up about the cat situation, we can break into Ghost's room to try to find the cat ourselves." He levers a cocky grin. "If it's you and me together, I'm sure we can pull it off without him knowing."
Soap chuckles. He knew Gaz would have his back. "Thanks Gaz."
"Nothing to it brother." Gaz holds a hand out. Soap smirks and initiates their secret handshake. They bump their fists, then a high five and a low five.
Gaz snickers and checks his watch. "Look Soap, I gotta go, see you at the mess hall later?" He asks, thoughts clearly drawing him away to whatever he had to get to.
Soap waves him away. "Get on wit' it."
The other sergeant goes. He stops suddenly as he gets near the corner, turning around to face Soap. A strange look flashes over his eyes.
"What type of cat was it?" He asks, a odd note in his voice.
Soap raises a brow. "A tabby with a bushy tail. Very large."
Gaz frowns. "A massive looking cat, yellowy green eyes and a ringed tail? Black tip?"
"Aye, exactly!" Soap exclaims excitedly. Maybe Gaz had seen it before on base. That would mean Soap definitely wasn't imagining things and that Ghost wasn't ignoring him because he'd gotten tired of Soap.
"Strange." Gaz mutters to himself.
Soap straightens. "What?" He asks hurriedly.
"I saw that cat. But not on base." Gaz haltingly answers him. "It was on my mission with Ghost a month ago."
He plays at the rim of his cap, mind obviously reliving past memories. "I only remembered it cause that's when Ghost went silent on radio—thought the man died on us or something. Then all of sudden there was this tabby near me and the next thing I knew it, it was gone."
Soap shivers. There was no way Ghost took the cat with him on a mission, was there? "Did the cat have scars on its face?" He asked, not knowing what he'd think of it, if the answer was yes.
Gaz grimaces. "I was too far away and it was too dark to tell." He looks away. "It was probably a different cat. Tabby cats are really common afterall."
"Yeah probably." Soap says a little numbly. Gaz was right. It was probably a different cat.
There was no way it could be the same one, could it?
+
#ghostsoap#soapghost#ghost x soap#soap x ghost#cod drabble#john mactavish#john soap mactavish#my writing#simon ghost riley#cod modern warfare#cod mwii#kyle gaz garrick#the plot thickens#does gaz know something more?#prob not#but you never know#werecat!ghost#werecat#cat#shifters#ficlet
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When I was reading Virginia Woolf's collected diaries late last year, oftentimes the date at the top of each entry would have a footnote attached to it which would say like "in the original VW has incorrectly dated this entry as [completely the wrong day]"--like, this would sometimes happen five or six times within a calendar month, not by any stretch a rare occurrence, and the date would sometimes be off by several days or a whole week or something--and I'd always be like come on Virginia, get it together, what is this shit. But then I'd think, well a lot of these entries were probably written in quite frantic moods, people have said she used the diary as a coping mechanism when her bipolar symptoms were disturbing her, I guess it makes sense.
Anyway, since January I've been keeping my own personal pen and paper diary, and let me tell you the experience has been humbling
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god Verg I love a Structure so much, it’s gonna be “despicite, dei, gaudete” for the WIP game & I would love to hear more about the said structure if you feel like sharing it!
hello!! an excuse to talk about my project? yes please thank you <3
so it’s three “layers” which are entangled (maybe laced is a better word — i’m still ironing out final structural presentation, but the core is there)
1. sopwith, a book published in 1950 about pilots in WWI — aiming for an american modernism style, steinbeck influences (god i love steinbeck) with a dash of the faintly surreal, though i wouldn’t call it experimental. presented in standard book style, not terribly long
2. the life of sopwith’s author, who was himself a pilot in the second war, discharged after a serious plane crash — sopwith is published after his stint in the air force and he spends the last six years of his life in a new york hotel (based on the chelsea) obsessively redrafting a second edition of sopwith and filling a horde of journals, which themselves are published 50 years later as an academic text (though the second edition of sopwith never sees the light of day). told in journal passages
3. the efforts of a lit studies doctorate to piece together what it was sopwith’s revised version (never published) was really trying to say while she struggles with her own psychiatric health and her relationship to literature and the world at large. told in footnotes on sopwith, journals, and letters to her brother.
that’s the simplest sort of breakdown — the lit. studies doctorate ends up living in the same hotel the author lived in while she’s working and enters a psychological spiral where she becomes entangled with those last years of the author’s life and the thing he was trying to excise via his book, so the lines get a little blurry as the whole thing progresses. there are lots of throughlines about doubling/communication/the effort of people to corral the world with the written word/etc — inspired a lot by jorge luis borges and also house of leaves. i’m still in the glorious haze of Throw It All On The Page so i expect there’ll be some. refinements? (please god)
despicite, dei, gaudete is the first thing the author ever wrote and published — it’s a novella about an odd family myth a grandmother is telling her grandson, but taking a borges tact what we read instead of the actual novella is the lit doctorate’s essay about it, an excerpt from the middle of which i shall offer you here :)
thanks much for the ask my friend <3 <3
The seemingly obvious moral is twofold: old gods are infinitely cruel, and splitting up in strange forests is a terrible idea (a fact any B-list horror film will readily remind us of). Little chou hears this story, and when the telling of it is over, we discover that chou is now an old man, telling the tale to his granddaughter, and we have been hearing the telling of a telling, itself impressed upon by dimly-recalled circumstance and the erosion of an old man’s memory. Now we see why the impressions of intermediate narrative — a family dinner, a bedtime, a certain firelit drawing room — are so loosely sketched, so half-filled and yet so elemental. They are the memories of a child.
Most take Despicite as Witten’s first establishment of in loco, absentia on the basis of the fact that the real narrative concealed within is the life of chou, understood to us by the particularity of the details he does remember: his mother’s hand vividly recalled, posed mid-stir over a soup pot, thought by many to imply both her early death and chou’s pursuit of the culinary arts; the flames in the hearth and the strange vision chou has of the stones blackened, suggesting at one time that the house burned down; chou’s exquisite ekphrasis of the ceiling in his childhood bedroom, so vivid one cannot help but think that this is where we find him now, perhaps confined to the same quarters he slept in as a child, an old man at the end of his life. Legion readers have pointed out the obvious Biblical influences, the echoes of Cain and Abel (raised as a Protestant in his hometown of Valentine, Nebraska, it’s no small wonder that Witten’s works tend to touch on Christian themes). The first brother, killed and then dismantled by the second, plays our ready Abel, and the second our more hapless Cain, whose inciting sin is perhaps his abandonment of his brother to the dark wood in pursuit of his own reckless belief. He then attempts to “hide” his sin by rectifying it, collecting his brother in an attempt to reverse his transformation into earth. It’s no great leap. Our Cain, of course, is not condemned to wander, but instead condemned to a miserable stasis, from which he similarly does not escape.
