#yes I referenced book covers for poses
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I know I’m already doing a wof art series rn but I have these old “what if they were bugs” designs and I rlly wanna touch back on them since I’ve been studying bug anatomy…
#myart#wings of fire#wof icewing#wof rainwing#wof mudwing#wof seawing#design#bug#insect#yes I referenced book covers for poses
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Ah yes... my brand.
I feel obligated to flood the internet with this niche ship.
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[My Ko-Fi] [RedBubble] [Patreon]
The pose for this was actually referenced from a 1940s comic book cover. I like to go on weird little deep dives, and the amount of stuff you can find in internet archives is amazing. (However, I will warn you that these romantic stories were quite bad, and sexist.)
#star wars#starwars#kotor#kotor 1#darth revan#lady revan#darth malak#female revan#revalek#revan x malak#procreate
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Wannabe
Summary: The Sixth Year Gryffindor boys discover the Spice Girls, but Harry only wants to be Ginny’s lover.
Yes, you read that right. This fluffy, kind-of-crack HBP missing moment was born from a conversation in the Hinny Discord (and my 90s tween years).
Content warning: If you aren’t into wank jokes, teenage boys shamelessly ogling pop icons, unfiltered Ron, and don’t agree that Sporty was the least attractive Spice Girl (apologies, Mel C), then this may not be the fic for you ;)
Since historical accuracy is paramount to this story (sarcasm), the magazine referenced in the fic is the March 1997 issue of The Face. Google it if you want to see the cover and photos (you know you want to).
Thank you @thedistantdusk, beta supreme, for editing and always encouraging my ridiculousness ;) Happy Thursday!
Read it below the cut, or on Ao3.
Harry flopped onto his bed, tired but pleased with how well the team was flying. At this rate, they’d have a fighting chance to win the cup against Ravenclaw, especially now that Katie was back. It’d been their best practice yet, although he’d been repeatedly distracted by Ginny, laughing at her antics, admiring the way her eyes blazed with determination just before she scored a goal, trying not to stare at her arse as she bent low over her broomstick.
“What’s that?” Ron said, jolting Harry from his thoughts.
Ron looked across the dormitory at Seamus, who sat on his bed staring intently at a magazine with Dean looking over his shoulder.
“See for yourself, mate.” Seamus smirked, holding up the magazine to reveal the cover, a Muggle photograph of five girls, all scantily clad in lingerie and extremely fit.
Harry sat up immediately for a better look. Even Neville, from his bed next to Harry’s, had his eyes glued to the cover.
Ron let out a low whistle. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, clamoring across the room to stand next to Seamus for a better look.
“Took it from my little sister over Easter hols and brought it back for Seamus,” Dean said, grinning. “Thought he’d appreciate it.”
“What’s your little sister doing with something like this?”
“Not what you’ll be doing with it later, that’s for sure,” Seamus said, making a rude hand gesture. Ron flipped him off as the rest of them laughed.
“They’re the Spice Girls,” Dean explained. “A Muggle singing group. All the girls are obsessed with them right now. Girl Power, you know?”
Harry didn’t know, but he decided he would very much like to find out as he walked over for a closer look.
“Fuck, they’re fit,” Ron said, looking over Seamus’ shoulder at the cover of the magazine.
Harry had to agree. There was a perky, smiling blonde, two brunettes in the middle with dark, shiny hair and sultry gazes, a redhead with great tits next to them, and a pretty girl with wild curls and tanned skin posed seated at their feet.
“And this is just the cover, wait ‘til you see the photos inside.” Seamus said, waggling an eyebrow.
“They’re everywhere right now- can’t turn on the radio without hearing their songs- they’re all over the telly too,” Dean said, as the rest of them continued to stare at the cover. “They go by nicknames, and the girls all have favorites.”
Dean pointed to the blonde. “This one’s Baby, there’s Sporty on her other side. The redhead is Ginger-“
“Original, that one,” Harry said dryly, and the others laughed.
Dean continued as the laughter subsided. “The one next to her with that stuck up look is Posh, and the one sitting down is Scary- she’s my sister’s favorite. I’m with her on that one.” He finished with a wink.
“Reckon Scary’s my favorite too,” Seamus said, his tone thick with bravado.
“No way,” Ron said, indignant, “that Posh one, she’s the fittest. Look at her legs.”
“Nah, she’s a bit too high and mighty. She looks like she’d always be telling you what to do,” Dean said.
“Just Ron’s type then,” Seamus quipped.
Dean and Seamus roared with laughter. Out of loyalty, Harry tried (but failed) to suppress his own laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Oh, fuck off,” Ron replied, the tips of his ears red.
“What’s The Chosen One’s choice?” Seamus asked, turning to Harry.
Harry rolled his eyes. “I’d go with Ginger.”
“Oooooh, Harry picks the redhead,” Seamus said, eyebrow raised, exchanging a pointed look with Dean.
“Got a thing for gingers, do you then?”
Shit. Panic that his casual admission might reveal his most private, fiercely-guarded feelings about Ginny began to overtake him.
“Didn’t pick her for her hair color, mate,” Harry retorted, trying to sound flippant, as he gestured to her tits.
Seamus laughed and slapped Harry’s shoulder. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief, hoping that he hadn’t just made the fact that he fancied Ginny completely obvious. In truth, the girl did remind him a bit of Ginny- not just her hair color, but her build too, and something about the way she carried herself in the photo. He tried not to blush, though heat rushed to his cheeks. He stole a glance at Ron who, thankfully, was still gaping at the magazine and not paying attention to the exchange.
“What’s your vote, then, Nev?” Seamus asked.
Neville, standing next to Harry, his cheeks already pink, looked startled to be included. “Erm, she looks nice,” he said softly, motioning towards the blonde, “but they’re all good looking, really,” he added, his round face now flaming scarlet.
“Nobody for Sporty then?” Dean asked, laughing.
“Nah, who's picking Sporty over any of those four?” Ron said bluntly. “Let’s see what’s inside, then.”
The photo spread inside the magazine did not disappoint, Harry thought, taking in the individual, full body photos of each girl in very suggestive poses.
“Damn,” Ron said appreciatively.
“Told you it was good.”
The dormitory grew quiet for a moment as Seamus flipped through the pages.
“Wait,” said Ron, pointing to a line in the article, “This says the lyrics to their hit song are ‘If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends.’ Really?”
“Are you actually reading the article, mate? That’s impressive,” Harry said wryly.
“It’s true- heard it a million times over Easter break, that bloody song’s on the radio every other minute,” Dean replied.
“Well, it’s fucking terrible advice. What girl wants you getting with her friends?” Ron said.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“Ron,” a voice called. Harry realized instantly that it was Ginny.
Fuck. Seamus shoved the magazine under the duvet as the rest of them scrambled to disperse, Neville tripping over his own feet, Ron hitting his head on the top of the bedpost as he ducked to sit on his bed.
“Come in,” Ron called.
Ginny opened the door and leaned on the side of the doorframe. She looked unfairly beautiful, Harry thought, her cheeks still rosy from practice, her long hair loose and flowing down her back, ending just above the swell of her arse, which looked fantastic in her tight joggers.
Her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. The five of them had each ended up on their respective beds, fully dressed, shoes and all, with no books or parchment in sight. It must’ve looked strange.
She quirked an eyebrow. “You five having a cosy little chat?”
Neville chuckled nervously. Seamus coughed. Ron’s ears turned red. Dean stared at the duvet, determined to avoid her gaze, probably for a variety of reasons, Harry thought.
Ginny shook her head slightly. “Never mind, I’m sure I don’t even want to know,” she said, grinning at Harry. His cheeks grew warm, and he gave a slight shrug back.
She turned to Ron, her tone more serious. “Hermione asked me to get you. The Second Years were playing Exploding Snap at a table in the common room, and the explosion blew up some inkwells. There’s ink all over everything. She needs your help cleaning off the boys. Euan Abercrombie’s covered head to toe in it.”
“Little idiots,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. He stood and walked past Ginny onto the spiral staircase.
“Great practice, Harry,” Ginny said. She beamed at him, her smile brilliant, and in that moment, he wished, more than anything, that they were alone in the dormitory, instead of awkwardly surrounded by her (very recent) ex, Seamus, and Neville.
“You too. We’re going to flatten them,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound like his breath was caught in his throat, which it was.
She just winked back. His heart, already fluttering faster than the wings of a snitch, skipped a beat. “Night all,” she said, with a wave to Neville.
As she closed the door, Harry sank back onto his pillows, thinking only of Ginny, the magazine long forgotten.
#hinny#hinny fanfic#hbp missing moment#sort of crack#fluff#spice up your life#unfiltered ron weasley
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The Prince Of Alderaan Chapter I
Summary: It’s the spring of 1813, you’re the daughter of Viscount Huntington and after your family went through a scandalous season last year your parents have decided it’s time for your debut in society as a marriageable young lady. You’ve had life long expectations about what this would mean, charming young men excited by the prospect of being your suitor, lavish dances, and falling in love. What your debut season turns out to be is far from your innocent imaginings, especially because the Prince of Alderaan is in London for the season and with him all kinds of dark intentions.
Read it on AO3 | Send me a ko-fi
Rating: Explicit...eventually
Word Count: 6,117
Warning: None as of now
Pairing: Kylo Ren x reader
Notes: This story is inspired by the netflix show/book series Bridgerton. It’s kind of a crossover because I do use some themes and characters from the show but it is mostly a Kylo x Reader fic. I am still in the process of writing it but it is all planned out. I’m hoping to post weekly but I don’t have any set schedule as of right now. I promise you this is not going to be super historically accurate so don’t expect that lol. I’m just here for a good time. I really hope you like it!!
Dearest Lords and Ladies of London,
As the social season of 1813 fully blooms in the spring air, I pose one question, what scandal awaits our starved apetites? Last year we enjoyed the delicacy of the great Huntington family being almost brought to their knees by the Viscount Huntington’s love of gambling. This year we can feast upon his youngest child and only daughter being presented to society for the first time, perhaps earlier than she should have been to in an attempt to make up for their problems last year. We also will get to try a taste of exotic flavor as the Prince of Alderaan has returned to London for business reasons unknown(but will surely be found out by this writer). As those of us who keep up with world politics know, the Prince is the current ruler of the Kingdom of Alderaan as he and his militaristic political faction ousted his mother, the Queen Regent, from power only a few years after his father abdicated responsibilities and is in places unknown.
Yesterday, the young ladies of high society who are debuting this season were presented to Queen Charlotte of England and of course, it was an event filled with who’s who, how did this girl prove herself silly or charming or cold and who managed to scrape by with Her Majesty’s much desired approval. Miss Daphne Bridgerton was chosen as the Queen’s diamond of the season, and was, to use the Queen’s word, “Flawless.” It will be interesting to see how many suitors Miss Daphne may be entertaining over the next few weeks. Miss Huntington, who’s family had very nearly been shunned by all of society last season proved to be quiet but charming and earned herself almost no regard from the Queen but did fair better than the young Miss Philippa Featherington who swooned almost the moment she was presented to the Queen.
Yes, Lords and Ladies of London, we are in for quite the season, I am sure. I can assure you I will be with you every step of the way. None of you know me, nor will you ever(no matter how hard I am sure you will try) but I know you. I know your business and every dark little secret that you think is private and I will gladly be sharing it with the rest of the society. I’m sure we will all become very well acquainted over the next few weeks.
Yours most sincerely,
Lady Whistledown
***
Everything was silk and cotton, ruffles on skirts, rouge, curls and words of the latest scandal sheet that had been delivered to the door of 3201 Grosvenor Square earlier in the day. You were of course readying yourself for the Danbury Ball that evening, it would be your first ball after being presented to the Queen of England herself and to society as a whole so it must be perfect.
“What did it say of me again, Mama?” You asked as you stood facing the large mirror in your room while your maid, Ella, tied up your stays. She pulled them tight but not so tight you could not breathe, fainting at your first ball would hardly do, it would be unacceptable outcome to both you and your parents who hoped to find you an excellent match this season.
“Do not concern yourself with what some horrid writer thinks of you, dearest.” Mama said, looking up from the paper in question. You had read it through and found your name mentioned multiple times, none of which had been terribly favorable. Of course she referenced the scandal that had taken place in your family the year previously but that had been covered endlessly in older scandal sheets and no one found it of much interest anymore. Lady Whistledown was new she had more interest in reporting the new scandals….and yet, she had mentioned it. So it would be fresh in any suitors mind, a thought that caused you discomfort. You would hate to fall madly in love with some beautiful lord only to have him find you detestable due to something that happened in your family over a year before. You had been looking forward to your season since you were a child, you imagined it always bathed in beautiful spring sunlight, you imagined yourself surrounded by affectionate suitors, flowers, music, charming conversation and always…options.
Now that your season was here, you found it tainted by the mere memory of scandal but you were not going to let it stop you from finding love and enjoying the beauty of being out in the eyes of society. Marriage eligible. Despite what Lady Whistledown had written, you felt yourself ready for society, ready for all that it could bring you; and your Mama was right, you should not let the words of a gossip writer concern you. Ella had finished with your stays so now it was time for your petticoat and then your gown, fresh from the modiste. Once it was on, buttoned, straightened, and thoroughly fussed over Ella stepped back and you examined yourself in the mirror. The dress was fashionable in every aspect, powder blue, high waistline, short puffed sleeves, and square neckline that showed off more than you had ever been allowed to show before. You felt it swish around your slippered feet and you felt exactly how you had always dreamed of feeling just prior to your first ball.
“Mama?” You prompted, glancing over your shoulder to where your Mama was still poring over Lady Whistledown(even though she had told you not to concern yourself). Lady Huntington finally looked up and gasped. Standing up, she rushed to your side.
“You are a vision, dearest.” She said, smoothing a section of your hair. You smiled, allowing your eyes to linger on your own reflection again. Your heart sputtered with excitement, tonight could very well be the night that you would first lay your eyes upon the man you would wed.
“We truly do not need to worry about what the Horrible Whistledown woman writes, because you are such a gem that all the gentlemen at tonights ball shall be vying for your attention. “ Mama said. You looked to Ella,
“Do you agree, Ella?” You asked, reaching out for your maid’s hand, you had known her for years and she was your closest confidant, especially after all you had endured last season.
“Oh, My Lady, my opinion hardly-“
“I do very much value your opinion, Ella…and I’d believe you if you were to tell me I look like a fool. Please.” You said, squeezing her hand.
“You look lovely, my lady.” Ella said, you gave her a look that practically begged her to tell you the truth. “That is the truth, my lady. You’ll need your best gloves but you look just as your mother said, a vision.” She said. You smiled and looked back to the mirror, allowing yourself another moment to take yourself in. Perhaps it was a silly thing to do, perhaps you were being vain but you had to be flawless to be viewed as eligible and that was what you intended on doing.
***
Kylo Ren had changed his name years before and still sometimes invitations were addressed to his past name. Especially when he was here in London; he believed his mother had something to do with that and he despised it. Of course, no one would refer to him as that name to his face, no one had the courage to do that; but he still found it irksome to look at the letter sitting on his desk that invited him to the Danbury Ball tonight addressing him as Benjamin. Even worse was the gossip rag that had been delivered to his address that morning not only mentioned him but even the author of that drivel had managed not to refer to him as his detested past name. And yet, high society here in London could not be bothered to at least address him as his title. It had his mother’s doing written all over it and it put him in a truly foul mood. There was a knock on his door and he looked up from his desk,
“Yes?” he called and the door opened, revealing the butler.
“A General Hux here for you, Your Grace.” He said in the snooty high society accent of a well trained London butler.