#writing#fiction#god only knows#i’m having so much fun writing all this nonsense and i expect it’ll carry me through the next several months#vergil says hello#vergil says things#thanks very much for stopping by and indulging me my friend <3#<3 <3 <3 <3 <3
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Conner has done a great job of explaining how and why Jesus apeared to be a sorcerer or magician, as well as shedding light on one of the major reasons the Pharisees were perecuting him. Having spent time in Egypt, land of Egyptian Magick, where he also met Mary Magdalene, a Temple Priestess in the huge Alexandrian church (run by John the Baptist no less), he returned to his homeland (after spending 20 years in Egypt) where he had learned some basic tricks of the Magicians there.
Jesus was not a sorcerer per se, it is just that the way he did his miracles looked like the way the Egyptian Magicians did it -- spitting (twice according to Mark) to give the blind man sight -- would not The God just speak the healing, or touch the man's forehead... why spit in the dirt?
This is all better explored and exapanded on in Hegland's book Anunnakki Endgame III which goes into the backstpry of Jesus, Mary, John the Baptist, Paul and the creation of the New Testament (NT). Hegland also shares that he had the advantage of a Jewish Rabbi to explain scenarios in the NT and the Wedding at Cana is a real surprise. Key to the whole overall backstory is what the Piso Family in Rome was up to, and unfortunately Conner is not (yet) aware of that side of the story, but Hegland exposes it and connects the dots. You really need both Connor's and Hegland's books to get the whole picture... one expands the other.
‘Jesus the Sorcerer’ gets a ‘5’ just for putting ‘Jesus’ and ‘Sorcerer’ in the same sentence and title while being one of the very, very few to step into the huge footprints of Morton Smith (‘Jesus the Magician’). Conner doesn’t just repeat Morton’s focus on the pagan and Jewish witness of Jesus but rather does a better job on all the contemporary historical-critical issues of the New Testament ( a la Bart Ehrman) as well as a more complete comparison with the Greek magical papayri. Conner even extends his analysis to Paul who he dismisses as “concerned only with convincing”, Clement of Alexandria and Origen who admitted to keeping secrets, and early church theologians who were busy cursing their opponents (in good Egyptian magical tradition).
The book also gets a ‘5’ for its comprehensive and insightful Greek scholarship. The Jewish trial accusations against Jesus of “deceiver” and “imposter” are easily decoded as “sorcerer” as well as the accusation in Luke of “perverting our people”. The Spirit descending “on” Jesus like a dove is re-written in Matthew and Luke as “upon” so as to not give the impression Jesus is channeling or being ‘adopted’ at that point. Conner explains insightfully that the ‘Beloved Disciple’ who is “lying against Jesus” often translated in his “bosom” actually can refer to being in his “lap”.
Conner also gets a ‘5’ for his superb scholarship. His footnotes are as long as his chapters, however his chapters are mercifully short. He easily makes the overall point that there is virtually no difference between magic (which he succinctly defines as ‘religion that works’) and Christian prayer, exorcism, miracles, casting lots for the replacement of Judas, and using ‘black magic’ against their opponents. He notes that Luke screwed up using the “finger of God” phrase since it goes back to magical papyri and sorcerer opponents of Moses. Magical techniques Jesus used most often referenced in Mark are using spit, groaning, looking up to the sky, using special words of power, and dramatics. He insightfully recognizes that the power of Jesus was magical in that it had no moral or personal quality to it since it adhered to his very clothing—and, later the same idea transferred into the veneration of relics. He also perceives that Paul really had an adoptionist theology. Jesus was “appointed” son of God at the Resurrection using several quotes from Romans and Acts.
Conner even ventures into the area of Secret Mark and makes a great case that its depiction of Lazarus being roused out of the tomb and spending the next six days with Jesus in the home of Lazarus before a secret initiation was the original Mark with the current versions in Mark and the Gospel of John being the cover-up. Conner also makes a decent argument that Lazarus is the ‘Beloved Disciple’ of John but does not convince me since the same circumstantial argument could be made for Mary Magdalene who he unfairly consigns to the second century rumor bin.
The book is a worthy companion to ‘Jesus the Magician’ but its biggest failing is taking modern scholarship too seriously in portraying Jesus as a failed end times prophet and keeping Gnosticism at arms-length in the second century. Paul was actually the end-times prophet and his Herodian family and friends who penned the four Roman gospels followed his lead. Jesus was actually a mystery school teacher who taught soul travel as one can see clearly from the Dialogue of the Savior that scholars agree is first century material. The Gospel of Thomas is obviously a crypto-gnostic work of the first century as well since the Gospel of John was so clearly written to counteract it by embarrassing Thomas, saying that you can’t follow Jesus in soul travel, and that all one has to do is believe in the new Logos theology. A 2014 book called ‘The Lost Gospel’ also does a scholarly job of fixing the allegory of ‘Joseph and Asenath’ in the first century as a Jewish-Christian gnostic work about Jesus and Mary Magdalene. All these issues are covered in my book of 2013 on Amazon called ‘The Samaritan Jesus’.
#kemetic dreams#north africa#africa#jesus#jesus christ#faith in jesus#jesus is coming#jesusisgod#faith#bible#salvation#god#sorcerer#jesus the sorcerer#magic
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i read sounds fake but okay (the book, authored by the podcasters) and it does not cover anyone allo aro. it also has no awareness of loveless aros, non-sam aros, or apl aros. it even includes a "what makes us human is... love! of all kinds!!" section to finish up the book.
tl;dr: this is, first and foremost, a book about asexuality, by an asexual and a demisexual. to broaden their perspective, they surveyed/interviewed ace and acespec people for additional quotes. throwing in the greens on the cover, and having separate aro and ace flags as the section break within chapters, makes it promise something it never delivers.
i also checked their podcast, which is how i found out this book is one year old (as of recording an episode for release on 25 Feb 2024), meaning the writing process itself probably happened in 2022. given the lack of perspective, i had not expected it to be so recent.
(going to cut the rest of this because it is long)
the focus on and centering of asexuality while borrowing a bit of the aromantic symbols seems rude at best for people who are clearly aware of the difference between aro and ace. they discuss the split attraction model early on, and they consistently use aspec, acespec, and arospec accurately. oh, and they happen to run what might be the biggest aspec podcast (as in, the only podcast I could name if someone asked me, "are there aspec podcasts?")
i also noticed that alterous attraction rates a mere footnote with a brief definition (and that definition is "between platonic and romantic") when one person being quoted used it. somehow, this doesn't come up for discussion in the relationships chapter. or anywhere.
overall, i got the feeling that the authors were approached with a book deal based on their podcast, but didn't actually have much to say. or just, like, phoned it in. it's a relatively short book. it dives deep into an AITA reddit post because apparently only that one person could be found for the topic of housing. and that's a topic that would have to be revisited to pad out the final chapter.
[i wanted to know what other people thought, so i checked reviews, and the answer is: there's a lot of criticism of the authors' position that you can hate JKR but like HP. accurate and valid; i have nothing to add to that.]
i wanted to be objective, so i scanned the book again. out of 82 quotes, Phoebe gets 3, and Rai gets one. Phoebe, she/they, responded as ace but realized they were bisexual (allosexual, alloromantic, trans) afterward; Rai, they/them, included neither an acespec label nor allosexual.
ten quotes are from people who use a sexuality label other than asexual:
2 gray-ace
4 demisexual
2 aspec
1 acespec
1 aegosexual
(i didn't track individual names; Phoebe and Rai just stand out.)
so in the final accounting, five of every six quotes are from people identifying as asexual, and none are from people who are unequivocally arospec and not acespec (including loveless aros, non-sam aros, neu aros, unit aros, allosexual aros, and aplatonic aros. and yes, there is overlap between those terms, but they all have zero representation in the text.)
i want to be clear before signing off... it's not that i think everyone should know everything about our community, necessarily, but i do think that people who claim to write for the whole aspec community owe it to us to be well-informed and inclusive before publishing.
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Bill Schnoebelen, a man who claimed to be an ex-satanist (of the global satanic conspiracy sort) and has been demonstrated time and again to be a fraud, tries to establish a link between witchcraft (of the modern neopagan sort) and Roman Catholicism in Wicca: Satan's Little White Lie:
Both teach “salvation” through ritual acts and good works.
Both have a god and a goddess (Mary) figure in their pantheon.
Both have a slain and risen god who dies and is reborn in a seasonal cycle of ritual dramas.
Both have magic or thaumaturgy (Transubstantiation in the Mass) as central elements in their theology.
Both make extensive use of incense, statues, candles and ceremonial robes in their devotions.
Both believe in a kind of second chance after death (Purgatory).4
Both believe the rituals of the living can affect the dead.
Both believe in rituals of pain and mortification for purification.5
I'm sorry, Bill, but if you think that three and four are actual problems, then you might as well just give up on Christianity altogether, or at least admit that your version of Christianity regards a good portion of the New Testament as heretical. Because you've literally just declared that both Communion and the Resurrection are unchristian.
Also, if the idea of transubstantiation makes you uncomfy, 1 Corinthians 15:35-55 should have you crawling out of your skin.
Regarding number two, Mary is revered because she's a saint and the mother of Jesus. That doesn't make her a "goddess," because Catholicism has clear distinctions between saints and deities.
Regarding number five, this is because Catholic religion makes use of worship traditions that were widespread throughout the ancient Mediterranean world. Modern neopaganism drew from these same traditions. There's nothing sinister or conspiratorial about it.
Regarding number six, Schnoebelen elaborates on this one in the footnotes:
Catholics offer prayers for the dead, to get them out of Purgatory. Witches believe in communicating with the dead, especially at Samhain; and that they can, through mediumship, help lower level spirits achieve higher areas of growth before they incarnate again.
Loads of people believe you can interact with or affect the dead in some way. This doesn't prove any special connection between modern witchcraft and Catholicism.
He elaborates on number eight with:
Although this self-mortification element has been toned down recently in U.S. Catholicism, wearing of hair shirts, barbed wire corsets and self-flagellation (whipping) were regularly practiced within Catholic monasteries and nunneries until at least the 1960’s. It may still be going on today in the U.S. and is definitely still practiced overseas. Witches believe you must be willing to “suffer in order to learn” and most practice at least ceremonial whipping of each other. Wiccan authors also brag about how they whipped each other into a magical frenzy in order to raise a large enough “cone of power” to turn back both the Spanish Armada and the forces of Hitler.
Bill. Bill, my man. You might be shocked to learn that the New Testament has a lot to say about the value of suffering. Romans 5:3-4, 2 Corinthians 1:5, Philippians 1:29 2 Corinthians 11 and 2 Corinthians 12 - Paul was kinda big on this whole suffering thing, ya know?
So basically, Schnoebelen's made up a bunch of problems where none exist, and in doing so, implied that the very religion he professes to follow is actually invalid, lol.
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CHAPTER 3
Previous || Masterlist || Next
Pairing: All Might x F!Reader
Rating: Mature — IF YOU ARE A MINOR, DO NOT INTERACT!
Word Count: 5.4K
Warnings: canon divergent, anxiety, difficult childhood, jokes about frat hazing, frat party, alcohol, partial nudity, horny thoughts, swearing, drunk reader, oblivious mutual pining
A/N: Thank you, @whats-her-quirk, for letting me steal one of your hilarious comments for this chapter. 😁
You didn’t grow up wanting to be a hero.
An only child born to quirkless parents, it was expected that you would be just as ordinary — until your fourth birthday party, when you smashed your tiny fist into the store-bought sheet cake and shot a bolt of scorching light straight through the picnic table and nearly six feet underground.
After that, you spent your formative years in a near-constant state of anxiety. Your classmates had it easy. One could change the texture of their skin at will. Another had the ability to speak to fish, and he spent many afternoons playing amateur interpreter for your classroom goldfish, Gus. And one of your best friends, Jessica, could cry bubbles.
You, on the other hand, had to be careful. Everyone told you so, from your well-meaning but worried parents to unnerved teachers and gossipy neighborhood mothers. It was a reminder you heard day in and day out, to the point where you became terrified of your own power.
One of your greatest fears was that you would hurt someone. Even at ten years old, you had heard of incidents — accidental injuries caused by untamed quirks. Your imagination would run wild with possibilities, each more devastating than the last.
When you were ten, you began seeing your elementary school counselor, a kind old woman with a rare calming quirk. She let you hide in her office during lunchtime and read books well above your grade level, and she never chastised you for shying away from your abilities, even as your fellow students grew more adept with theirs every day.
“Whenever it feels like it’s too much, I want you to remember this,” she said one afternoon, on a day where you felt your whole body aching, your power begging to be freed. “Worry is like a rocking chair. It never gets you anywhere.”
She taught you breathing exercises and basic yoga poses, all in an attempt to help you find your own inner calm. Because, as she explained on several occasions, fear would only make things worse.
It was only later that you recognized it as a self-fulfilling prophecy: The more frightened you were of losing control, the more likely it was to happen. Fear was your ultimate enemy, one you needed to master in order to move forward.
When you were accepted into the National Hero Academy, you still had your doubts about becoming a pro hero. But year after year, you grew closer to your classmates, especially the ones who had similarly struggled with powerful emitter quirks. You weren’t the only student who grew up wary of their own potential.