“Yes, let him in.” He said dismissively. He went back to the work in front of him while he waited for the wretched man to enter. He was in no mood for Hux, his chiding or his warnings about tonight’s events. Yet, he had to humor the man even while they were here in London. General Hux commanded Alderaan’s army and even though Kylo commanded the General, he needed to keep the abhorrent man at least semi happy.
“Ren,” Hux was already speaking as he walked into the room. Kylo stood, deciding to ignore the fact that Hux had not bowed or showed any amount of respect for his position as he entered the room. Kylo held his hand out for the General to take, Hux clasped it, and Kylo maybe squeezed his fingers harder than he had intended to.
“Hux,” He said in greeting. “How are you?” he asked in a tone that implied he didn’t care at all about the answer.
“Well. Enjoying London so far. Ah,” Hux had spotted Lady Whistledown’s sheet on the desk and walked over, picking it up. “You received this as well?” He asked around a smile.
“Of course, I believe it was delivered to all the households in high society.” Kylo said, he picked his tailcoat up from over the back of his chair and pulled it on. The ball was in a few hours and he needed to begin to get ready, to make himself presentable for society so he hoped he could rush Hux out by appearing busy.
“It mentions you.” Hux said, looking at the paper in one hand while the other arm was tucked behind his back in a way that was clearly commonplace for him due to his military background. A refreshed wave of irritation washed over Kylo as Hux told him something he already knew,
“Yes. I have read it.” Kylo said through a clenched jaw.
“You know this means all the young ladies and their Mama’s will be out for your favor.” He said. Kylo didn’t want to hear it, he knew it to be true but listening to it from a man he could barely stand was not something he wanted to tolerate.
“I know. It does not matter.” He said.
“You would be wise to marry.” There was the chiding Kylo had expected. “People will only take you seriously when you have an heir…and an heir,” He looked at Kylo meaningfully, “A legitimate heir, requires a wife.” He finished in clipped tones. Kylo realized he had been clenching his fist, his brow furrowed, anger coursing through him. He slowly released the clenched hand.
“Do you forget who you are speaking to?” He asked, his voice going from the simple boredom of before to fury.
“No, Your Grace, I merely am trying to impress upon you the importance of something you seem to have entirely written off. Just because you want to behave like a petulant child and irritate your mother-“ Hux was cut of mid sentence due to Kylo crossing in front of his desk and grabbing the shorter man by the front of his tailcoat. Kylo dragged Hux towards him, their faces close, fury burnt through the Princes’s expression.
“You’ve forgotten your place, Hux.” He snarled and then because he did not wish to start a brawl with his army’s general in the study of his London home he shoved Hux away so hard the man stumbled. “I am aware of the situation and I do not need your counsel. Now, I will see you at the events tonight. Remember who you speak to next time.” He warned. Hux hastily fixed his collar, adjusting it as he caught his breath, still looking shaken. It was not the first time the Prince had brutalized him in such a fashion and neither of them thought it would be the last.
“I shall see you tonight.” Hux said before turning to leave. He paused at the door,
“You would do well to reign in that temper, Your Grace, if you do wish to secure an heir and your position.” Hux warned and then he was out the door. Kylo stood there, shaking with rage, it bubbled inside him and in an explosion of movement he lashed out and sent a stack of books flying from their position on the desk. They crashed across his desk as they went flying, upending a inkwell, throwing papers into the air and making a giant clatter as they hit the floor. Kylo stood back, seething as the Butler hurriedly entered to clear it up.
***
The Danbury Ball was just as Kylo had suspected, stuffy, hot, and dull. It was filled with the smell of ladies perfume and powder from the wigs worn by the musicians. It was also filled with young ladies and their Mama’s flocking around him begging for his attention either for themselves or for their daughters. “Lady This from That estate in the country, Your Grace, I can play any Mozart you’d like on piano.” “Lady Whatever, Your Grace, please meet my daughter Miss Whatever. We have three homes in London alone thats not to mention our country estate. So you can assume her dowry is sizable.” “Your Grace, what an honor that you would attend-“ “Prince Ren, I’d like you to meet-“ It seemed to go on and on and there was no escape, unless he were to leave entirely and he knew that was unacceptable.
Kylo refused to be bested by the hordes of young women, all bright eyed, rose cheeked and dressed in the most fashionable of gowns. No, he would hold his ground, be polite but dismissive and leave it at that. How dull. Leaving it at that. Lots of the girls were attractive but most of them would prove to be proper young ladies who would never be caught dead alone with a man, let alone in any of the compromising situations he might find enjoyable. It was true that it would be easy enough to lure one of them out to the garden and from there some kind of seduction would be simple, a kiss on the neck, a hand on the waist and the girl would be so flustered and excited that she wouldn’t know how to say no. For a moment he found himself entertained at the idea but then he glanced around at the girls batting their eyelashes at him, smiling and trying to make themselves as demure and eligible as possible and he was bored once again. The idea of compromising one of their virtues had been exciting for a fleeting moment but the excitement had died the moment he truly considered acting on it.
Kylo excused himself in what was probably an extremely rude manner to the woman who had been trying to ask him if he hunted. He felt as if he was being hunted himself as he walked away from her and the other ladies who were waiting for their opportunity to talk to him. He finally found himself a tiny pocket of peace, just off of the dance floor by a window that looked out onto Lady Danbury’s gardens. He stood for a moment, finally getting to enjoy a second of peace and quiet when a voice next to him spoke,
“I’m shocked to see you here.” Kylo stiffened, because he recognized the voice. It belonged to his mother and he hadn’t heard it in years. It made his chest tighten, if his hands had not been clasped behind his back they would have trembled. Before he looked at her he set his jaw and his eyes hardened,
“Queen Regent,” he said in greeting, tilting his head down slightly but barely meeting her eyes.
“Ben,” Leia started but Kylo sucked in his breath through his teeth so she had to pause, but she continued without correcting herself, “I am so glad you’re in London for the season…there is so much you can accomplish. Starting with healing your relationship with Queen Charlotte.” Of course, the instant she spoke to him again it was about all his failings, all the things he needed to fix.
“No, Your Grace. It is not my plan to heal anything with her, she is not the leader of England just as you are not the leader of Alderaan.” His tone was cross but quiet, he didn’t need anyone hearing the way in which they spoke to one another. Leia glared up at him for a moment, Kylo could feel his mother’s eyes burning into him as if the glare could actually turn to fire and scorch his clothing and then his skin.
“At least tell me you’re coming to these events looking for a wife.” She said after a moment of silence between them. Kylo looked down at her and watched her turn around to face the ballroom, placing both of her hands properly on top of her beautiful gilded cane. When he didn’t answer she took his arm, pulling him slightly to look at something. He tugged his arm out of her grip but looked where she was looking, “Daphne Bridgerton was named the diamond of the season. She was chosen by the Queen.” She said to him. Kylo’s eyes caught on Daphne, a pretty young debutant but thoroughly uninteresting to him. “She would make quite the wife, and being married to a Prince is a big step up for her. I’m quite sure she would be interested.” She was speaking hurriedly as if she knew he was about to walk away from her and to be fair, that was exactly what he wanted to do.
“I am not getting married, mother.” He growled, his voice still low. “Especially not to some girl who’s in the pocket of an English Queen.” He snarled before turning from his mother and stalking off.
*
Walking into the ballroom of your first ball was somehow better than all of your fantasies, all your dreams seemed to have lead to this moment and as you stepped in from the entry hall you lost your breath. It was a swirl of white gloves, beautiful light dresses, curls immaculately done up, men’s tailcoats jostling as they danced, and golden candlelight danced over the whole thing. You felt as though you had inhaled bubbles from the sips of champagne you had on holidays.
The ballroom at the Danbury’s estate was a large, high ceilinged room with many beautiful crystal chandeliers hanging down providing glowing golden candle light. On the mantles of the multiple fireplaces were spring green garlands, white roses tucked amongst the greenery. It had all the charms and refinement you expected from your first ball. The center of the room was the dance floor and just off to the side, below a grand staircase the musicians played beautiful, joyful music. Many people danced and still more mingled around the edges of the dance, sipping drinks, talking and trying to impress.
Your mama walked in behind you and it was her hand on your back that stopped you from staring all around with wide eyed wonder. You had been to balls before, but it had been as a child, not as a lady eligible for marriage and this was so vastly different.
“Close your mouth, dearest.” Mama said “Lest you catch a fly.” You snapped your mouth shut. Mama lead you to a table that had little cards connected to dainty pieces of ribbon on them. Dance cards. You found your name and Mama helped you tie it around your wrist and it finally felt real. You were here. You were finally going to be able to be a real lady, you could meet the love of your life this very night. Perhaps he would sweep you off of your feet and you would be wed by the end of the season. Did anyone get proposals after one night? You were sure that you had heard of a woman who had managed to get a proposal after only a few hours but you had to remind yourself of how rare that was. There were plenty of young ladies here tonight that had been searching for multiple seasons for a husband and had yet to find one. A lot of those girls didn’t even have a scandal in their family’s history and you did, you had to remind yourself of this so you remained beyond reproach. You had to be perfect. You straightened one of your gloves at your elbow and began to make the rounds.
It came naturally to you because it had come naturally to your mama and she had taught you very well. You greeted everyone by name and title, smiling but not too wide, never looking upset or dowdy. You spoke with Lord Humphies about hunting and Mr. Banbrook about music. You were even able to answer Monsieur De la Rue in acceptable French. Mr. Banbrook was the first to ask you to dance and so he took your hand and lead you out onto the dance floor. His arm wrapped around your back and he began to lead you through a fairly quick waltz. You began the dance dizzy with excitement, Mr. Banbrook was quite handsome, he didn’t have a title but he had money and he smiled while he talked and that charmed you. Something happened as you danced though, you realized your head wasn’t swimming with happiness, your heart wasn’t pounding hard and fast in your ears, there was no excited butterflies dancing in your stomach. You didn’t feel as if you had inhaled champagne bubbles. No. This was no different than dancing with one of your older brothers. Even the steps felt too familiar.
The conversation was lifeless as well, he talked endlessly about all the things he had, and all the things he used to decorate his house with. You had long since left the topic of music behind and you found yourself staring off just over his shoulder, a pleasant smile plastered onto your face.
“I have quite a few stuffed deer heads on the walls of my study out in my country estate.” Mr. Banbrook said, you had to blink a few times to bring yourself back to reality. “They’re really quite beautiful.” He added when you didn’t answer right away.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure they’re lovely.” You said politely.
“Here in London I tend to fashion my home with art more than my hunting trophies-“ he continued and your mind wandered again, it was a thrilling moment when he spun you away from him for a moment and you joined with another gentleman before being spun back to your original partner. How could this be? Mr. Banbrook was perfectly suitable, maybe nothing special but, shouldn’t your first dance at your first ball bring some excitement?
After the disappointing dance with Mr. Banbrook he signed your dance card and promised to come back for another dance later in the evening and you were relieved when he left you. It’s just this first one that was bad, there are plenty of other gentlemen here. You told yourself this over and over again. The first man was not bound to be the man you married. There was a part of you that had hoped that the first dance with a man would be something magical, something that would have sent your heart into spasms of excitement, would have put stars in your eyes, and butterflies in your stomach.
The next man to ask you to dance was Lord Kensington, he was handsome if a bit more bumbling than Mr. Banbrook. He stumbled over his words when asking you to dance but you reserved your judgment until you had danced. Lord Kensington had a title of his own and seemed completely taken with you. He kept his hand tight on your back as you danced. When the music picked up, you hoped and hoped. Please, let this give me every feeling I’ve ever wished for. But when he stepped on your toes and you had to tell him with a polite giggle that it was quite alright, you knew there was no chance. In what world would the man you were going to fall in love with step on your toes, smell of fish and stare at your chest while he tried to keep up with the steps to the dance. You hoped that the disappointment did not show on your face.
By the end of the dance it was hard to pretend you were enjoying yourself, but you attempted. He signed his name to your dance card and you thanked him. Soon. Soon. Someone will and it will be just as lovely as you’ve always imagine. Even if he isn’t the one you marry. It will feel like butterflies and champagne bubbles. You tried to tell yourself this after each man you had a dance with disappointed you. None of them were interesting, exciting, or like the spellbinding man you had always dreamt of.
No, you continued to have your feet trodden on, your back squeezed too tightly, be nearly put to sleep by the conversation and generally underwhelmed. Even the men who were perfectly lovely seeming sparked no interest in you. You tried very hard with them, listening to every word, dancing as prettily as you could, you tried to create the feeling you had dreamt of. The feeling you had when you first entered the ballroom, the rushing excitement, the pulsing happiness, the feeling of possibility. It never happened. The moment when you thought you might feel it, it just fizzled away.
You finished a dance with Lord Fernside and retreated to your Mama, she had been talking with Lady Featherington and the Viscountess Bridgerton when you came over. She detangled herself from the women and turned to you,
“None of those men were your fancy?” she asked, you wondered if she could so easily read it on your face.
“No, Mama…how did you-“ You asked.
“People have been talking,” Never a good thing. “It seems lots of people have been saying you seem…cold. Uninterested.” She said. You felt hot with anger suddenly. You had done nothing wrong, in fact you had played the part of interested and excited as well as you could under the circumstances.
“Uninterested?” You gasped.
“We will discuss it later, for now try and look happier, dearest.” She insisted. You took a deep breath and looked around the ballroom, hoping to calm yourself. You found your eyes drawn across the dance floor to the other side where a man stood almost a foot above the people around him. Besides being shockingly tall, he was broad with waves of dark hair, and a striking features. The oddest thing about him was that he was looking straight back at you. It was as if your eyes had been drawn towards him because you could feel the intensity of his gaze. Your heartbeat quickened, you could feel it in your throat, your hands even seemed to tingle. You knew you shouldn’t stare at him and yet neither of you averted your gaze.
*
“Hux,” Kylo said in greeting as Hux appeared at his side. He did not take his eyes off of the girl across the dance floor from him. She was the first girl at this nightmare of a ball who he did not find completely banal. Maybe it had been the way she had looked around the ballroom with such misery that it nearly rivaled his own. Or maybe it was just because he found her attractive.
“Your Grace,” Hux said, looking up at him and then following his gaze across the ballroom. “Has someone actually caught your eye?” he wondered. Kylo quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to admit anything to Hux, his lip twitched towards a snarl but he reworked his face into disinterest once again.
“She’s attractive is all. Who is she?” He asked.
“Miss Huntington, daughter of Lord and Lady Huntington.” Hux said. “From what I’ve gathered this is her debut season but her prospects do not look good considering the scandal her family suffered last year.” Hux said.
“Scandal?” Kylo asked, the memory of a page in Lady Whistledown’s paper that morning floated back to him. Huntington. Gambling.
“Her father has a gambling problem and lost the family quite a lot of money, they were in some amount of debt. It seems they managed to dig their way out of debt and have returned to proper society.” Hux informed him, leaning in towards him to speak, Kylo wished it was proper to push him away. “I think it was mentioned in Whistledown this morning-“
“I do not care what is written in that fucking paper.” Kylo snapped. Hux was quiet for a moment and then,
“She is far below your station, Your Grace.” Hux said as he watched Kylo’s eyes drift back towards the girl across the ballroom. “And with that kind of scandal, who knows if she even has a dowry anymore.”
It was true. She was far below his station. Far from the Queen’s diamond of the season. Far from the choice his mother would have made for him. He could imagine the irritation he would cause his mother if he was seen with the girl. Choosing to dance with her out of all of the many, more appropriate ladies to choose from.
“Well, thank you for your input, General.” Kylo nodded to Hux and started to cross the ballroom towards the girl.