By the time you made it to your senior year, you had decided to embrace your abilities rather than suppress them. Use them for good instead of pretend they didn’t exist. Be a hero people could look up to and rely on rather than a PR nightmare or a shameful footnote in American hero history textbooks — or at least the ones that deigned to tell the real truth.
Some called you naïve when you talked about wanting to make the world a better place. Idealistic. Pretentious. Delusional. But you preferred to think of yourself as optimistic.
It may have started as a coping mechanism for your chronic anxiety, forcing yourself to think of the best possible outcome rather than the worst. Now, however, it’s part of who you are.
Or at least the version of you that you want people to believe you are — someone who’s fully overcome their anxiety and depression to become a high achiever with glowing recommendations and unshakeable confidence.
It’s enough to convince your CIHS roommates, Priya and Sloane. On the first Friday of the first week, the latter dashes into the kitchen, excited to find you already awake, sipping a mug of coffee while hunched over your laptop.
“Pleeease tell me you’re coming out with us tonight,” she begs, grabbing a cup of yogurt from the fridge, along with a plastic spoon since you’ve all slacked on running your apartment’s dishwasher. It’s not something you’re proud of, but between classes and several restless nights of sleep, you haven’t had the energy.
“Huh?” You’re purposely playing dumb, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. It’s not your fault Priya is both adorable and easy to tease.
With a dramatic huff, the petite girl collapses into an overstuffed armchair that makes her look even smaller. “The party. For Welcome Week. That I’ve told you about five times.”
Unable to maintain your clueless façade, you let out a snort of laughter, and Priya kicks a pillow in your direction. “I’m sorry!” you exclaim.
“No, she’s not.” Sloane’s deadpan drawl precedes her. When she walks into the room, she’s still wearing heart-patterned shorts and a basic crop top, her pajamas of choice.
You stick your tongue out at her, but she just rolls her eyes in response, using the scrunchie on her wrist to pull back her long, red hair.
“Oh, look, you’re wearing clothes today.” Priya is referring to an incident earlier in the week when the Forger Hall maintenance worker stopped by to fix the TV, and Sloane, fresh out of the shower, walked to the kitchen naked to get a hard seltzer from the fridge.
“Har-har,” Sloane mutters, showing Priya her middle finger despite not seeming all that bothered by the reminder.
“Okay, so, the party,” you say, trying to get the conversation back on track. Checking the time on your laptop, you’re reassured to see you still have another hour until your Applied Thermal Energy lecture.
Priya attempts to look threatening — it’s still much too adorable — and very seriously says, “I’ll drag you there if I have to.”
You sincerely doubt that will happen. But considering her persuasion quirk, if you keep making excuses like you have this whole week, she might finally crack and attempt to sweet talk you into going out.
“Your threat has been duly noted.” Closing your laptop, you stand up with a sigh, but also a placating smile. “Alright. I’m in.”
Priya lets out a squeal of joy. “Our first college party! I need to figure out what I’m going to wear.”
You excuse yourself to get ready for class, but your roommate doesn’t seem to hear you, her bubbly voice following you down the hallway of your apartment. After you’ve showered, you find yourself standing in front of your closet, trying to figure out the same thing: What are you going to wear?
Not only do you need to consider your outfit for the party. But you need to think about what you want to wear to class. It’s not quite as sweltering today, and it might even storm this afternoon. More than dressing for the weather, however, you’re thinking about the fact that, in just a few hours, you’ll be sitting in your American Hero History lecture hall.
Right next to him.
You promised yourself you wouldn’t start crushing on someone right away. Your priority is staying on top of your classwork and giving your all in Performance Lab. After all, you’ll need several compelling recommendations if you want to land an internship at one of the best local hero agencies. College has plenty of opportunities for fun. But you need to keep in mind the real reason why you’re here.
That being said, you don’t know if what you feel for Toshinori Yagi is actually a crush. Maybe it’s because you’re still relative strangers, or because you haven’t dated anyone in over a year. (Definitely not because no one measures up to Christopher, who ghosted you at junior prom, the jerk. You just haven’t found the right person.) Either way, it has you second-guessing yourself. Until you figure it out, you’re content with getting to know him better as just a friend.
Or at least you’re trying to be. The fact that you end up changing into and out of three separate outfits before finally settling on a fourth seems to contradict your very rational, mature approach to… whatever this is.
As you double-check that you have everything you need for your back-to-back classes, you multitask, making a mental list. You’re very good at making lists, and they usually help organize your thoughts and temper some of your anxiety.
1. He’s thoughtful and kind. This was clear from the very first day you met him, but since then, having sat through another of Mastermind’s dry lectures and spent two grueling hours surviving Grimoire’s conditioning obstacle course, it’s only become more obvious. When you nearly slipped off the climbing wall, he grabbed your hand with ease and helped you find your footing, even though it meant that he had to make up for lost time later.
2. He’s very attractive. Admitting this to yourself, albeit privately, feels embarrassing, and your face grows hot as you look at yourself in the mirror, fidgeting with the buttons on your flannel shirt. But there’s no point in denying that he’s objectively handsome in a way that you can’t help but appreciate. Every time he smiles — the smile you’ve determined is his secret smile, his truest smile, the one that gives you a little thrill whenever you glimpse it — your heart seems to climb into your throat, your stomach feeling oddly ticklish.
3. There’s something more to him.
This last realization is harder to work your brain around, but you try, even as you say goodbye to your roommates and grab a protein bar on your way out the door. He has layers, which isn’t unusual by any means. Everyone does. But you have an uncanny talent for reading people. And unlike Alex or Marcus, who are like open books, you feel as if you only see glimpses of the real Toshinori — ones that have been selectively curated.
In a way, he reminds you of you.
You don’t want to think of him as a puzzle, something to be figured out or accomplished. But it’s hard not to feel curious. As you swing your backpack over your shoulder and tear open the protein bar wrapper with your teeth, you remind yourself that friendships take time, and that maybe — if you get to know one another more — he’ll eventually feel comfortable enough to reveal more of himself.
Your mind continues to occupy two separate realms of thought all the way through Applied Thermal Energy, one attentive enough to answer questions and copy down the homework, while the other is a tight ball of nerves, keeping an eye on the clock as it ticks closer and closer to the end of class.
But as with most things you spend your time worrying about, once you sit down next to Toshinori, five minutes ahead of Mastermind’s lecture, you realize you had no real reason to be anxious.
“Good morning,” he says, offering you a small smile.
“Hi.” You hope he doesn’t secretly have super hearing, considering your heart is doing an impressive tango in your chest.
Before you can choose a safe topic of conversation, like his classes, or his current ranking of the on-campus dining options, or even the weather, he asks, “Are you going to the Tau Kappa party tonight?”
It takes you a moment to answer, trying to remember everything Priya had mentioned about tonight’s festivities. The fraternity name rings a bell, and you remember Marcus mentioning it a few days ago, after your first Performance Lab.
“Yeah, I am.” While part of you is tempted to play the role of the Cool Party Girl, you’re positive you could never fully pull it off. Instead, you tell him, “My roommates threatened bodily harm if I tried to bail, so…”
Toshinori laughs. “So did Dave.” He leans back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. There’s a hint of nervousness in his smile, and his right leg is bouncing just a little. “He said it’s part of my official pledge duties.”
Your eyes dart down to the collar of his shirt, and there it is: a tiny golden pin displaying the Greek letters of Phi Delta. “You’ll be lucky if all you have to do is go to a party,” you tell him, unable to hide your grin. “They might make you run around campus naked, or prank call the college president, or scrub all the urinals in the frat house — with a toothbrush.”
Toshinori blanches, looking alarmed. “But Dave said it’s not like the movies. No hazing, they just —” Finally noticing the mischief in your gaze, he gives you an exasperated look before laughing, loud enough to make even the students in the first two rows turn around.
“You’re terrible,” he says, shaking his head as he pulls his laptop out of his bag. “But I suppose I’m an easy target.”
You move without thinking, patting him on the shoulder as you console him. “I’ll try to go easy on you.” It’s possible that you imagine the slight widening of his eyes as your hand lingers for just a moment, or the faint glimpse of pink in his cheeks right before you turn away, distracted by your instructor’s flat voice.
Of course you imagined it. You can only hope he didn’t notice the slight tingle in your palm. As Mastermind launches into today’s topic, early American quirk legislation, you force yourself to take several deep, slow breaths.
It’s rare for your emotions to trigger your quirk, even just the tiniest bit — a fraction of a fraction of anything close to full power. But now it’s happened twice, both while touching Toshinori.
Get it together, you tell yourself, staring so hard at the projector screen, you nearly give yourself a headache. Remember why you’re here.
The class concludes with a reminder about this week’s online quiz, due by Sunday evening. As you quickly pack up, you make a mental note to review the modules beforehand, look back at your notes, maybe review some of the recorded lectures —
You don’t realize Toshinori’s speaking to you until a large hand waves in front of your face. When you blink up at him, he smiles but looks a little concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah! Definitely.” You swing your backpack over your shoulder and hug your oversized flannel a little tighter around you. “Sometimes my brain just… slips into autopilot, if that makes sense?” You’re not sure what compels you to say it, but you quietly admit, “I knew college would be a lot of work. But I guess I’m still adjusting.”
He nods as the two of you exit your row and walk out into the hall. “So am I.” The way he heaves a big sigh, as if you’ve shouldered a weight that’s been sitting heavily on his shoulders, makes you feel reassured about opening up to him.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one feeling like that,” he says, smiling as you both step out into the late morning sun. It’s a little dimmer than usual, partly hidden by the cloud cover rolling in. But even now, Toshinori almost seems to glow. Maybe it’s the hair, you reason.
“Me, too.” You hesitate mid-step, your body halfway turned in the direction of your next class. “I’ll probably see you tonight. At the party.” Your words feel awkward and slow, and you bite the corner of your lip, beginning to hope that the sidewalk splits open and swallows you whole.
But then Toshinori’s smile widens, and oh… You don’t need the sun at all. He’s bright enough all on his own.
“I can’t wait.”
And unlike when some people say it with disingenuous enthusiasm — not unlike the classics “Have a great summer!” and, “We should get coffee sometime!” — you know, without a doubt, that he truly means it.
The Tau Kappa frat house is bigger than you expected, a sprawling two-story building tucked in between their sister sorority, Xi Omega, and one of the dorms. If you dropped it into a suburban neighborhood, no one would even notice. White siding, black trim, tasteful curtains in the windows, a well-manicured lawn. There’s nothing special about its conventional exterior.
Except for the fact that tonight, it looks like an isolated blizzard hit their tiny plot of land.
The closer you get to the house, the deeper the snow gets. Priya squeals as she leaps through what’s drifted onto the sidewalk, her strappy sandals proving to be a questionable choice of footwear. A few partygoers are engaged in a very intense snowball fight, lobbing with one hand and holding — or really, sloshing — their drink in the other.
The front porch is trimmed with tiny, sparkling icicles, which Sloane mutters is “an emergency room visit waiting to happen.” There’s a group of boys doing shotskis in the corner, wearing ridiculous winter hats with ear flaps, paired with pastel polos and jeans.
It’s all more than a little jarring. But the most ridiculous addition to the house is a large slide made entirely of ice, winding down from one of the upstairs windows and emptying out into an enormous pile of fluffy snow. Just before you step up onto the porch, you watch a girl fly down it, shrieking the whole way.
“This is… not what I was expecting,” you admit, treading carefully so as not to slip and fall flat on your ass.
Priya, wet feet seemingly forgotten, is practically vibrating with excitement. “So cool.”
“Literally,” Sloane dryly comments, earning herself a sharp elbow in her side. “C’mon, I had to say it.” She spreads her hands wide. “You know I love a bad joke.”
“Whatever…” Priya rolls her eyes. She hesitates at the door, fussing with her short pink skirt before smoothing her hands over her hair. “Okay. Ready. Let’s do this.”
You’re fairly certain you’re the only one who hears Sloan snicker. But it’s an affectionate sound, paired with a half-smile. What do you know? She’s actually enjoying herself.
You’re not surprised to see more icy accents inside, from a frost-gilded chandelier hanging over the dining room table to another ice slide covering the entirety of the basement stairs. Fellow students drift by in clusters, holding plastic cups full of beer and condensating shot glasses made of ice.
“I will admit, I’m impressed by their dedication to the theme.” Sloane stands on her tiptoes, peering through the back windows. “They have a pool?”
“Let me guess.” You glance around, surveying the room for any familiar faces. Nevermind that the person you most want to see would be ridiculously easy to spot. “An ice rink?”
Sloane squints and then groans. “Yep.” She digs a hair tie out of the pocket of her jeans and yanks her red curls back into a messy bun. “God forbid we have an actual pool party while it’s still summer.”
The two of you trail behind Priya, the music getting progressively louder the deeper you venture into the house. The students in the dining room are playing flip cup, while a group is assembled on the oversized sectional in the living room, absorbed in a VR video game.
Someone spills a fruity-smelling drink on the arm of your jacket, prompting you to shrug it off and tie it around your waist. The house has a slight chill to it, as if someone turned the thermostat down, but it’s thankfully not too cold for the tank top you’re wearing.
When you finally make it to the kitchen, you find a messy, makeshift bar sprawled across the countertops. Various cans of beer sit in a cooler near the patio door, and bottles of all kinds of liquor are lined up in between forgotten cups, sticky spills, and crumpled drink umbrellas.