*
You had to hurriedly force yourself to look away as he looked back towards you, you had already been staring for too long. He was going to think you improper. Maybe you were improper, because you had never even spoken with the man and he was making your heart pound, making you lose your breath.
“Dearest,” Mama said, taking your arm. “The Prince is coming this direction.” She said. Prince?! He was a prince. You had locked eyes with a Prince and hadn’t even realized it.
“Prince?” You asked, shocked. Before your mama could answer you he was standing in front of you. All eyes were upon the two of you. Everyone who had been standing nearby couldn’t help but notice when a prince stepped directly in front of a young lady. You had to remind yourself that were, in fact, the lady he had stepped directly in front of. You looked up to him, struck again by how how tall he was. Your eyes met and you were again struck by how handsome he was. Struck by how intense his gaze was. Struck by how hard your heart pounded. How it migrated up from your chest and into your throat. You remembered yourself in a hurried movement and curtsied, “Your Grace.” You said, trying to remember everything you knew about Princes. This must have been the Prince of Alderaan. You racked your brain for his name. Benjamin Solo. No. Kylo Ren. He had changed it from his family name. Prince Kylo reached out for your hand, you held it out to him and he took it, gracefully bowing his head and kissed the back of it.
“Miss Huntington,” he said, he was unsmiling and yet you didn’t find yourself missing it. His face didn’t need a smile to be beautiful. “Would you care to dance with me?” he asked.
“Of course, Your Grace.” You said. Without another word he offered you his arm and you took it with a shaking hand. He lead you on to the dance floor and pulled you in towards him. The music was beautiful, another fun waltz but this already seemed entirely different from your first dance of the night. Your mind whirred, trying to come up with all that you knew of Prince Kylo. His reputation was not a good one, cruel, quick tempered, cold and unsettled were just a few of the things you knew of his reputation; but a reputation was not necessarily reality.
In the first moments of the dance, everything seemed to blur around you. It was like you could not focus on the outside world and the only focus was on him. Everything you wanted to happen in all your other dances with other men tonight was happening now. Your heart raced, your smile was genuine and butterflies danced in your stomach.
“Are you enjoying London, Your Grace?” You asked.
“Not at all.” He said, glancing away from you. Your brow furrowed, but you recovered quickly,
“I’m sure all of these balls and the season’s events must feel silly to you.” You offered with a smile. Prince Kylo’s eyes met yours and you felt your mouth go dry.
“Yes, they do. Especially silly when I have every stupid girl at this ball vying for my attention when I try to make it very clear I do not care to give any of them an ounce of my attention.” He said. At first you were shocked at the way he talked about other ladies, calling them stupid as if it wasn’t an insult. As if it was just a fact. Then, you realized he was giving you attention. He must have thought there was something special with you, something different, something worth giving attention to. Your heart leapt at this thought and you looked up at him, eyes meeting his.
“It must be exhausting being so desirable.” You teased lightly, you wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t made it seem obvious that he felt you were worth giving attention to. You smiled at him in a way you hoped was flirtatious. As you smiled you watched his expression change from interest to something that might have been akin to disgust.
“You’re not so different from any of these other girls, are you Miss Huntington?” he asked. It took a moment for your excitement and interest to turn to confusion and embarrassment and then finally indignation. Had he just implied that you were stupid?
“Excuse me?” You asked, unable to restrain the anger you felt.
“You were staring at me from across the ballroom, were you not?” He asked, his voice wasn’t so much teasing as it was mocking. Heat flooded your cheeks, embarrassed, you hurriedly looked away from him. Your jaw set and your heart pounding but not from excitement anymore, but instead from anger.
“I only looked at you because I felt you staring at me.” You said, your voice dropping lower.
“You felt me staring at you?” He asked, now sounding amused. The hand he had on your back moved upwards, towards the exposed skin of your upper back. You felt one of his gloved fingers brush against your skin, shivers seemed to erupt through your body even though you were flushed from anger and the exertion of dancing.
“Yes. You looked at me with such…such…intensity that I felt it.” You insisted. He scoffed, his lip twitching up towards something like a smile. It irritated you and to your even worse irritation it interested you.
“I believe you are mistaken. I caught you staring at me long after I looked away from you, Miss Huntington.” He said seriously, his dark eyes seemed to burn. His hand against your back squeezed, the finger that lay across the skin on your back dug in slightly. You felt dizzy, your breath left you in a sharp exhale. You wished that this waltz was one where you switched partners, even for a brief moment, so you wouldn’t have to look at his burning eyes and the way his lips seemed to twitch as he thought or listen to the way his voice was so deep it reverberated through his chest. You had finally gotten what you had wanted from the night, the excitement from a dance, the rushing happiness, the kind that bubbled through your veins like champagne, the excitement that made you tingle. You got all the feelings you wanted but they conjoined and mixed with fury and embarrassment. Kylo leaned in towards you, he was so close you could feel his breath, he was too close, you could hear his smirk as he spoke,“You stared at me, my lady. How improper.”
#kylo ren#kylo ren x reader#kylo ren x you#kylo ren fanfiction#kylo ren reader insert#ben solo#kylo ren au#regency!kylo#fanfiction#fanfic#fanfic: tPOA#kylo ren smut#writing
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In Need of Orders (M)
Pairings: Seokjin x Reader
Word Count: 15K
Rating: M
Genre: Kingsman AU, action, drama, romance, smut, comedy, rivals to lovers
Warnings: violence, swearing, public foreplay, slight dom/sub dynamics which interchange (Seokjin is a bratty switch), discussion of safeword, light bondage, masturbation, voyeurism, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, small amount of cum eating, sexism in the workplace, referenced death of minor character, Seokjin and reader are bad at feelings.
Summary: After a disastrous mission, which lead to the destruction of your prized invention and the compromise of his cover, Seokjin is confined to your base, and placed under your command. Now that he’s stuck with little to do, he uses his time to investigate a past you simply want to forget.
A/N: AU based off the Kingsman Series, originally written by Mark Miller. There’s a mix of tech origins, the com-glasses, and poison-pen, were from the movie and the rest of the inventions are my own creation. Members will occasionally be referred to by their titles but I try and use their actual name as much as possible, here’s a list of members/characters and their corresponding titles: Reader - Merlin | Seokjin - Galahad | Yoongi - Percival | Hoseok - Lancelot | Namjoon - (current) Arthur |
....
“No, no, no. NO! Seokjin, what did you do to my beautiful baby?!” You circle around what was once your wondrous invention. Your masterpiece of a vehicle that had taken years to get just right. When Yoongi dropped in a couple hours ago and told you to expect an unpleasant delivery you never could have imagined this. Unpleasant doesn’t begin to cover the damage done, this is an act of desecration.
“Merlin, titles please! Without manners we are nothing,” Seokjin chides you, paraphrasing the principal motto as if it will save him from your wrath. You’ve reached your limit with him; there's no benefit you can see in maintaining pleasantries.
“You will get my manners when you deserve them,” you growl back. “Now why did you sink my prized creation?”
“The cloaking device was faulty.” He shrugs off the loss like it’s nothing, no harm to him and therefore no foul.
“I find that hard to believe.” You’ve run this car through every test, checked every parameter, you would never have let it leave this workshop if it posed a danger to exposing agents.
“It was! I was conducting surveillance on a target when they became aware of my presence. They retaliated, so I needed a quick escape. I was on the overpass near the river, I knew there was a small oxygen tank in the glove compartment for emergencies-”
“So driving it off a bridge seemed like the best option?” You never thought you’d regret seeing the day you installed that safety feature, one that you intended for use in case of a gas or chemical assault, but here it is. “Tell me,” You look from your precious machine back to the monster who destroyed it, “What exactly were you doing when you noticed the glitch?”
“Just driving, maybe going around eighty. Does it really matter?” He sighs. “They saw me coming so I had to take cover or they would have shot me.”
“Oh no, it works perfectly fine.” Your voice starts to echo through the workshop as your fury bubbles over. “When the user reads the manual and understands that cloaking only works when in a stationary position. I am a scientist not an actual fucking magician Seokjin! Of course you can’t travel when cloaked. If you had at least skimmed the booklet I gave you, you would have understood that!”
The technology you created doesn’t make the car invisible, instead it projects the images behind it to make it appear that way. It can only account for and cover small changes in movement, not whole vehicles travelling. Only an idiot would think that it could compensate for such drastic shifts to the backdrop. And for some reason that moron dares to continue arguing with you.
“Booklet? That thing was a thousand pages long! You actually expected me to read that?” He counters his voice rising to combat yours.
“Oh, I’m sorry would you like me to make an audio-book for you next time? Or better yet I could make a grade school reader complete with pictures. Maybe that’ll hold your attention!”
There’s a sudden shift in his expression, with a thick smile forming on his face. “I suppose I wouldn't say no to a recording if it was read by you.” His words ooze with flirtatious mire, intent on sucking you in.
Seokjin’s smirks and one liners have gotten him out of trouble many times with other agents. It’s not hard to see why, the man could be considered the most attractive of all your acquaintances, but you refuse to let this drop simply because he’s batting his eyes in your direction. You grit your teeth and continue to chew him out. “Lancelot and Percival read it, I don’t see why I can’t hold you to the same standard.”
“Fine, fine I’ll look it over.” He huffs in surrender, but even in defeat he still carries a playfulness in his tone. “When do you think you can get it back up and running again?”
“If you think I’m going to take time out of my schedule to fix this, only for you to go destroy it again, you have some nerve.” You can barely even register the destruction let alone process how much time it’ll take to repair everything. With the dents in the body work, the flooded engine, and the electrics most certainly fried, you're looking at weeks of work just to make it drivable again. But bringing it back to its full potential? That will require months of tinkering.
“What could you possibly have to do that’s more important than this.” Seokjin is clearly trying to hold back a snicker, but when a small snort escapes him, all remaining control of your temper vanishes.
“Seokjin, so help me god if you don’t leave my line of sight in three seconds, I’ll do those men a favour and shoot you myself.”
He chuckles at your threat, “You’re not-”
“One.” You reach for your holster and take hold of your gun.
“Serious.” The laughter in his face starts to fade.
“Two.” You disengage the safety and take aim.
“You won’t actually shoot me.”
“Th-”
“At ease Merlin.” Yoongi interjects, entering the room with his face buried in a file. His indifference is a true sign of how well he knows you. You were only going to relieve Seokjin of a few strands of hair, but maybe it’s better this way. The sound of gunfire would surely result in a slight loss of hearing, and Seokjin already has trouble listening. You sigh, lowering your pistol.
“I can only guess you’ve both been discussing the...” Yoongi comments looking down at the remains of the car. “Accident.”
“More like negligence,” You mutter, flicking a bit of mud off what was once a perfect paint job.
“Listen, I tried Percival,” Seokjin appeals to Yoongi. “We’ve been looking for this guy for months. I had him in my grasp, I couldn’t risk losing him.”
“I know Galahad,” Yoongi rubs his brow as his gaze returns to the document in front of him “but there’s concern that you’ve been compromised, after reading your report there are worries that you might be identified and expose the operation. You’re on lock down for the remainder of the mission.”
“No! I’m so close to bringing him in. Just let me assist,” Seokjin pleads. You would probably feel bad for him if he hadn’t just gone and destroyed your life's work.
“The rest of the order doesn’t seem to agree. In fact they’ve called your work on this case,” Yoongi flips to another page of the file, “Reckless, irresponsible, and fails to even remotely represent their request for a covert operation...” He turns the file around to push it in Seokjin’s face. “And they’ve written those last two words in all caps, see?”
You chuckle quietly, covering it with a cough but Yoongi doesn’t look convinced. His gaze shifts to you as he hands down the rest of the directive. “Due to these recent events, Galahad is to remain here for the duration of the operation. Under your orders.”
“Wait, what?! Why are they punishing me too?”
“It’s not meant to be a punishment Merlin.”
“The fuck it isn’t. Why can’t Lancelot look after him? It was his idea to allow him on the mission.” You admire Hoseok greatly, but in your opinion it was a bad decision to add Seokjin to the roster for this operation.
“If Lancelot or I are seen with him then our cover will be blown too.” Yoongi reasons, “You’re the only one who operates completely behind the scenes.”
“But why do I have to be put under command of another agent?” Seokjin interjects.
“Because, you are clearly in need of orders until you can get your rash instincts under control. Just be grateful it’s not a complete dismissal.” Yoongi starts to step away with the matter settled.
There goes your peace and quiet. Unless... you call out to Yoongi with one last shred of hope. “Permission to put him under a gag order for every possible topic of conversation?”
“Denied, but nice try Merlin.” Yoongi smirks as he enters the elevator which will bring him back above ground.
Yep, you’re truly going to be living your own personal hell in such tight quarters. A small work den and communications relay located beneath a PC bang in the heart of Seoul. The base was never intended to host more than one for a long term stay. It’s purpose is for agents to stock up, gather their orders sent from headquarters, and then leave. The only person who actually stays on site is you. “Well then, the bedroom’s mine but you can take the sofa. Don’t touch what’s mine without my consent and we shouldn’t have a problem. Is that clear?” You lay down the rules quickly not wanting to prolong any further conversation with your new resident.
“Yes Ma’am.” Seokjin answers looking truly defeated for once.
“If you’ll excuse me I have work to do.”You brush past him towards your computer, needing to assess what components you’ll need to order first for repairs.
“Wait, what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can figure something out.” You respond keeping your eyes focused on the screen.
“Could you show me how to fix it?” His unusually quiet request manages to break your concentration.
“Fix what, the car?” You glance back at him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out his angle. “Why would I do that?”
“Well for starters I probably can’t fuck it up any more than it is.” He laughs but your lack of reaction kills his joke rather quickly. “It would cut down your workload. Give me a better appreciation for what you do. You would get to order me around. And who knows, you might even enjoy my company.”
He’s right, you could use the extra pair of hands, and he might learn something. “Fine, you can start by reading this.” You fling the tome of a manual at his chest, causing him to grunt from the impact. “Report to me when you're done.”
...
“How can you even call that a couch? I’ve seen footrests bigger than that disappointment.” Seokjin comments as he enters the workshop. You slide out from under your car to find his hands tending to the muscles at the back of his neck, and heavy bags resting under his eyes. It's the first time you’ve seen him exist at a fraction less than perfection in his appearance, a gratifying perk in this unfavourable situation.
“It’s all that would fit.” You grab a towel laying on the floor next to you cleaning the dark grease of the car off your skin. Usually you wouldn’t bother wiping it off just yet, but having Seokjin in your presence has made you oddly self-conscious. “You might have noticed space is limited here.”
“Then who’s idiotic idea was is to make a base in this shoe box of a hole?” He grills you, probably intending to roast the architect of such a small site.
“Mine actually. After the data breach a year and a half ago we needed something more secure. There’s so much information streaming to and from this location that it makes it difficult for anyone to find our dealings. It’s the perfect spot.”
“Perfect if you’re a mouse.” Seokjin takes a seat in your straight-backed desk chair. Groaning as his fingers continue to knead, moving down to his wide shoulders.
“Are you implying I’m some kind of rodent?” You glare up at him, ready to defend yourself against the slight.
“You should take it as a complement, mice are cute.” He gives you one of his famed smiles, the type where you can’t tell if he’s sincere or mocking.
“Why are you down here Seokjin?” You ask preparing to wheel back down beneath the undercarriage of your car. “I can’t imagine you’ve finished reading the manual already.”
“I did actually. This is me reporting for duty.” He throws the book down on to the floor next to you, marked and dog-eared. “Not a whole lot else I can do while on lock down.”