“I can make us rum runners!” Priya grabs several half-empty bottles, loading them into her arms before depositing them on the island. The smell of weed wafts into the room as the patio door slides open, and Sloane is briefly distracted by a girl with neon pink hair chopped into a pixie cut.
After a few mad dashes to the fridge and refilling an emptied ice cube tray — “It’s only polite.” — Priya hands the two of you plastic cups and beams proudly. “Enjoy.”
It’s hard not to. You wander around the house, losing your roommates at some point between the dining room and a spare bedroom currently being used to play drunk Jenga with a jumbo set of blocks made of ice, of course.
And you are definitely feeling every generous pour of rum and fruit-flavored liqueur Priya loaded into your cup, along with orange and pineapple juice.
When finished, you pluck the maraschino cherries from your cup and pop them between your lips while dodging a skinny, dark-haired boy who hiccups while trying to ask you to join a game of Spin the Bottle upstairs.
That depends. Is there a large blond man up there, taking up half the room and looking adorably awkward? As soon as the thought appears, you give it a full-body tackle straight to the back of your mind.
Vaguely remembering what Priya used, you make yourself another drink, shimmying a little as the song changes to an older one you love but haven’t heard in a while.
It’s as you’re starting to hum along, hips sashaying back and forth to the beat, that someone behind you clears their throat.
You grab your cup and quickly turn around, eyes wide as if you’ve been caught doing something bad. Two boys have joined you in the otherwise empty kitchen. One is dressed in a navy blue hoodie and jeans, his brown hair pushed back and brushing against the nape of his neck. His smile is amused but friendly.
Standing beside him is Toshinori. There’s a definite flush to his cheeks as he stares at you. But it’s probably from whatever drinks he’s had — or because he’s wearing a too-small t-shirt that, for him, is essentially a crop top.
You take a too-large gulp of your drink and then another, wondering if you might actually combust on the spot. It’s nearly impossible to keep your gaze fixed on appropriate places when his abs are right there.
And you can just make out a hint of blond hair dipping down under the waistband of his shorts —
“What are you drinking?”
The stranger’s voice snaps you back into the present moment, and you manage to stammer, “Uh, it’s a, um, rum runner.”
“Ooh, careful.” The man grins, reaching for a bottle of whiskey. “Those do not fuck around, especially if you eyeball your pours.”
You nod, and Toshinori clears his throat again. “This is my roommate, David Shield — Dave,” he amends. After he introduces you, Dave offers his hand that’s not pouring a drink.
“I was hoping I’d get to meet you. He hasn’t shut up about —”
Whatever he was about to say is lost in the noisy chaos of a group of girls drifting through the kitchen, grabbing premixed cocktails before teetering out the patio door.
“What’s with the… outfit?” You ask, gesturing up and down Toshinori’s broad frame, but particularly at the t-shirt.
“It’s pledge tradition!” Dave leans against the counter as he takes a sip of his whiskey on the rocks. “But we, uh, didn’t have a larger size than that, so…” His grin turns teasing. “Toshi gets the short end of the stick tonight.”
On the front of the white t-shirt, in bold black letters, are the words PHI DELTA PLEDGE. And when Toshinori turns around, huffing at the way Dave circles his finger to coax him, you see a multitude of signatures scrawled on the back in permanent marker.
“We have a prize for whoever gets the most,” Dave explains with a shrug. “No penalty if they lose. It’s just dumb fun. But for him,” he raises his glass in Toshinori’s direction, “I’m hoping it helps him make some friends.”
“It’s definitely a memorable ice breaker,” you say, smiling encouragingly when you notice Toshinori frowning. After taking another big sip of your drink, draining it down to the half-melted ice cubes, you step forward. “Alright, we’ve got this. You’re gonna win for sure.”
It’s only when you touch his arm, something you would absolutely overthink while sober, that he seems to relax, smiling down at you.
From that point on, he loosens up more and more, not just because of the tallboy Dave swings by and presses into his hand, or the second one that comes way too quickly to be a coincidence.
As he talks to more and more people, with you hovering at his side, it’s as if you can see his walls coming down. He’s quick to laugh, and the awkwardness you glimpsed earlier gradually melts away, leaving an endearing earnestness, along with a surprisingly sharp sense of humor.
After the two of you are roped into a round of Kings Cup, you’re feeling pleasantly buzzed and grateful for Dave’s plan, which might just be the most wholesome form of pledge hazing you’ve ever seen.
When the two of you venture outside, you find the backyard less crowded, with only a few brave souls trying to skate across the frozen pool. You’re not sure if it helps that they’re all clearly drunk, especially when one girl wipes out and immediately bursts into laughter.
“Did you come to watch the show?”
Marcus’s voice is delightedly sarcastic as you turn to find him sitting in a beach chair, nursing a hard cider. To his left, Alex is deep in conversation with none other than Priya, who looks so smitten, her eyes may as well be giant cartoon hearts.
Dave has claimed the other beach chair, and he grins when Toshinori turns around and shows him all the signatures he’s collected. “Nice. You’ve got Eddie and Juan beat for sure.”
You’ve only caught brief glimpses of the other two pledges. One had passed out in a recliner near the TV, apparently lulled to sleep by booze and the dulcet tones of frat boys singing karaoke. The other had given Toshinori an ecstatic high five before ducking into an upstairs bathroom to puke.
“He’s doing great,” you tell Dave, carefully enunciating your words. No one will know you’re drunk if you don’t sound drunk, right? Nevermind that you’re a little wobbly on your feet and now leaning on Toshinori for balance. You have been for a while now.
Dave narrowly conceals a laugh as he lifts his glass to take a sip, but Marcus isn’t so subtle. You’re too distracted to really notice, though.
Toshinori is so big and warm. As you rest your head against his arm, you feel content and happy — even more so when his hand settles on your shoulder and he bends down to look at you. He’s smiling, but there’s a hint of concern in his expression.
“Hey… It might be time to call it a night.”
Your first instinct is to protest. It’s your first college party, and you’re having fun. But then, as if to counter your temptation to stay, your head throbs, and your stomach does a disconcerting little somersault.
“Don’t worry about us,” Priya says, having finally dragged her gaze away from Alex. “Sloane left with that pink-haired girl she’s been eye-fucking all night.”
“And I’ll get this one home safe. I promise.” Alex bends down, resting his chin on Priya’s head as he offers a mischievous grin, and you’re worried she just might faint.
Maybe she doesn’t want to come home, you muse before letting out a small, stubborn huff and staring up at Toshinori. “Okay. Take me home, big guy.”
Marcus actually chokes on his cider, and you watch as Toshinori’s eyes widen before he quickly looks away. “Uh — yeah, we’ll — Let’s go.”
As you stumble beside him, his hand hovering over your back so that he can steady you if needed, you swear you hear a wolf whistle and Priya’s excited babbling echoing behind you. But it all fades away as the two of you take the brick path along the side of the house, crossing the front yard.
At the sidewalk, you point in the direction of your apartment building, and you both keep walking. “So…” you say, after several minutes of comfortable silence. You draw the word out into something much longer before continuing, “What did you think of your first American college party?”
“It was loud. And crowded. In a lot of ways, it was what I expected.” As you look up at him, careful not to stumble over your own feet, his lips curl into a wide smile. “But it was exciting — and really fun.”
Not even thinking twice about it, you loop your arm through his. “Good! I’m glad.”
You’re certain it’s only his guidance that’s keeping you walking in a remotely straight line, especially as you crane your head back to stare up at the night sky. “We fucking killed at that pledge game. You’re now the pledgiest pledge in all of Phi Delta.”
Toshinori laughs, and with your arm pressed against the side of his broad chest, you can feel it vibrate through him. “Is that so?”
“Indeed,” you insist, grabbing his hand as you swing your arms back and forth again and again. “You’re gonna be Mr. Popular before you know it. Will you still remember me when you’re all famous and stuff?”
By now, you’ve reached the complex, and the two of you stand just outside the front doors. Through the glass, you can see the night attendant on duty, watching something on their laptop while eating instant ramen.
When you look up at Toshinori this time, you’re startled, even through the haze of your inebriation, to find that his expression has softened into something you’ve never seen before.
If you had thought his walls were down earlier, this is something else entirely — a rare, unguarded glimpse of something tender and heartfelt.
“Only if you promise to do the same,” he murmurs, and oh boy, there’s that strange feeling again, like your heart is skipping rope while your stomach does a backflip.
Please don’t let me throw up on the boy I like.
“It’s a deal,” you tell him, sounding a little breathless. When you look away, your gaze snags on the permanent marker still sticking out of his pocket. “Oh, hey. I never actually signed your shirt. Gimme.”
When he hands you the marker and turns around, you examine his back, trying to find a good spot to leave your mark. Chewing on your bottom lip, you tap him, silently asking him to bend down so you can reach.
Tucked in between a few other messy scrawls, you sign your name. And then, after hesitating for the briefest moment, you add something else beneath it.
“All done!” Handing the marker back, you smile up at him, trying to plant your feet and not fall over. “Thanks for walking me back. A gentleman hero is hard to find.”
His smile looks a little shy as he glances inside. “Are you okay to get to your room?” Seeming to realize the possible implications of that question, he stammers, “I m-mean, you have your key? You’re not feeling like you’re going to pass out, or —”
Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, still tied around your waist, you pull out your wallet and wave it around like a prize. “Key card’s in here! And I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
As you walk to the door, you call out, “I’ll drink water, too. I swear.” You know that came out more slurred than you intended, especially when Toshinori stifles a laugh.
“Goodnight,” he says, and you glance back one more time before the door closes.
“Goodnight.”
You keep your promise and manage to drink one glass of water before flopping onto your bed, watching as the ceiling slowly rotates, even though you’re no longer moving. Definitely not a good sign.
But all you can manage is throwing your jacket on the floor, shimmying out of your pants, and dry swallowing two ibuprofen before you crawl under the covers.
The last thing you see before you fall asleep, so clear in your mind, it may as well be a photograph, is the way Toshinori looked at you before you signed his shirt.
There’s no question anymore. You absolutely have a crush on him. Quite possibly the biggest crush you’ve ever had. And as you bury your face in your pillow, cheeks hot at the realization, you can’t help but hope he might feel the same way.
#my hero academia#mha#bnha#all might x reader#yagi toshinori x reader#toshinori yagi x reader#toshinori x reader#mybigbangacademia
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Willow (1988) was a movie I missed by several decades, that said despite its flaws I enjoyed and was charmed by it enough that when it was given a sequel in the form of a television series (2022) I immediately jumped on the hype band wagon.
I loved the show; the easy to digest but nostalgic story, the high fantasy chic meets modern day aesthetic in it's fashion and music a la A Knights Tale (2001), and it's, most of all, endearing cast. A cast that clearly loved enjoying working on the project as a whole, from start to finish.
Immediately upon completion the viewer is granted the beautiful image of a promise of not only an additional season to come, but a third.
And yet six months after it airs, it's axed by Disney execs. Not only axed, but cut from the platform entirely. The movie remains, but there are no significant dividends to pay there. No checks to sign of reasonable note. No young actors with entire careers ahead of them using the profits deserved to them to further launch their careers. No action figures or posters or asterix pointing you to the footnotes. I search for the show, for some mention of it's short life and quick death, and it's buried under reports of yet more projects, completed, promised projects, cut down before their prime. Worst still, before they see the light of day at all.
I want to watch Willow. I want to begrudgingly accept using Disney Plus to watch Willow if only it means marveling in it again, knowing that maybe at the very least these people are getting something in return. Notoriety on a big streaming platform, if fucking anything. A chance to be seen and to be loved and at least witnessed by someone else who can carry it in their heart until their heart can yearn no longer.
Growing up I hated finishing stories, because it meant the stories were done. There was nothing new to be found there, only the calm comfort of something known, familiar, and thus the end of the electric excitement of something unknown. Now I yearn for endings, because is that not what a story deserves? A resolution? Certainty of, if not something happy, then something complete? Is that itself not a relief, and thus a certain kind of happiness?
There is an immortality to be found only in the words of a complete story. A certain legacy set in stone. Those that draw short too soon, that go on ad infantum due to the sick draw of capitalism and this seemingly endless need to consume, results not in stone but sludge, not fit for flowers to feast on.
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oooh! May I have a (Control) Trench/Northmoor thing? Been a while and I loved what you did last time. Preferably something soft and light-hearted?
(I'm currently too clammed up and angsty and generally blah to write anything, so *someone* has to do it.) <3
catch me catching up on some not-quite-six sentence sat(or)sunday!
The interdepartmental bulletin had gone over like a lead balloon - at least in the executive suite. Its phrasing had been cheerful, almost irreverent, peppering in all the buzzwords du jour: synergy, community, appreciation, morale, describing the exercise as everything but what it actually was.
A bad idea.
Trench had seen the surveys go out - neat, painstakingly organized things they were - and for a good week after the copy machine had cooled off, each pneumatic THWOOP! of an incoming mail tube made him wince. There was no way in hell this didn't break bad, no. Way. In. Hell.
Yearbook superlatives were still yearbook superlatives by any other name; and maybe he wasn't some high-falutin' expert on the matter, but he was pretty damn sure this sort of juvenile popularity contest counted as archetypal, no matter how wild and/or wacky the categories were.
Whoever's idea this little team building exercise had been, well...he hoped they realized they were playing with fire. If not metaphorically, tempting the Oldest House with a tasty morsel of iconography, then, uh, literally. They might literally find themselves set aflame.