“Is someone upset that Lancelot and Percival get to have all the fun? Maybe it’ll teach you to obey orders better, rather than getting stuck here with me.”
“I can follow them just fine... when they don’t conflict with the completion of my mission.”
“Not getting spotted was part of your mission Seokjin.” Your response is dry as you state the obvious.
“Yes, but so is recovering the data from that breach, before he can unload it on someone else.”
“You don’t know that he has it. That’s why you had to observe him.”
“Listen to me, Hwang’s a fence, one whose been trying his best to stay off our grid, of course he has it. Once we find him we can track everything back to his source.” Seokjin’s confidence is admirable. You can’t deny that you would like to catch the one responsible for unleashing one hell of a computer virus that caused you and many others weeks of havoc and restless nights. The worst part is you don’t even know what they were able to get a hold of, the sooner Yoongi and Hoseok can track this man down the better.
“You still should have exerted more caution, you're not the only one on this team Seokjin, people can get hurt if you're too brash.” You’re surprised to find Seokjin nodding with his head hung low. Since when does he ever agree with you on something? “Now that you’re done with the manual, I do have work to assign that I doubt even you can mess up. Every single electrical circuit and wire needs to be removed, it’s unlikely that any have survived the flooding so it would be safer just to take them all out. I’m going to see if I can save the engine.”
Seokjin gives you a cheeky two finger salute before he sets to work behind the dash.
Thirty minutes later he’s already back at it with questions. “Do you have any speakers set up for music?”
“No, we could have used the car radio if you hadn’t submerged it, but here we are.” You usually work in silence anyway, but getting to deliver another stab of guilt is better than admitting your regular tendencies.
“Ah no problem, I can fix that.” At first you wonder if he intends to repair the radio, but when he proceeds to hum loudly, you realize that’s not the case. Instead he treats you to a selection of unrecognizable songs which you don’t bother to ask the title of.
You let it go for as long as you can, but thirty minutes later when you move from under the car to beneath the hood needing to drain the cylinders next, you finally raise the white flag in pursuit of silence. “Seokjin, please just stop okay?”
His chuckle taunts you, “That’s what you get for pulling a gun on me yesterday.”
“If you’re not careful I’ll do it again.” Your tone turns salty once you realize that is was his intent to torture your ears.
“Can’t believe you lasted that long, I thought for sure you were going to crack after five minutes of my melodies.”
“That’s what that was? I thought you jammed your thumb and were screaming out in pain the whole time.”
“Ha ha,” He retorts. You're almost upset when he goes quiet with nothing substantial to follow up your jab, but then he opens his mouth again. “How can you work when it’s so quiet?”
“Helps me focus when there’s no distractions.” You answer hoping that he’ll take the hint and remain silent.
“But doesn’t it get lonely?”
You slow your pace as you loosen the bolts on the gasket cover, choosing your words carefully as you make an attempt to side step that minefield of a query. “I work better when I’m by myself.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Seokjin catches on to your evasion proceeding to look around the hood of the car trying to meet your eyes.
“We all make sacrifices Seokjin. This is mine.”
“If you spoke to Arthur-”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try to cut him off quickly not wanting to get him involved in your circumstances, but he continues.
“I’m sure he would listen.”
“Drop the subject Seokjin, that’s an order.” You take a deep breath trying not to lose more of your composure again. “I chose to work in this place for several reasons. I don’t need to explain every one of them to you.”
Seokjin is surprisingly quiet for the rest of the day. It’s doubtful that you scared him off with your temper, he’s too confident for that. It’s more likely that he’s frustrated with you’re bickering. You hang back a bit more only giving direction when absolutely necessary. If you have to live with him you might as well attempt to make it bearable for the both of you.
That night you treat him to ramen from the business upstairs, they don’t usually do take-out but they make an exception for you. He sits across from you in a desk chair slurping his noodles while his eyes bore into you. “What, do I have something on my face?” You ask, starting to feel uncomfortable under his gaze.
Seokjin takes another slurp of his dish before he explains himself. “No, I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“Please don’t.” You plead, not wanting to broach the same subject from earlier.
“You’re passionate about your work. You’re good at what you do. Your superiors trust you.” You groan with exasperation, nevertheless he persists. “You're lonely here. The order could put you anywhere and you would most likely excel, and yet you bury yourself here, in this hovel.”
“It’s not a hovel...” You mutter, but you’ve run out of energy to argue and your appetite has now vanished. Rising from your seat you bid him good night. “I’m going to bed. Clean up this mess when you're done, and try not to throw your neck out cramming yourself onto my couch again.”
“Yes Ma’am.” He gives a muffled reply with noodles hanging from his mouth, and another fake salute.
You shake your head as you close your bedroom door behind you.
...
“You know,” Seokjin bursts into your room early the next morning, startling you awake. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen test scores as high as these. Are you sure you’re not a magician Merlin, because these results seem too good to be true. ”
You bolt upright in terror, “What are you looking at?”
“The start of your journey with the Kingsman.” He wanders around to sit at the foot of your bed as you drag the covers up to your chest. “I figured if there was an answer I would find it here, but I’ve never seen such an impressive resume. The last Arthur had you pegged from the beginning as the successor to your predecessor, he even recorded that his candidate didn’t stand a chance against you. You should be proud of this...” He leans to you reading the expressions on your face. “But you’re not. You’re scared. Why is that?”
“Stay out of my files Kim Seokjin.”
“Is that an order?” He asks his face still only a couple inches from yours when it pulls into smirk, looking pleased that he’s caught you off guard.
“Yes.”
“If I recall,” He closes the document in his hands, but his analysis continues, “You were moved here just shortly after Namjoon took over the position of Arthur. You were living the life before, testing and training new recruits, doling out orders and information. But then you fell into this pit. What did you do to piss him off?”
“Nothing, ju-just stop asking, okay? I don’t need your help, so stop trying to save me!” Your voice cracks as it reaches the point of yelling but he doesn’t back away. “Staying here alone, that was my choice. So don’t you dare try to take my one salvation away from me.”
“I’m not trying to take it away. I just want to understand it.” He answers his tone controlled and calm while holding your gaze firmly in his. When you look away he finally gets up leaving you with your files on your dresser.
...
A week passes and Seokjin continues to try and figure out why you chose to work in your closed off environment. Throwing out random and bizarre questions on what you might have done to Namjoon to get yourself stationed here.
“Did you expose his guilty pleasure for stuffed animals?” He asks as he helps you unbolt and remove seats, making room for the new chairs and bench which just arrived.
“Does he have a guilty pleasure for such a thing?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.” Seokjin states with a snicker.
“No.”
“Did you lose his glasses?’’ Seokjin inquires next as he pulls the seat from the driver side all on his own. You can’t help but notice the muscles straining through the back of his shirt as he lifts the heavy chair from its place. When he turns back around for the next you berate your pitiful self-control. Yes he’s attractive, but he’s also the current thorn in your side. God must be a sadist for creating this enticing man, with such a sharp tongue and a plaguing desire to mock you.
“He does that just fine himself, he doesn’t need me to do it for him.” In fact, you have two pairs on backup for Namjoon at all times, just in case such a need should arise.
“Did you sneak into his house and switch the sugar to salt in his tea set?”
“That’s just cruel,” You chuckle at the idea, making a mental note to check your own sugar before your next cup of coffee. “But no I didn’t.”
“Well that’s it then, I’m out of ideas for today.” He heaves the passenger chair next to the other with an exhausted breath. A bead of sweat drips down his brow as he collapses on the new back bench waiting to be installed.
“Really? I’m surprised. You haven’t asked the obvious question.” You lay the statement as bait hoping he’ll take hold so you can reel him in. To your delight, he does.
“Oh and what’s that?” His eyes light up, with the chance that you might actually tell him something informative.
“Did I destroy his favourite vehicle? I mean, that’s why you’re stuck here isn’t it?” Seokjin glares at you in frustration, his gloom making you giggle. “But the answer to that too is no, I didn’t. I’m not a scoundrel.”
“Is that what I am to you now,” He presents a gleeful smile with a raised brow. “A scoundrel?”
“Why do you look so proud about that?” Your question is full of judgement, but his delight is not swayed.
“Because, scoundrels are sexy.” He tilts his head and bites his lip with a nod as if to make a point.
You let out an obnoxious laugh. “Maybe to some. I fail to see the appeal.”
“Then what do you consider sexy?”
“Someone who’s attentive, and dutiful. You know, an adult.” You attempt to describe the very traits he appears to lack to make your point. Though Seokjin’s looks might draw you in, you are in need of something more.
He rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s not always about the fun, I just like someone who I can depend on.”
Seokjin’s about to respond, his mouth open with a solemn stare in his eyes when the elevator chimes. It’s doors open for you to find a haggard Hoseok with two black empty bags. You greet him with surprise, having completely lost track of time, he had mentioned that he would be stopping by to pick up supplies.
You hurry away to unlock and ready the stock. While Seokjin rushes in, barely even letting Hoseok off the lift, launching into an interrogation about the mission and any progress they’ve made. There’s only a few short words exchanged before the man left in your charge storms away slamming the door behind him as he exits the workshop to your common room.
“Lancelot?” You call out to Hoseok with hesitation, noticing that he’s still standing in place where Seokjin left him. Stepping in you help to take and load one of his duffles with surveillance equipment he requested. After Seokjin’s barrage he looks like he might rupture if you’re not careful.
“Please no formalities,” He sighs in exhaustion, while he too starts to pack up what he needs. “I would prefer not to be an agent right now, even if it’s just for five minutes.”
“That bad?” You wince for Hoseok’s sake, he’s usually so optimistic, it’s worrisome to see him so beaten down.
“We know Hwang’s back in Seoul, but any time we get a whiff of a more detailed location he vanishes. Yoongi and I have brought in more agents. We’re stationed in the south end of the city now, trying to keep an ear to the ground.” He zips up his case and then turns the conversation to you. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine I guess, but Seokjin’s been looking into my assignment here. He keeps trying to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.” Hoseok is one of only a few who know why you chose such an assignment, and you would like to keep it that way.
“Maybe you should give it a smack then. Or better yet put him on a leash.” Hoseok finally breaks into a smile as he pats you on the back.
“He’s not a dog Hoseok.”
“Really?” Hoseok raises his eyebrows as if it’s news to him. “Cause he looks at you with those puppy eyes all the time. I’m surprised you don’t see it.”
“I don’t need someone who doesn’t listen to me Hoseok.”
“Okay yes, that accident with the car was a major misstep on his part...”
“And the constant prodding into my past?” You groan, you were hoping Hoseok would have your back immediately. Why does he have to take the role of impartial referee when you need his bias the most?
“He probably thinks you’ve been wronged, and that you deserve better. Is it not natural to what's best for those we care about?”
You tilt your head starting to question your fellow agent’s sanity. “I doubt that’s the case Hoseok, he just likes to be nosey.”
“Fine, have it your way, live in denial. I’m sure he’ll be out of your hair soon anyway. But if I were you I would try and explain the situation. He might not be living here but you’ll still have to work closely with him in the future.”
“You’re saying I should tell him?” You challenge his suggestion, he must be overworked since he’s definitely not thinking clearly.
“I know it won’t be easy, but if he knows what’s really bothering you, he might try to be more tolerable.” He lugs the cases off the table crossing the straps over his chest.
“Either that or he’ll use it as ammo to really gun me down.” You curl your lip at the thought pacing behind Hoseok as he moves towards the elevator to head back above ground.
Before the door closes between you he holds it open to give you the support you wanted along with a sigh. “I really don’t think that’ll be the case. But if he does... I’ll be your witness when you tell Arthur you shot him in self-defence.”
“Deal.”
...
You find Seokjin on the couch with a pile of files and a coffee on the small table, his brow furrowed and his mouth pulled tight as he scans through each one at a rapid pace.
“I take it you weren’t happy with his update?” You call out as you enter the room advancing towards him.
“No, I wasn’t. They had to pull in lower level field agents because I can’t be out there to help them. We probably would have caught Hwang by now if I was still working on the case.”
“Seokjin, I have every camera in the city looking for him, there’s not much else we can do from here. And your not going out there to track-”
“I know I’m not Merlin. I just want this to be over so I can get my shot at redemption.”
You nod looking down at the files in front of him.“What are those?”
He lets out a panicked laugh as he tries to scrounge them together. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“Seokjin.” You draw out his name with intent to reprimand, leading him to respond with a nervous grin. He shifts his hands away giving you a better view of what he’s up to.
“Since you said I couldn’t look through your files I thought I would take a general overview of those you’ve trained or worked with.”
You shake your head, tired of this never ending battle between the two of you. “You’re not going to stop are you?”
“Nope.” He takes a sip from his mug as he looks back down to the information he’s gathered. You scan through the names and pull out the file that haunts you to this day. Dropping it in front of Seokjin before taking a seat in the armchair across from him. He reads the name off the tab. “James Paxton the third, he sounds like a pompous prick.”
“Oh I can confirm he was, and definitely one of the most hard-headed recruits I’ve ever tested, but we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” You mutter as Seokjin opens his file to find the word deceased stamped in bold red letters. He stares up at you with his mouth agape, you can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out how this fits into your narrative.
“Why didn’t I hear about this?”
“It wasn’t really broadcasted through the regular channels, if you weren’t at the main headquarters you didn’t know about it. It happened just over a year ago.”
“I would have been in Lhasa...” Seokjin mutters.
You nod, not surprised that information flew under his radar. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but the last Arthur, he saw me as a bar for people to cross. He thought if recruits could take orders from a ‘bossy woman’ they could take orders from anyone. James Paxton didn’t pass that test, and he paid for it with his life.”
Thankfully for once, Seokjin doesn’t have a comment, instead he sits there, waiting for you to continue.
“Paxton thought me pushy, and overbearing, told me so to my face, several times in fact. I should have had him kicked out, but I was determined to prove him wrong. There was a mission to recover the stolen data a couple months after the breach. There was a lead, before we learned of Hwang. We thought we had the location of where the data had been transferred to. I was supposed to go on the mission, but at the last minute Arthur told me to direct the team from off site.”
Your hands start to shake as the story continues. A mixture of both anger and fear coursing through you. You shift to hide them beneath you, gripping your legs to keep your fingers steady, but they fail to escape Seokjin’s notice.
His eyes are downcast in shame. “You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to Merlin. I’m-”
“You wanted to hear this Seokjin. I told you to leave it alone, I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.” You take a deep breath trying to rein in your anger, “Either you let me finish or never question me about my situation again.” He shuts his mouth instantly letting you continue. “It didn’t take me long to realize the lead was a trap once they got on site. I ordered a retreat, everyone else followed except for Paxton”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Seokjin interjects sitting on the edge of his seat.
“That doesn't mean I can’t be upset by it! Instead of trying to curb the discrimination the previous Arthur used it, and I didn’t even understand what he was doing until I lost someone. I found out that he enforced the idea among the recruits, that I was an overly authoritative woman, one who fails to take proper risks. Forget the fact that I am highly qualified, that I have more experience and knowledge of many of the situations than the other leaders, my lack of dick disqualified me from being taken seriously.” Seokjin falls silent again. He must realize that he too has failed to take you seriously in the past, then again, he’s that way with everyone else too.
“When Namjoon became the new Arthur shortly after, I was able to address my grievances. He was ashamed of his predecessor and wanted to do right by me, so I requested this place as a base. I wanted somewhere I could work on my own for the most part and not have to worry about people thinking me conceited or bossy. I needed a break from giving out orders.”
You finally finish to find Seokjin with a narrowed brow and clenched jaw. His tone matching the anger in his stance, “You’ve been here a year-”
“I know.”