The thought occurred to him again when the day finally came and he found himself standing in front of the corkboard in the Executive wing, his eyes moving with slow, calculated saccades across the pages of dot-matrix printing posted up there. Perhaps, he thought - perhaps - they'd skirted the Oldest House's wrath through careful consideration (the sides of each sheet torn off perfectly at the perforations, the proper usage of an even number of Bureau-issued nondescript thumbtacks, the wise omission of any of those digital smiley faces the younger agents seemed so fond of those days), but he'd seen Broderick's name on the list. He'd seen the title he'd been awarded.
No one was out of the frying pan yet.
Like the cliche alone betrayed him, a familiar warmth filled the room. Without glancing away from the list, Trench swirled the (now steaming) coffee in his mug and took a sip. "Director," he said by way of greeting, not without the faintest upward tick to the corner of his mouth.
"Had one of these in high school, you know," Northmoor answered, all bluster and proud swagger as he joined Trench at the corkboard. "Most likely to succeed. You believe that? Like somehow, in someway, the whole graduating class was prescient. Who woulda thunk, huh? Oh, if only they knew..."
Ah. All right. There he'd been, expecting the water coolers to be bubbling over while the wallpaper glue melted off the damn drywall, and yet there was Broderick, grinning like the cock of the walk. Trench was still fully, fully of the opinion that this whole mess had been a bad idea - an awful one, really - but now he added an asterisk to that thought, a footnote down at the very bottom of his mental write-up of the scene:
The superlatives had been a bad idea.*
*But funny, too.
With his mug, he gestured towards the corkboard, offhandedly asking, "You've seen it already, then?"
"On my way in, yeah," Northmoor answered, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders in a self-assured stance as endearing as it was obnoxious. "Great way to start the day - really puts a spring in your step, doesn't it? Seeing how the rest of them think of us?"
Trench hummed a soft "Mhm" of agreement into his coffee, experience having taught him to savor it now, while he had the chance. Soon enough, he suspected, that wouldn't be the case.
"You hardly sound enthusiastic about it. Here, what'd they give you? Hmm...Zachariah...Zachari - ah, there you are!" His finger traced its way down the list from a safe distance, the paper darkening in a spot or two along the way. "Most likely to benefit from a vacation. Ha! Hey, you have to hand it to them, they're not wrong." Without waiting for a response, he continued, obviously just excited to share his own title. "Try not to look so grim about it, Deputy. I mean, it's not what I was voted, but c'mon...not everyone can be Hottest in the Bureau."
Echoing himself, Trench once more hummed in agreement. "True," he said flatly, hoping against hope there wasn't anything on his face suggesting how close he was to snickering. "You'll have to excuse my candor for saying so, but I don't think anyone here has a leg to stand on if they argue you're not the hottest one in the Bureau. That's just simple fact."
He waited. That probably made him as much a part of the problem as whoever it was who'd put the surveys out in the first place, but he did it. Trench waited until Northmoor turned to look at him, his grin sideways and shining and perfectly fetching; Trench waited for that very moment, and then, perfectly calm, fanned himself with the case file he'd been holding in his other hand.
The grin didn't drop all at once. But it dropped. Doubt flared in Broderick's eyes, then realization, then fury, then actual honest-to-god embers. The room positively wilted in the ensuing heat pouring off of him as he whirled around, shouting at some poor pencil pusher to "GET ME THE NAME OF WHATEVER CLOWN THOUGHT THIS COCKAMAMIE BULLSHIT UP," and Trench? Why, he loosened his tie. Kept fanning himself. He set his coffee mug down as its contents began to boil, and he forced himself to admit maybe there was a bit of truth behind those superlatives after all.
He probably wouldn't get a suntan from watching Broderick burst into flame upon realizing the whole Bureau had joined together to make a horrific pass at wordplay at his expense, but the ambient heat he was putting off was the closest he'd come to a tropical vacation in at least ten years, and if he was honest with himself...yeah, yeah, he was benefiting from it, all right.
#phenanthreneblue#six sentence weekend#queenie writes control#control#broderick northmoor#zachariah trench#waaaaaagh thanks so much for your patience phen!!! i hope this one made you smile! ;)c#or at least huff air out of your nose really quick in an 'oh my god that's TERRIBLE' chuckle alksjjdfklj which is more my strong suit lbr
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hi im plagued with thoughts again
this isnt meet/remeet but instead an immortals idea i think about occasionally anyway so poisonstar but party's mortal and jet is immortal and sometimes she leaves to go help people and then comes back and sometimes it takes a While because she experiences time differently to party. about half a week for her is six months for them. anyway.
this song BUT its party waiting for jet to come back. "i'm falling from the ceiling / you're falling from the sky now and then". "its a lifetime commitment, recovering the satellites / all anybody really wants to know is when youre gonna come down"
im waaaaaay too insane abt this song rn i cant put anything into words but do you read me
that is such an absolutely devastating concept to me holy shit. having to wait months for the one you love to return to you while having to deal with the bitter knowledge that to them it feels like barely any time has passed at all?? god- party probably sits there so terrified that this time shes not coming back, that this will be the day jet forgets abt them too caught up in the blink of an eye their existence is. lile she'll get distracted, not realize how much time has truly passed, and come home what feels like a short while but us actually YEARS later to find poison long ghosted, forgotten. I AM EATING FUCKING GLASS RN 😭
like "Maybe you were shot down in pieces/Maybe I slipped in between" is party feeling like a footnote in jets grand existence and "So why'd you come home to this sleepless town/It's a lifetime commitment" like sometimes they wonder why she bothers coming back to them when their life is just slipping away in front of her and they know they wont really matter in the grand scheme of things but "She says I don't need to be an angel" jet tries so hard to get them to see that they are the most important thing in the world to them- out of all the lives shes seen AND I AM GOING TO START CRYUNG DUDE ITS JUST. WAUGHSGS HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH THIS ITS SO BITTERSWEET AND SAD AND JUST. THE WHOLE CONCEPT OF BEING IN LOVE FOR WHATS ONLY A BRIEF MOMENT BUT THAT LOVE STILL BEING REAL, STILL MATTERING EVEN IF UT COULDNT LAST BECAUSE IT WAS THERE WHILE IT WAS ABLE TO BE IT WAS THERE AND IT WAS FELT AND IT WAS REAL AND THATS ALL THAT MATTERS FUCK
#asks#fuck god fucking. its reminding me of hadestown WHY IS THIS REMINDING ME OF HADESTOWN#I ALREQDY AHEV A WEIRD ASSOCIATION BETWEEN JET AND ORPHEUS ANYWAYS I DONT NEED TO BE THINKING ABT THIS MORE FUUUUUUUUCK#jet star#party poison#kaz i hope you know this conceot has absolutely destroyed me and you Will be hearing from my lawyer#emotional damages... im gonna be thinking abt this forever 😭😭
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