“You’re telling me you’ve been punishing yourself for a year?” He’s question is poised with what looks to be genuine frustration, “Over two assholes who couldn’t understand how valuable you are?”
“It’s not a punishment, it’s a safety net.” You explain.
“It’s a cell!” He gestures around him. “You’re basically living in solitary.” You shift awkwardly not knowing what to say, and definitely not expecting this reaction. “Come on, we’re going out.” He orders, getting up from his seat and pulling you out of yours. “There’s a bar I know close by. I’m taking you out for a drink.”
“You think it wise for you to leave?” You question him, not knowing how else to diffuse the situation, not when your focus is drawn to his grip which wraps your shoulders.
“It’s only a couple blocks away. If we see anything suspicious I promise we’ll head straight back. It’s your call, but I think you could use a night out.” He pushes you in the direction of your bedroom. “Go change into something that doesn’t have oil stains all over it.”
You should probably put your foot down, there’s no saying what could happen. But seeing Seokjin act like this... maybe Hoseok was right, he actually cares. The problem is now that you can see this side of him you don’t want to lose hold of it just yet. “Fine, but if anything at all is amiss-”
“We’ll hightail it out of there, and barricade ourselves in here for the long haul.” He rattles off the promises. “Now go get ready.”
...
Seokjin maintains the persona of a caring companion as he drags you to his favourite bar in the city. “It’s quiet and the owner, Choi, is an old friend of Percival’s, he knows not to ask too many questions. There’s almost always at least one or two of us from the order or field agents hanging out there.”
He holds the door open for you to enter and you're greeted to the sight of a worn down ale house. A robust and stained wooden bar takes the focal point of the room, and there’s not a single other patron in sight. You can’t help but regret being forced to change out of your usual attire. You didn’t want to look out of place, but with no one here to take notice, your black dress it’s an unnecessary and uncomfortable gambit. Seokjin on the other hand looks very pleased to be back in his usual attire, a three piece suit that’s been confined to the closet while he’s with you in the workshop.
“Like I said, it’s quiet.” He chuckles while he helps you take off your coat.
From out back steps the barman to greet you. He’s an unexpected yet welcome gem of a sight among the rubble, a handsome face with a wide smile which he presents to you. You might have to stop by here again just to take in this view, maybe study some of the tattoos he has scattered across his arms.
“Choi not in tonight?” Seokjin asks after seeing your reaction to the man behind the counter. He must not be the usual staff, it’s a shame really, but it’s funny to see Seokjin look so displeased. Realizing that for once he might not be the most attractive person in the room.
“Oh you know him?” Your host inquires with surprise, “No he wasn’t feeling too good, probably will end up spending the night by a toilet from the looks of him. I offered to take over tonight so he could get some rest.”
“That was nice of you.” You extend the man a warm smile.
“I like to think so.” He responds while beaming back at you. Seokjin hastily gives both your orders, allowing the bartender to leave you with a lingering stare as he walks back to grab your drinks. Maybe your efforts with the dress weren’t such a waste.
Seokjin glares at the man, mumbling a few choice words from which you manage to pull the word, ‘Flirt’.
“He was just being nice.”
“My god you can’t read people when it comes to the way they look at you. You’ve clearly caught his attention...” Seokjin drops unexpectedly.
“I can read people just fine.” You bite back in confidence.
“Really?” He challenges you, leaning forward with a whisper, “Then I suggest you look a bit closer.”
The bartender hammers Seokjin’s drink down in front of him while he slides yours along gently, giving you a chance to inspect a stunning work of art on his hand, a flock of birds flying in formation following the trail between his thumb and index. He catches your stare and while you might be embarrassed at your lingering eyes he teases the skin of his lip between his teeth. “I’ll let you get back to your date.” He gives you one last flash of a grin as he backs away into what must be a stock room.
“It’s not a... date.” You start to explain but it’s reduced to a sigh once the man leaves your sight.
Seokjin presses a napkin to your mouth prompting you to look back at him in utter confusion. “Sorry, thought I spotted some drool,” He dabs the corner of your lips. “Just there.”
You steal the napkin from his hand and toss it on the bar. “Thank you for your concern.” You take a long draft of your drink refusing to look at your fellow agent.
“Someone must be thirsty.” He snickers, not bothering to keep his laughter hidden.
“What can I say, the refreshments at the base have been far from gratifying.” Your quip might be implied but it hits its mark with flawless execution.
“Hey!” The volume of Seokjin’s voice rises to a new level to aid in his defence. “I’ll have you know I’ve been called an acquired taste.”
“You’ll have to forgive my pallet for not meeting your standards then. I’m in need of something that goes down a bit easier.”
You take your victory in the form of Seokjin’s reddening ears and sputter from his lips. “After that confession, I’m almost sorry to be standing between you and that tall drink. Almost.” He reiterates with a wink.
“It’s probably for the best.” You sigh, finally dropping the banter. “He might be interested now, but I bet that would change pretty quickly if he got to know me.”
“I doubt that.” He whispers right before he takes a sip. You can’t be entirely sure that he intended you to hear his comment.
“Oh really? You’ve spent the past week in very close proximity with me. How would you describe me?”
“There’s definitely a mix of frustration, with a side agitation, and a need for provocation. ” You let out a heavy groan while he continues. “Now some might find those to be unlikable traits, but I’ve come to find them very endearing.”
You snort into your drink. “That’s the best joke you’ve told yet.”
Seokjin nods carrying the weight of a small smile on his lips. “What about me? I’d be curious to hear how you read my personality.”
“Are you sure about that?’
He nods, “Hit me with your best shot... if you can.”
He might think you unable to read people, but you can’t wait to prove him wrong. Your words spill faster than you intend, creating an improvisational soliloquy into his psyche.“You deflect with humor constantly, which in turn prevents anyone from getting close because they can tell what you truly feel about them. Can’t take an order without asking a question. You’re determined to a fault, but you also use that drive when you’re concerned that something’s wrong. Not letting anything rest until you’ve fixed what can be fixed.”
He holds your gaze, sitting there in silent disbelief before he comes to and lashes out, “Completely incorrect, it’s a wonder you became an agent.” He shakes his head with a scoff before finishing his drink in one sip.
“Nice deflection,” you counter. “I rest my case.”
He narrows his eyes and gives no response other than to call for another round.
...
After finishing the second you’re about to suggest your return to the base, but the frown on Seokjin’s face as he looks into the bottom of his glass stops you. It should be an unwritten rule that men who look as good as him aren’t allowed to pout. How are you supposed to remain in charge when he can disarm you in seconds with a simple jut of his lip? It’s the one tool in his arsenal he has yet to use, you can only hope he doesn’t realize how effective it is on you.
You’re quick to order the next batch, and half way through the third he poses a question that he must have been holding on to. “You said in your analysis that people have trouble reading me because of my humour, how do I act when I really like someone?”
“How would I know?” You raise your brow along with your drink.
“Then how do you think I should act? You know, so it’s not misconstrued as humour.”
“Level with the person, have a serious conversation for a fraction of a second.” It feels odd to be giving him your input on such a matter. Why would he ask this of you? And why do you mentally recoil when you start to think of him using that advice on someone else?
“If that's the case, I should probably tell you...” He leans in towards you, his face just inches away. Your heart stops as his hand reaches out to cover yours. He pauses there for a moment watching your expression, “I need to,” The gaps in his speech are big enough for your mind to flee from reality, creating a scenario where he admits... “I need to go use the facilities.” A half-hearted chuckle pours of him along with the words which break you from your daydream.
“Then go,” You snap, your tone surprising even to you. It’s not like you wanted to have a serious moment with him, right? But the pain in your chest says otherwise.
“Are you... I was just kidding around,” he stammers.
What did you expect him to say, that he thinks of you as more than just an agent, even more than a friend? Did you want him to close the gap and kiss you? Oh god, you did. You like him. You like Kim Seokjin, and right then and there you wanted him to confess the same to you.
“Yeah I got it,” you mutter back, trying to cover your internal shock. “That’s all you ever do.”
Seokjin gets up from his seat and heads to the washroom. Leaving you at the bar to contemplate his words.
You feel like you’ve fallen into every trap you told yourself not to. But that can’t be right, it’s not like you fell for his fake smiles or flirtation. You must be drunk, that’s the only explanation. How else could you ever think that he might actually hold even a shred of feelings for you. He feels sorry for you, that’s all, that’s why you're here with him now. And once he’s treated your wounds, once he no longer feels guilty, he can go back to flirting with you and everyone else to get whatever he wants.
The bell over the door chimes as a large group of people enter. You immediately look away, embarrassed by your current distress, turning your head to focus instead on the photos of the owner and his patrons pinned to the walls. Dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tip of your finger.
Despite the number of newcomers the bar still remains oddly quiet. From a group of six you would expect the volume of conversation to be a bit more boisterous. With your instincts and suspicions now aroused, you keep an eye on them in the mirror over the bar. Darting your eyes back to their reflection every few seconds, never wanting to linger too long. You’re about to throw away your apprehension, blaming it on your current level of anxiety on Seokjin, when something inexplicable happens.
As the man seated in the middle leans towards one of his companions for a chat, his hand rises to rub his long nose, and in what you can only describe as a rendering problem, it passes through. You try to remain calm grabbing your glasses from your purse, turning yourself slightly you manage to edge his face in the very corner of your frames. With the tap of your finger to the rim of the specs you launch an application you created but never had the need to use personally.
When you had first designed your car, Yoongi had complained that even with the locater he had difficulty finding the vehicle when he left it cloaked. It was a reasonable request that prompted you to create a function that scans for visual distortions and creates a digital replication of what lies beneath the camouflage. And now as you activate that function you find what Seokjin and the others hadn’t been able to track down for months, the face of Hwang.
He must be wearing what you can only guess is a variation on your technology, but instead of making his face invisible it projects different facial features over some of his own. It takes all of your restraint not to let out the swear taking up residence on the tip of your tongue. Why are they here of all places? Do they know that Seokjin is here? They look as if they’re waiting for someone. A potential mark, a seller, or maybe a buyer?
Regardless of motive if your colleague steps out of the bathroom he’ll walk right into their view. You pull your glasses off leaving them on the bar, and call out to the keep. “Would you mind watching my stuff for me?” You gesture to your coat and specs putting on a fake smile. “Don’t want to lose my seat.”
“Don’t worry.” He confirms with a soft tone along with a grin. “I’ll keep them safe.”
Gliding off the stool, avoiding the stares of the target and his men, you slip into the hall and behind the men’s room door. Thankfully Seokjin’s already at the sink by this point. You find him hunched over hands pressing down on the counter as he lets out a long sigh.
As he combs back his hair with damp fingers he looks up. Meeting your eyes in the mirror with embarrassment and disbelief, he lets out a small self pitting laugh. “Listen if you’re here to tell me off I get it, I didn’t mean-”
“Put your glasses on. You have them right?” You join him at the sink while his pity turns to confusion.
“What-”
“Just do it.”
He fumbles to retrieve them from his jacket pocket before sliding them on. You move in as close as you can, bracing yourself on his arms so you can speak into the receiver embedded. Seokjin looks taken aback but remains still as you encroach on his space. “Call Merlin, auto-connect override authorization 2769.” That creates a connection between the two glasses without you having to be there to answer it, allowing Seokjin to see the issue at hand.
“Fuck.” He whispers right next to your ear as you remain close, getting ready to call in for backup.
“My thoughts exactly.” You mutter, unable to decide if this is a stroke of good luck or bad. “Add secondary line, call Lancelot.”
Seokjin leans his head down so the speaker falls next to your own ear. It’s not the best connection with the audio from the bar, but at least you can hear Hoseok. “Merlin, Galahad. What- am I seeing this right?”
“Yes, Hwang’s at our location, Choi’s bar. We’re not sure of his purpose here, but he’s brought a few friends.”
“I can see that, but why are you both there?”
“Not the time. We’re in the restroom but not in an adequate state to take on so many and secure the target. How long will it take you to get here?” You try to gloss over your lack of sobriety, but Hoseok doesn’t fall for the guise of your paraphrasing.
“Not in an adequate state huh? That’s an expression for drunk I haven’t heard before. Sending a message to Percival, I can have him and the team on site in 10 minutes. Can you maintain your current position?”
“Yeah small problem with that...” Seokjin comments.
“I heard it too, maintain cover at all cost. We can’t scare them away.” Hoseok’s voice flutters, sounding almost nervous.
“Heard what?” You can barely make out Hoseok’s words, let alone the taproom.
“Someone’s coming to check the bathrooms. They’re looking for any people of interest.”
“We could try slipping out the back door,” You offer.
Only for Hoseok to throw a wrench in your suggestion. “If it’s a business dealing they might have people posted there.”
“We need a distraction then?” You ask and Seokjin returns with a nod. Just hiding in a stall won’t do either, they’ll likely wait for the occupants to come out. You have to make them uncomfortable enough to leave without looking too close. You’ll probably regret what you're about to do later, but right now your options are limited.
You reach out and grip Seokjin’s shirt, drawing him into you so he has you pressed against the counter. He catches on quickly, putting his hands on your waist he lifts you up and onto the marble surface. “Make it look good Seokjin. Shouldn’t be hard for you to put on a show, you’ve had so much practice with me already.” His act of concern, and portrayal of affection have shown you he should do just fine when it comes to a performance of lust.
“It wasn’t my intent to toy with you.” He growls back before snatching your mouth with his, forceful enough to ensure swollen lips and smudged lipstick. One of his hands rises to your hair pulling the elastic out of place. Allowing his fingers to weave between the strands, he delivers a slight tug to your roots while you drag your teeth across his bottom lip.
You push his suit jacket off his wide shoulders, throwing it down on the counter next to you, before forcefully opening the top of his shirt, accidentally ripping the button off his collar in the process. He pauses his assault on your mouth for a moment, investigating the damage you imposed.
“It wasn’t my intent to destroy your shirt, but here we are,” You explain unfastening the next two buttons with a bit more care. Your fingers dip under the crisp white cotton of his shirt, raking visible lines down his chest. “Take responsibility for your actions for once. Tell people your true intentions or you will hurt them.”
“You want me to know my intentions? Fine.” He unzips your dress a few inches to bare your collar and shoulders before his lips target your neck. You close your eyes letting your head roll back. “I want this.” Seokjin grabs your upper thigh compelling a gasp to escape you. “I want you.” He confesses the same time the door creaks open.
There’s not much movement from Hwang’s lackey. Your new audience doesn’t come in far, instead he freezes in place when he spots the both of you. Seokjin addresses him in a gruff manner without turning his face away from you . “It’s not a free show buddy, take your piss and leave.” The man clears his throat, turns round and closes the door in his wake, leaving you once alone with Seokjin. Though revelling in his soft bites to your neck, gaining back your composer is a more pressing matter. “I think he’s gone.”
“We can’t be too sure,” Seokjin counters your observation as he continues to nip at the column of your throat. “He might come back.”
“Shit, I just lost visual of the bar.” Hoseok interrupts much to your embarrassment. You somehow forgot he was on the com-line during your effort to teach your fellow agent a lesson. “We’re running blind, maintain cover for now.”
“See?” The breath of Seokjin’s laughter is felt on your skin as he wins the debate.
“You really want to keep going with this?” You’re surprised, just a few minutes ago the man was making you the butt of his joke. Why the change?
“I wouldn’t mind. I’m just sorry we couldn’t be somewhere more intimate, or private.”
“You and me both,” Hoseok deadpans.
“Lancelot, I suggest you find something else to watch while we maintain cover as directed,” Seokjin instructs. You find his mouth back on yours before he gets a response on the com.
He’s right though the circumstances are less than ideal for a romp. The damp counter beneath you, the flickering fluorescent lights, and the out of order stall in the corner are all enough to make you cringe. No part of this is glamorous except for the man standing in front of you, which makes him all the more appealing. “We could just lock the door you know.” You offer a logical substitute plan. “I’m sure after what they’ve seen they would understand and we could stop this charade.”
“But where’s the fun in that? I’m sorry but I am too dedicated to this cover. I want to see it through.”
“Percival’s team will be dropping in two minutes.” Hoseok cuts in.
“Yes sir,” Seokjin mumbles against your lips while he responds to Hoseok, not dwelling on the interruption. “We should probably make the act more realistic, you know gasps, moans, they might be listening.”
You highly doubt that, but if he wants to play, fine. You’ll show him what he’s missing when he casts you aside. “You first.” You respond, tugging him between your legs, causing the hem of your dress to ride back. His cock erect beneath his pants and pressing against your clothed core. He lets out a groan of relief. “So unlike you to be already standing at attention.” You tease him.
“What can I say, you bring out the best in me,” he gasps in response.
Seokjin takes your legs in his hands driving your dress even further up your thighs as he proceeds to grind against you. He tilts his head with a smile while you react. “Too far?” He whispers.
You shake your head. If only he knew what he would find if he pulled your underwear aside. Your cunt, committing the ultimate treason against your better sensibility, is ready and willing. If he’s not careful he might get a darkened spot on his suit pants.
As one hand slides further up the inside of your thigh, the other takes your chin directing you to meet his eyes. His fingers tease the edge of your underwear making their presence known and as he waits for permission to go further. You nod back at him. His fingers slip behind the strip of fabric, separating your sopping slit from the damp material. “Looks like you’re well prepared too Merlin.”
“I guess so,” You tease, “Do remind me to give a big tip to the bartender for that.”
“I have a hard time believing that none of this belongs to me.” Seokjin murmurs back to you, but just as his knuckles graze your slick folds and clit, Yoongi announces his team’s arrival. “Another time I guess,” Seokjin whispers with a final kiss to your cheek. He helps you off the counter and pulls down your dress to a more respectable length while he takes one last stroke of your thigh.
“I take it’s safe to restore visual now?” Hoseok asks with a hint of laughter. You’re never going to hear the end of this. “Percival’s about to enter, I do suggest locking the door this time though. In case anyone does make a run for it, we’ll catch them outback. I don’t want you two engaging in this capture if you don’t have too.” You roll your eyes over Hoseok’s word choice. “Galahad, give Merlin the glasses. I want her input on the scene.”
Seokjin hands off his glasses to you and proceeds to lock you both in.
“Where are they stationed?” You inquire trying to get a full view of the task now at hand.
“The majority including Percival are entering through in the front, and a couple men out back, there was no one there so they must not be expecting a scene. Were there any civilians on site?”
“Just the barman.”
“Okay hang tight.” Hoseok orders.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t be helping?” You ask, wanting to distract yourself from the tension between you and Seokjin.
“Nah, Percival’s got this. Besides I saw your reflection and you’re looking a little flushed Merlin, you doing okay?”
“Shut up Lancelot,” you grumble back in a muffled tone.
“Was it the alcohol or was it Galahad?” Luckily Seokjin was too far away to hear Hoseok's last question letting you ignore the comment as the team makes their entrance. Yoongi’s glasses give you the full view of what he sees. Hwang, much to your surprise, actually looks interested in the presence of the new arrivals. They’re obviously waiting for someone to show, but it’s clear that they have no idea who to look for.
“Don’t jump on the arrest so fast.” You direct, looking to gain any positive out of this awkward mission. The reward very much outweighing the risk. “You might be able to get some information first. Come off as a buyer, they might be trying to move the information or the tech.”
“You heard her Percival, get as much as you can before we make the catch.” Hoseok confirms your plan back to the rest of the team.
You watch barely drawing breath as he takes a seat across from the target. Hwang opens up the conversation first, “I didn’t think you would bring so many men just for a demonstration.”
“I prefer not to take any chances.” Yoongi’s response is blase, as he beckons the barman over to give his order.
Hwang looks uncomfortable, for someone with a product to sell he’s lacking the usual confidence that you would expect to see. “Well this should provide for your needs then. You ask me to come to the thick of their territory and as you can see I’m still here.”
“You are, but how do we know they aren’t waiting to make a strike? Have you ever seen one?” Yoongi pushes, he must be taking great enjoyment out of finally being able to pull one over on the man who’s kept them searching for so long.
“I have, once, but I’ve been able to keep myself hiding for months with this.” He taps something a bud placed in his ear. It must be what’s projecting the image overlay on his face disguising his true features. “Camera’s can’t pick up my face underneath, it’s better than any mask you can buy, as requested.”
“Where did you get the tech?”
“You-” The man pauses, his brow furrows before his expression shifts to a blank slate. He makes a subtle reach for his jacket pocket, but Yoongi is quicker on the draw. Lunging across the table he grabs the back of Hwang’s neck and smashes his head down on the table.
It’s hard to see the rest of the fighting with only Yoongi’s perspective. You catch flashes of the scene as the target’s men retaliate. There’s a flurry of pint glasses to distract as firearms are drawn. Broken shards scatter the establishment as the bartender flees away from danger towards the back exit with a phone to his ear.
The altercation ends rather quickly, with those who are still conscious held at gunpoint by Yoongi’s men. It’s a relief to see the target secured, and the tech recovered, but you are left with disgust after having your own work be used against your team.
Hoseok gives you the all clear to leave, but you're not sure you're ready to face the others just yet. “Could you give me a minute?” You request from Seokjin as he goes to open the door. He gives you a nod along with your hair tie, while you hand back his glasses.
“Yeah, I’ll just go... fetch our coats.”
“Could you find my glasses too while you’re out there Galahad?”
He freezes for a fraction of a second before giving you a hesitant response, “Yeah... yeah sure thing.”
What, no funny retort? No rebuttal? You thought calling him by his title would cause him to taunt you a little, but nothing comes of it. “If you can’t find them, the barkeep might have them.” That’s probably why the signal went dark, he must have moved them for safe keeping.
“Great. Just who I wanted to see.” He responds with a forced smile and gritted teeth.
“If it’s that much of a problem I’ll go get them back myself.”
Seokjin leaves you with a grunt, “No, no, I’ll go see the cowardly Casanova.”
The second he opens the restroom door you can hear Yoongi shout a request. “Galahad can I leave the team out back in your care? I need to move out and take this thief to Arthur for questioning.”
Hwang had apparently regained consciousness, and starts arguing in his defence. “I didn’t steal that data! I just set them up with someone to make their tech. They were supposed to come here, they asked for a demonstration here and then stood us up!”
Yoongi chooses to ignore him while he continues to give orders to Seokjin. “Make sure they drug the civilian, and then toss him behind the bar. Shouldn’t need to do much more than that, it already looks like standard bar brawl damage.”
“That I can do,” Seokjin responds with satisfaction as he steps out letting the door close between the two of you. It’s amazing how much one flirtatious bartender appears to have got under his skin.
You take a few minutes to straighten yourself in the mirror. Tying up your hair and closing the zipper on your dress when you spot several smudges of lipstick across your skin. You reach blindly for the paper towel, only to knock your purse to the floor in the process. A couple items roll away. Your pen, to your frustration, makes it all the way into the out of order stall. As tempted you are to leave it, you know it wouldn’t be wise to have something so lethal on the floor of a public bathroom.
With a groaning you crouch down, peering through the couple of inches between the stall door and the floor. Finding the missing item next to a pair of well worn leather shoes. You throw yourself back in shock grabbing your pistol from your overturned clutch, taking aim at the door bearing the sign. With a swift kick you force the stall open, and there passed out on the toilet is the man from the pictures behind the bar, the owner that Seokjin was asking after.
“Shit.” You lower your gun as you run out of the bathroom calling out for back up. The bar is deserted though, Yoongi’s team has already left, forcing you to head down the long hall to the back door alone. You slow your steps as you reach the end of the corridor, starting to pick up bits of conversation between Seokjin and the imposter. You keep yourself plastered to the wall trying to assess the situation with a narrow view through the window next to the door.
The once friendly bartender points a gun at Seokjin. The other agents, those that were supposed to be keeping an eye on the ‘civilian’ are out of commission, all laying on the ground around him.
“Call her out here, now.” The barman still holds onto his smile as he makes his demand, but now it only gives you chills as you try to puzzle out the motive behind it.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Seokjin keeps his hands at eye level, he’s trying to play the role of innocent bystander but that’ll only get him shot if he’s not careful.
“The woman with you, that was Merlin, was it not? She designed this tech didn’t she?” He lifts your glasses for Seokjin to see. “And created the original cloaking program. I never should have outsourced it, she saw right through their guise. Since their product was faulty, I’ve been given a new directive.”
“Merlin? You mean like the magician in the old tales? Trust me that woman is nothing of the sort.” Seokjin is actually now chuckling despite having a gun held to him.
“Very well, if you won’t comply. We’ll just have to go retrieve her together.” He gestures Seokjin to the door with his gun. “After you.”
You shift yourself into position behind the door, when Seokjin opens it you remain concealed on the other side. Your fellow agent steps through, moving backwards to keep his eyes on the assailant, allowing him to spot you once he’s inside. You raise a finger to your lips holding your gun to your chest. You can’t let him give off any indication that he’s seen you.
When Seokjin’s a few feet down the hall the aggressor proceeds to follow, and once his arm crosses the threshold you ram your full weight against the door. There’s a howl of pain as you trap his forearm in the door frame. The gun drops from his hand and hits the floor. Seokjin moves first taking the weapon and then the arm of the man who pointed it at him. You release the door and Seokjin drags the enemy in, throwing him against the wall. There’s a sickening crack as his head meets the concrete behind him.
Though his body is now lip and eyes in a daze he still chuffs when he spots you, “So nice of you to join us Merlin, we were just talking about you.”
Seokjin pulls back a fist letting land on the man's face with the full force of a brutal punch, finally sending the culprit into a comatose state.
“You okay?” You ask, noting his unusually rigid composure.
Seokjin nods, straightening his jacket as he lets the imposter fall to the floor. “Looks like I was right, you did catch his attention.” He boasts, with levity returning to his voice. “How did you know to come find me?”
“Found Choi, right where he said he’d be too...” You watch as Seokjin crouches down to retrieve your glasses from the man. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt he works alone.” Seokjin comments while staring at the tattoo that had caught your eye earlier, a flock in the shape of a V.
...
Yoong makes a return trip, picking up the new captive as well as aiding the unconscious agents. The detainees will be moved to headquarters where they’ll be held for questioning before they’re turned over to the authorities along with a list of transgressions and admissible evidence.
After returning from the bar your base is busier than ever, with everyone following standard procedure and filing reports. There’s hardly room to move, let alone have a private moment with Seokjin to discuss what transpired. A full night and day go by with you only being able to lock eyes with him across the room. As much as you want to talk to him, your duty comes first, ensuring that everyone receives their new orders after the unusual turn of events.
You retreat to your room after a long day of report processing. There are still a few statements left to grab but those can be done tomorrow. The first recordings of the interrogation have come in and you're desperate to hear what Hwang has to say about the tech you found him with. To your delight it’s that exact question which Namjoon poses first.
Hwang rattles off the information, needing little prompting, they must have already cut a deal. “I was contacted by an anonymous client over a year ago, they asked if I might know of someone who could utilize a cloaking program they had picked up, and apply it to something else. They wanted a mask, a way to hide in plain sight. I offered up a tech company who does some backwater dealings in armaments and weapons, and became the middleman between the two parties until the project was finished.”
“And you have no idea who hired you?” Namjoon asks. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Their wallet was big enough their identity wasn’t a concern, my main contact only referred to himself as V. He called me to the bar last night to provide a final demonstration to prove it worked before his agency made the purchase.”
Seokjin was right, Hwang was just a fence. Which would confirm the other man part of the group who orchestrated the data breach.
You switch between the video files, hoping to find the other more enlightening. In the very centre of the shot sits the man dubbed as V. He answers none of the questions directed to him. Minutes pass while he remains silent looking directly into the camera with a jeering grin and narrowed eyes. It’s off putting to say the least, no offer or deal can sway him to spill his knowledge. He looks content almost as if this is exactly where he wants to be. While the interrogators become increasingly frustrated, his smile only grows wider.
You close out of the recording unable to take the silent stares any more. There’s nothing in his file they’ve attached other than physical attributes. As you search the empty pages for a scrap of knowledge, a call request comes in from Arthur. You throw on your glasses answering in haste hoping he’ll have something new to share.
“Sorry to bother you so late. It’s been quite a day.” His voice is full of cracks and weariness.
“It’s no problem. I can only imagine after seeing the footage. Any new information on who this man works for?
“No, nothing.”
“Oh,” Your voice echoes in confusion, “Was there something else you needed? Did you get my report?”
“Yes I did, thorough as usual. But it’s not your report I wanted to discuss.” Namjoon pauses again. ”I received an unusual request from Galahad at the end of his. I wanted to talk it over with you before I gave my answer.”
“Go ahead.” You cringe fearing what he might have said in his statement.
“I freed him from lock down, and offered a new assignment, but he requested permission to stay and assist you with the vehicle repairs until they were completed. I would permit his extension, but I don’t believe that the answer to this decision rests fully with me, so I’m leaving it to you.”
“Don’t you need him back in the field? We don’t know who this man V is, or who he’s working for.”
“And it’s doubtful that we’ll learn anything more anytime soon unless he starts answering our questions. There’s little direction in where we can take the investigation right now. I don’t have anything that requires urgent attention, that’s why the choice is yours to make. If you need help or want assistance he’s offering it to you.”
“Thank you sir,” You’re grateful that he has left you with the final decision on the matter. “Would you mind if I spoke to him first before I decide?”
“Not at all.”
...
You creep out into the common area, Hoseok is splayed out on the couch while Yoongi’s curled up on the armchair, but Seokjin is nowhere to be found. Did he leave the base taking advantage of his newly acquired freedom?
You doubt you’ll be able to sleep, not with the questions you have running through your head. Looking to keep your mind busy you descend the stairs and enter the passcode to your workshop, only to find the lights already on and Seokjin’s long legs sticking out from under the car. There’s a swear and a clang of a metal tool hitting the cement floor. You hold back a laugh as you approach, choosing instead to surprise him by pulling on the roller bed to tug him out from beneath the car.
The initial shock on his face quickly changes to a smug grin. “I guess I’ve been caught.”
“Trying to sabotage my work again?”
“No, if you can believe it I’m actually trying to be an aid rather than a hindrance.”
“I’ll alert the media.” You fire back before diving into the more serious topic at hand. “I just got off the line with Arthur. He said you’ve been cleared to return to duty...”
Seokjin’s face falls slightly as he sits up on the rolling platform, “Oh-”
“But you also requested an extension here.”
“I did.” He looks up at you with sincerity, one that’s rarely seen on his face. No deflection to humour. This is just him.
“I need to know why.” You keep your expression even, not wanting your feelings to influence him in any way.
“I want to help fix the car.”
“I need more of an explanation than that Seokjin. A few days ago you couldn’t wait to get out of here. ” This is it, there’s no room to spare feelings. He’ll tell you he feels guilty, or that he feels sorry for you, leaving you to send him on his way and that will be the end of this trial.
“I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before. I like working with you, being here with you. You're not afraid to let me know when I’ve crossed the line.”
“So what, you just want to use me to keep you in check? I’m not here to fix you Seokjin.” You start to back away ready to send word to Namjoon that he’s free to assign him elsewhere when Seokjin grabs your hand, he rises from his spot on the floor in a rush to stand between you and the door.
“That’s not what I meant. You make me want to be better.”
You pull yourself from his grip backing into the side of the car, “And after you’ve used me to better yourself, what then? You’ll just move on to your next project?”
“No, fuck... I don’t know how else I can say it other than I like you Merlin. You aren’t the plan, you’re the objective.” He pauses for a moment, watching as his words sink in to you. “If you’re not interested in what I want to offer... I get it, but stop being so blind when it comes to yourself!”
You fall still as you hear his confession, but you’re not ready to believe or condemn his words just yet. “If that’s the case why did you mock me at the bar?” Your voice wavers as you question him. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was going to, but I didn’t think you would appreciate a drunken confession. You wanted a serious conversation, here it is. I want to stay here with you. Even if you’re not interested in a relationship, I respect that, but I still think we could both benefit from working together.”
He’s right, you might have believed him right then, but later, once the effects of the alcohol had worn off you would’ve thought it another game of his. You shift against the car embarrassed by your misreading of his motives, but pleased to see that they fall in line with your own.
“I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t interested...” You mumble your own confession carefully as he shifts in closer to his mouth catching a grin when he hears your words. “But staying would put you in a problematic position when you’re required to follow my orders. If we’re to continue down this path there wouldn’t be an equal power dynamic.”
“Good.” he mutters along with a chuckle. “Is that your only objection?”
“Yes, but-”
“Arthur released me from under your command. Any order you give will be discretionary.”
“Discretionary orders?” You scoff. “You can barely follow mandatory orders.”
“Yes but it solves your problem, doesn't it? This way you can be sure that I will only follow an order if I want to.” He leans in placing his hands on either side of you on the hood of the car. “So Merlin, do you want me to stay?”
“Yes...”
“Do you want to continue what we started yesterday?”
You nod biting your lip at the thought of it.
“Then I await your orders.” He stands still not moving an inch while you remain caged between his arms and caught in his eyes.
“Let’s be clear on something first,” You state, trying not to focus on how close his lips are or how soft they’ll feel when they touch your skin.“I don’t want you to think you are in any way saving me.”
“I am well aware of that now. I finally realise I need you to save me.”
“From what?” You can’t help but laugh at his conclusion.
“My impulsive actions.” He lifts you onto the car just like he lifted you onto the bathroom counter. “My runaway mouth.” He closes the distance for a swift kiss. “And my very unprofessional desires.” His fingers flirt with the bottom of your shirt taking up residence underneath the garment against the skin of your waist.
“Yet you combat every effort when someone tries to restrain those tendencies,” You scold with a smile.
“You told me yourself I don’t go down easily... If you want to put me in my place you’re going to be more commanding.”
“And you would like that?” You ask in disbelief.
“Why don’t you find out...”
“Seokjin I-I don’t know if I-” You start to panic, stammering at the thought of going too far and becoming what others have thought of you before, “I don’t want you to hate...”
“If I need to stop I’ll tell you to brake. But right now I really want you to take the wheel, and put your foot down. No detours, just floor it.” He tightens his hold on you leaning in next to your ear with a growl. “Don’t get shy on me now. Give me your orders.”
The cheek in his tone at last sets off the need for retaliation in you, evoking a desire to finally see him begging you for more. He’s never backed away from you, leaving you with no reason to believe he’ll do so now. If this is what he wants you’ll be happy to try and make him submit. “You can start with losing this.” You tug on his grease stained shirt. “And these too.” Dragging your finger over the waist of his jeans.
He strips looking eager to play along. Leaving him in a pair of black boxers clinging to his swelling girth. “Like what you see?”
“You’ll do.” You snicker back at him. You take the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss, as he moves to hold your lower back. He finds his way between your thighs once again but this time there’s nothing to stop you both from going further.
“Do you want to take those off?” You brush your hands on the elastic of his underwear.
“Yes.” His answer is short and sweet, with nothing to misinterpret. You could get used to this side of him.
“Then you’ll have to do something for me first.” You shift your pants down kicking them to the floor. Taking one last kiss of Seokjin’s lips before pressing his shoulders down to make his mouth level with your hips. The grin he gives is something to revel in, finally seeing it as a sign of desire rather than a farce.
He pulls your underwear to the side. The first lick is short and sweet causing you to flinch from the flick of his tongue. The second he takes care in following the line of your slit but he doesn’t pull away at the end, instead he latches on to your clit taking deep drags which pull you under in an instant.
Your hand reaches out to grip his hair needing something to hold on to and hold him back with if necessary, but once your fingers tug at Seokjin’s locks he moans into your flesh. His hands pull you closer to the edge of the car allowing him to bury himself even deeper.
He slowly gains a rhythm with his tongue and lips, but every time you come close, when your breathing becomes shallow he starts to pull back. He’s teasing you, clearly goading you to become more strict with your desires.
“No more games Seokjin. If you can’t get me there in the next minute, I promise you’ll regret it.”
He pulls away for a moment to draw breath while giving you a taunt. “I’d like to see that.”
He’s about to return to his task when you push him back, no longer giving him the chance at redemption. You point to a straight back chair facing away from you , “Sit down, with your head forward.”
He does as you ask with a smile still stuck to the corner of his mouth. You slide off the car and move behind him towards your work desk, stripping off your shirt, and undergarments as you stray from his line of sight. Grabbing something from the inventory closet before you return to him, still hiding from his gaze .
He tries to look back at you but you put a stop to that. “Did I say you could look around?”
“No ma’am.” He chuckles back.
“Since you like games so much I thought of one to play. Give me your hand, and tell me what I put in it without looking.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with-” You cut off his complaint quickly by placing the metal object in his hand reaching out behind him. “Handcuffs?” Seokjin questions with surprise. “I stand corrected, this seems like a fun game.”
“Put them on,” you order. He complies instantly, letting you check the tightness once he’s done. “Safey’s there if you need it. Just tell me to brake.”
“Oh no, I’m quite comfortable thank you.” He grins proudly as if this is what he was hoping for all along.
As you move in front of him finally gracing him with your nude form he stares back at you dumbfounded. You reach out to the corner of his mouth, which sits agape, wiping at the edge of his lips with your thumb. “Sorry I thought I spotted some drool.” Seokjin smiles at your mimicry and jab, but he has no words to follow with.
You kneel down in front of him, your hands trailing up to reach for his boxers. “May I?”
“Please do.”
You tug them down releasing his erection from the confines of the fabric. You're careful not to touch him, not wishing to give any satisfaction or stimulation. Once they’re pulled down to his ankles you move to the uninstalled backseat of the car sitting right across from him. Seokjin furrows his brow in confusion.
“Something wrong?” You prompt hoping to have him admit that he wants you to return to him.
“No, just admiring the view.”
“Really?” You persist in teasing him a little more, “Because it looks like you need something.”
“Only to know the next step in this game of yours.”
“You get to watch while I play.” You lay back on the car bench resting your feet on the soft leather. Your hand moving down between your legs picking up where Seokjin left off, with a slow rub to your crest.
“That seems unfair.” He flexes his arms, testing the cuffs as he watches you.
“That’s what happens when you don’t read the instructions, I get to make the rules.” He lets out a groan as you close your eyes ready to concentrate on your own pleasure. You know you’re wet enough already but for good measure and Seokjin’s torturous show you prep your fingers in your mouth before slipping the tip of your index finger inside yourself.
There’s a small whine from Seokjin, you look over to him, your eyes take a moment to focus on his face, his teeth digging into his now swollen bottom lip. “Let me help you, please.”
“That’s not how punishments work Seokjin. You had your chance, and you disobeyed.”
Giving him a side profile allows your thigh to hide the sight of your fingers dipping in. The sounds though, those are his to enjoy. You continue to satisfy yourself for a while longer enjoying the little jots of pleasure you can give yourself and Seokjin’s moan every time you twitch. It’s hard not to pay attention and give in to returning to him. With his cock pulsing against his leg with a drop of precum growing at the tip. His lip must be sore with how hard he’s biting down.
Unable to ignore his whimpers any longer you get up from the leather bench. You present your fingers to his mouth damp from your ministrations. You don’t even get the chance to ask before he takes them into his mouth and licks them clean. When you pull them from his lips, he beams back at you. “Was that attentive enough for you?”
“Very...” You commend him, straddling his legs facing him as you lower yourself. Your hand grips his cock while the other rests on his shoulder balancing yourself as you guide him inside.
He gasps out a swear along with your real name as you sink down fully onto his lap. You lean into him letting your chest push against his as you rise and fall on his shaft. Pressing and grinding yourself against his seated form has him throbbing inside of you. He’s quickly become a breathy mess beneath you, a sheen of sweat covers his forehead, with even more dripping down his pecs.
Your pace increases in speed as you edge closer to your climax. The warmth begins to spread to your extremities as you continue to thrust down. When the wave finally washes over you can barely move. “Fuck-” You whisper along with a plea. “Don’t you dare come yet.” You collapse against him riding it out, clenching while Jin groans.
“Take the cuffs off.” His moaning request is impossible to deny. As fun as it was to see him at your mercy you long to have his hands back on you.
You reach for the restraints behind his back, with a quick press of a hidden release he’s free. Wasting no time he grabs you, helping your legs to wrap around his waist. Positioning you securely against him, he rises to move two steps required in order to ram you back down onto the car bench.
He pulls one leg up and over his shoulder while he holds the other level with his hip. Despite your sensitivity, he’s relentless in his thrusts, pushing you directly from the wave you just finished and on to the next.
He’s so close to his end, his muscles tense, his face stern with a clenched jaw, it takes a moment for you to realize he’s waiting for your permission. He’s holding back until you give him the okay. “You can come Seokjin.” Upon hearing this his thrusts suddenly hit harder forcing you to cry out. “Fuck, please come.”
He shudders with the last impact. Releasing your legs, he lowers himself onto you while his cock still pulses inside. His head rests on the seat beside yours, the hot air from his heavy pants flows down your neck as you lay there trying to catch your own breath.
“I think we might have ruined the new car seat.” You chuckle at him, your laughter restricted by the pressure of his body on your chest. “I should probably order another.”
“And miss out on Hoseok’s expression when he realized what the stains are from?” He nudges closer, kissing the spot behind your ear with his swollen lips. “Not a chance.”
You start to drift beneath him content with the warmth and weight of his form. He gives you a few minutes rest caressing the side of your face with the tip of his finger before he poses an important question. “You’re still okay with me staying here then?”
You turn your head to meet his eyes with a smirk. “Yes, but you still have to earn your keep if you want a stay.” You gesture to the state that he’s left the workshop in, “In addition to cleaning up your mess.”
Seokjin briefly glances to the tools strewn along the ground and then back at you with a smirk. He then shifts his whole body down, dipping his head back between your legs. “Yes ma’am.” His tongue takes a long stroke, cupping your cum filled cunt. “Hope you don’t mind if I start here.”
#bts smut#seokjin smut#seokjin x reader#kim seokjin x reader#kim seokjin#bts fanfic#bts fic#bts fanfiction#bts reader insert#jin x reader#bts x reader#bts kingsman au#bts in need of orders#jin smut
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Donald Duck: Christmas on Bear Mountain Review!
Happy Birthday Uncle Scrooge! Yes it was 73 years ago that everyone’s favorite stingy adventurous billionaire entered this world. And I only NARROWLY missed it as I only found out this was coming up when looking up various character birthdays during the writing of my review of “The Three Cablleros”. I now have a word document with all the various important duck characters birthdays so this doesn’t happen again, but i’m glad I did my homework as I can celebrate one of my faviorite character’s birthdays.
And Scrooge is one of my favorites. While I relate to donald’s everyman slacker spendthrift was a tad more, I still love this old bastard. He’s badass, quick witted, and earned every bit of his fortune square outside of one moment of weakness. But he has his flaws: He’s horribly cheap, quick to anger, and very dismissive and distrustful of people for good reasons and bad. He’s a complicated, interesting character and one that still works today in the reboot.. if with some slight tweaks to make him less of a greedy monster by modern standards. He’s one of my favorite comic book characters, and one of Disney’s finest, so it only felt right to honor him by going back to his roots with his very first appearance and a story that like him is 73 years old today. It’s also one I had never read until today’s review. So does this storied tale still hold up? How diffrent was Scrooge? and are there any actual bears in the story? Well come along with me as we take a trip up to Bear Mountain and find out.
This story, if you didn’t know, is by Disney Legend and Scrooge Creator Carl Barks, easily the most influential and well known duck artist.. felt like it was worth mentioning since without Carl none of this would be possible and as usual his art is gorgeous and unique to him. On with the show.
We open with Donald and the Boys depressed, as Christmas looks to be pretty drab. While the boys are sad they don’t have a winter Cabin like everyone else...
Donald is even more bummed he can’t afford dinner or presents as he mentions this to the boys, being flat broke. It’s also a nice character beat that Donald, despite his usual hedonism.. would be just fine, with his depression coming from the fact he can’t even give his boys a proper Christmas let alone presents. It’s a stark adult fear and something that really hits as I find the money to buy Christmas presents for all my friends and family during my current unemployment, though commissions, have been helping.
But yes i’m doing my first Christmas review before thanksgiving’s even come in. But given the serendipity of Scrooge’s birthday and the fact I wanted to read it at some point before covering the last chapter of life and times anyway, since said story takes place DURING this one. I’ll explain how in a moment. Plus frankly with me already having to do my christmas shopping while I have money, I still feel the spirit of the holiday, so I honestly figure why not.
But all that aside, the Nephews muse things might be better if their rich Uncle Scrooge would remember them, but probably not. We’ll meet scrooge, if you care to continue, after the cut.
We then cut to Scrooge’s mansion. Two things to note. The first is that he has a mansion here. Now for us Ducktales fans, it’s not unusual, he lives in one in both series. But being even MORE frugal in the comics meant after this he mostly lived in the money bin to save .. well money. So he dosen’t have the mansion after this and Don Rosa explained it, as he did really most aspects of scrooge’s life, in life and times, having him decide to sell the place after also deciding to reopen the bin. Just a neat fun fact. The other fun fact is that his angry pose and expersion here were later homage in “Last Crash of the Sunchaser!”, in one of Ducktales 2017′s easily most heart pulling moments: the ending of the episode showing Scrooge truly alone once again. It’s also a nice refrence to Life and Times as at this point scrooge was just as miserable and alone according to Rosa’s masterwork, with the boys and Donald coming into his life being the thing that revitalized him. So let’s get on that shall we?
Scrooge is wallowing in his misery, having never had any fun according to himself and thinking maybe giving a present could be fun.. and decides on his Nephew as the one to give it to. But in typical Scrooge fashion instead of just giving his Grandson a gift, he’s going to have to earn it. He sends a letter to the Boys and Donald offering up his cabin, fully stocked with goodies and presents. A bit pricey for who Scrooge would become, and a bit odd to see him not complain.. but it still sets up his character as someone who wants people to WORK for what they get, but can genuinely get behind someone who shows good character, in this case he’s hoping, but Doubting, Donald will end up showing himself to be brave. And it’s STILL more plausible he’d buy luxury items to prove a point to himself, than it was in that one Ducktales comic I reviewed where he spent presumably millions to teach a ten year old a lesson about getting everything you want. Which yes really happened.
Still not over that one, what the actual hell, let’s move on. Basically if Donald passes the test, he’ll get a real true present and if he doesn’t, well Scrooge will have fun anyway. It is easy to see the difference in character here: While parts that would later become bedrock, his code of honor and his wanting people to EARN things instead of just having them handed to them, as well as him sometimes being a huge dick about that are there, he comes off more as a golden age villain cackling in his lair than the awesome but flawed adventurer we’d all come to know and love. I mean while he’d be no less kind to the Boys and Donald about their poverty later, this time he’s especailly bad tempting them with a nice christmas they couldn’t afford and planning to scare the bejeezus out of them. But I do like seeeing where Scrooge came from, STARTING as a decrepit old bastard and transitioning into the adventurous old bastard we all know and love. I have come to realize I do have a soft spot for characters earlier appearances, seeing what changed, what was there all along, and what was tweaked. It can be a mixed bag: with Marvel for instance sometimes you get Spider-Man, who was starkly anti-social and on the verge of understandably lashing out at the world a LOT in the first few issues, and prone to issues you wouldn’t see in a superhero comic back then. Hulk started out much smarter, greyer and meaner, eventually leading to the Joe Fixit persona being created as a result of this decades later.
On the other hand some examples are less enjoyable like Sue and Reed Richards, who back at the start were a sexist “panicky female” stereotype and a sexist mentally distant jackass, while Hank Pym and Wasp were again, a sexist mentally distant jackass, and another stereotype this time thinking almost entirely about fashion and boys. All four would go on to be MUCH better characters with age, with the occasional slip up. I bring this up because Scrooge... is still a good character even here. While he’d become even BETTER, he’s not bad at all here, just a bit different is all.
Back at the plot Scrooge reveals his plan by scaring the shit out of his butler: To dress up as a bear, head up the mountain and scare his nephews to see if any of them have any bravery. While Donald whimpers over the thought of bears and we get an okay gag of him thinking a squireel was one, Scrooge is forced to turn around due to the weather and gives a villain monologue about never having given anyone nothing in his entire life. I swear to god he’s basically Mr. Burns in this one.
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Then again I would also FULLY expect Scrooge to do this to Donald in the barks stories, just maybe not have it be lethal. MAYBE.
While Scrooge harumphs over his bad luck the boys and Donald enjoy a wonderful sleep. Despite Donald’s fear of bears, which the boys insist are hibernating, accurate, the boys force him to go out and get a Christmas tree by the age old tradition of whining until he does so. After going out back to find a tree to chop down Donald finds dead, ugly looking tree that’s weirdly heavy. To no one’s suprise, and to Donald’s natural luck, there’s a baby bear inside and as Donald gets a nice Christmas eve dinner ready for the boys, though after hearing some rustling he assumes a bear is present.. which it is. A baby bear. Awww. The little guy toddles around, and we get af ew pages of antics, with the boys chasing the bear, donald being a coward, and the bear getting into things and ending up on a rollerskate, which is referenced in life and times. However while the boys eventually find the baby.. it’s MOTHER, angry it’s cub is missing finds them and once Donald finds her, the four naturally hightale it out of there. The bears then eat all their food.. though the boys assume “there goes our presents”. Uh guys.. the presents aren’t gone you just don’t have them right this second. They aren’t showed destroying them or anything just leaning on them slightly. I mean the well stocked pantry and any candy in the presents are toast but there’s still a pretty sweet saxaphone there. Take a look.
See the most their doing is likely wrinkling some clothes, at worst flattening that skateboard.. or whatever that Mama Bear is sitting on. I mean I get in the larger sense they can’t get them because bears, but still. Once they pass out the boys send in Donald to get ripped apart by a bear.. er to tie up Mama Bear so they can get the house back, rightly pointing out that they’ll freeze to death anyways.. even though they you know have a car and could just leave. Then again knowing Donald’s luck i’td probably jsut lead to this.
The boys aren’t slacking though and are going after the cub while Donald passes out in fear next to the bear. Scrooge arrives, but is spooked by the cub and is proud to see his young nephews valiantly chase the bebe, and is impressed by Donald’s seeming bravery, decides, after fleeing in terror which is funny. Not in line with what he’d become but STILL really funny. But anyways he decides to throw them a proper christmas as a reward.
So the next day and, thanks to Don Rosa one part of life and times later, we end on Christmas Day as for the first time in decades, Scrooge basks in the warm glow of family, and is happy probably for the first time in years. He gifts Donald a bear skin, he faints, haw haw haw the end.
FINAL THOUGHTS:
This story holds up extrodinarly well. While some aspects like Scrooge being generous or cowardly don’t jibe with his later character, it’s forgivable since, again, first appearance, and it’s an entertaining story. Granted his plan hasn’t aged well, but it’s still a fun Christmas set story with some good gags and an entertaining villian. While not Scrooge or Donald or Barks finest hour, it’s still a good bit of hollday fun that gave us one of the best characters of all time. And for that, ill be forever greatful.
If you liked this review, you can comission one of your own via my ask box, direct message or discord (technicolormuk#6550), if your more comfortable not doing buisness on here.
UPCOMING REVIEWS TO KEEP AN EYE ON THIS SPACE FOR
Loud House Coverage: Band Together/ The Other One
Ducktales: The First Adventure!
Ride of the Three Cablleros: The Three Cablleros Ride Again!
Until then you can check my backlog on my various pages and remember, there’s always another rainbow.
#ducktales#scrooge mcduck#christmas on bear mountain#carl barks#donald duck#huey duck#louie duck#dewey duck#christmas#comics#reviews
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Exactly What You Need: Owen
To the Anon who won the “guess the post-apocalyptic New Zealand kids’ show Owen Grant had a guest star role on”: Here is your requested drabble! Owen Grant, the night he ordered Kauri.
CW: Owen is a fucking creep. Implied/referenced assault/abuse with younger!Vincent Shield, manipulate/abusive thoughts, dehumanization. Owen Grant is a dark man and people triggered by abuser thoughts regarding rape/assault should please heed that and stay safe
Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings,
It started with the hair, and the eyes.
Originally, he hadn’t really thought about Vince, exactly - he was just… he was just kind of lonely, and he’d been scrolling the Whumpees-R-Us site, thinking about how it seemed like basically everyone with a name worth knowing and a good stock portfolio had one of the Box Boys or Box Babes now.
And it might be nice to have someone around here to talk to. It’s not like he could talk to the fucking Roomba.
The condo was gorgeous, and he went out to lunch a few times a week with Nicole and some of the former costars and everything that he’d kept in touch with, went to conventions, even wrote an introduction for a book on the dark side of child acting that was pretty well received. He went to the gym three days a week, he watched a bunch of Youtubers that updated pretty regularly. Owen kept himself busy, basically, and none of it stopped him from being really. fucking. lonely.
His mother had called one night after he’d been drinking for two or three hours straight, slowly killing a bottle of gin and a bag of limes while sending increasingly drunken text messages to no one in particular.
He and his mother still talked two or three nights a week. He was probably the only former child actor he knew who still had a really close relationship with his mom… or at least as close as your relationship can be when you’re lying to her about fucking everything about yourself.
She knew anyway. She’d been the one to help him cover it all up with Vince, what happened, why they never spoke again. She knew - but her constituents were bigoted assholes and in the part of the country Carlotta Grant set her sights on, you have to play to the bigoted asshole or you don’t get elected.
His mom was the biggest bitch he knew, but she wasn’t a bigot, exactly. Just happy to roll over for them for the sake of her Senate career. It would kill her ambitions if too much about Former Child Star Owen Grant got into the news, so Owen lied to everybody and everybody pretended to believe him. He’d been lying about it since he was still acting, it’s not like it was that hard to just… keep lying, right?
Even if he’d sort of hoped quitting acting - getting away from Vince and what happened - making his own life out here away from everyone… he’d sort of hoped he could stop lying, then. But nope. Mom got all political and Owen kept on lying.
He’d fucking hate her for it, if he didn’t love her so much.
In any case, she’d called and Owen had been trashed and it… well. The whole time he’d had the Whumpees-R-Us site up, looking through options, scrolling past faces that weren’t right. Or they almost were. But they weren’t the one he wanted.
“Mom, I just want someone here who cares about me,” Owen had said, heavily, into the phone. He knew his words had gone slightly slurred, and he waited for her derision - his mother was the queen of it, after all, of cutting you apart with words alone. “Listen to this - a Whumpees-R-Us nonproductive pet can arrive with any skillset you require or phys, physical combination of- shit, sorry, Mom, I’m drunk-”
“Yes. I can quite tell you are. Don’t be ridiculous, Owen, you’re not getting one.”
“I’m a grown-ass man, Mom, and I say I am.”
“Would you at least order a girl?”
There it is, Owen thought. Carlotta Grant didn’t care if her only child bought a living human person, just if it fit the version her constituents wanted to see.
He took incredible pleasure is pausing long enough to take another long sip of lime and gin before he answered, “Oh, it’ll definitely be a boy.”
“Owen…” Carlotta sighed, heavily. “Darling. We talked about this.”
“No, you talked about it. At great length, no matter how often I asked you to stop. I want a boy and I’ll have one. Here’s a compromise, Mom - what if I don’t let it leave? I’ll keep it in here with me, they can train it to not be able to even walk out the door without me.”
“Owen…”
“Take it or leave it, Mom.”
Carlotta went quiet again, for much longer this time. Then she finally said, “Fine. Owen… I know that my decision was difficult for you-”
“All of your decisions are difficult for me, Mom.”
“Your decisions haven’t exactly been easy for me, either. Vincent Shield could still cause trouble for me, if he ever chooses to air what you did to him publicly.”
“He won’t. We told him I’d stay away from him if he kept it hush-hush, and he did. He won’t say anything to anyone, Mom. You can trust him. I couldn’t, but you can. It doesn’t help his career either, you know, if they find out about him.” Owen felt his throat catch, had to swallow hard against the tears.
“Right. We don’t need them find out about your latent sadism, either, but I suppose I must put my trust in the career aspirations of Vincent Shield. Get whatever you want, Owen, but I had better not see it step one foot outside of that condominium if it makes it into the news.”
They spoke for a while longer, about nothing and relatives and people who had recently died or pissed his mother off, senate bills she was worried about and Owen’s latest project bankrolling a documentary exposing a monopolizing pharmaceutical giant, and the whole time Owen’s mind wasn’t on the conversation at all, but on Vincent fucking Shield.
They’d been inseparable. They’d made promises to each other. Then Owen had fucked one tiny little thing up - just the one thing, and it hadn’t even been that bad, what he’d done, and Vincent had probably liked it anyway - and Vincent had left and never came back.
He glanced down at his empty glass with a bit of ice that still clinked, and then up at the Whumpees-R-Us website. Create a completely customized option for minimal surcharges and receive the perfect pet of your dreams.
He poured more gin, added another twist of lime. “You know what my perfect fucking pet is?” He asked no one in particular. The Roomba beeped softly under the couch in its docking station. “Vincent Shield’s my perfect fucking pet. Make him feel pretty fucking sorry for what he did. They don’t have anyone on here who even looks like him…”
Then his blurry, bleary eyes caught a line at the bottom of the pictured Box Boy options. This does not represent the totality of what Whumpees-R-Us can provide. Send us your requirements and we will dedicate ourselves to fulfilling your every need, with an added surcharge.
So he clicked on the custom order form for Box Boys, watching it load, blinking at how fucking huge the page was. And it started with a simple box that asked what kind of pet you were searching for.
Owen very nearly wrote I’m so fucking lonely.
Instead, he settled for Companion.
The screen blinked and new options appeared. Platonic, Romantic, Domestic, or Combination?
Owen snorted. Platonic. He wasn’t some fucking sicko, he was just looking for someone to bring some life into this place. But… maybe it was just that he was drunk, or maybe it went deeper than that. In any case, a thought came to mind. He pictured wide blue eyes in a face that used to be pale, now tanned on all the movie posters. Thought of those eyes full of tears, for him. Then… then he thought of what it might be like if those eyes weren’t full of tears, but something else.
The thing Vincent had owed him, and had never been able - or willing - to give.
Then he unclicked his previous decision, and chose Combination.
We will return to detailed specifics of your [Combination] requirements in a later section. For now, please list physical requirements for your Box Boy.
Owen swallowed, looked up the photo of the movie poster for Dimmer Switch, with 20-year-old Vincent Shield and 17-year-old Owen Grant in action poses against a dark background and a glowing light. Vincent’s face was clearly visible - soft and slightly sweet-looking, wide blue eyes, curly black hair. Long limbs and kind of a slim body type, not as muscled-up as he was now.
Not that Owen kept up with his career or what he looked like now, or anything.
He started with the hair, and the eyes. At first it felt wrong, like he was trying to build a Frankenstein’s monster for himself, but it was all perfectly legal and if it was really wrong, why were so many people buying them now?
No, this was fine.
Owen was fine.
He was going to bring Vincent Shield home, and once Vince came back here, he was never, ever going to be able to leave.
He checked every box, wrote down details. At the bottom of the physical requirements section there was a spot to upload photo references, and he added the movie poster, some other pictures from magazine interviews from back then, he and Vince together in a few of them. Shots of Vince with the mop of curly hair and a bright wide smile, flashing whitened teeth. Shots of Vince with his arm around Owen, the both of them grinning for the photographer.
It took nearly two hours to finish, and by the end of it he’d stopped being drunk or maybe he was drunker than ever, but he’d entered a place of perfect clarity about his decision. He was about to spend a lot of money on this boy.
It was going to be perfect.
In the final box for any added comments not covered by the questionnaire, Owen Grant typed, Make it so he can never, ever leave me without fear. Make it so he wants my touch more than anything else in the world. Make it so he would lose his mind before he’d lose me. I want him to be sweet, and kind of a soft person. I want him to put up with anything I do to him.
He paused, considering, and then added one more thing.
I want him to love me.
Then he pressed SUBMIT, made himself drink a glass of water, and passed out in his bed.
When he woke up the next morning, the Roomba was in the middle of a cleaning routine and his phone was ringing. He squinted at a number he didn’t know, but decided to answer it on kind of a whim. His number was private and only a few people had it - if someone was calling he didn’t know, it was probably one of his mom’s staff members. “Hello?”
“May I speak with Mr. Owen Grant?” A warm, melodic voice spoke on the other end of the line.
“Ah, this is Owen Grant.”
“This is Karen Renford, Client Satisfaction Director at Whumpees-R-Us. We received your request for a custom order last night and I’ve just had time to review it. There is… an exceptional amount of specialization in this order form, Mr. Grant.”
“I… I know. Shit. Oh, sorry.”
“No apologies required. I indulge in a bit of profanity myself on occasion.”
“The, the order form… was it too much?”
Too much to hope for, that Vince’s blue eyes could be all for him. Too much to dream, that he could fix all his old mistakes. Too much, to think he could keep someone here when Vince had run so far, so fast, and made it impossible to get close again.
“Not at all. We are aware of your… connections, Mr. Grant. We would love to work with you on this request, and hope you would let your influential mother know how excited we were to be given this opportunity to truly prove the merits of our methods.”
Owen tried not to audibly snort.
“We already have a suitable candidate in mind who is most of the way through his basic training, although there have been a few… hiccups.”
“Hiccups?”
“Ah, it’s all part of the process.” She did not quite laugh, but there was a lilt to her voice that suggested she wanted to. “645898 is a sweet soul at heart, once you take apart the rest of him. I think he’ll be perfect for what you need.”
“So why the phone call?”
“It is customary for the company to directly contact clients of your… discerning and exacting taste. Considering the costs associated with so many specialized requests-”
“I am more than able to pay the amount owed, Ms. Renford.”
“Oh, we know that. This isn’t about money at all, Mr. Grant. Whumpees-R-Us is dedicated to client satisfaction, and it’s my job to look at this form, speak directly with you, and ensure that you receive exactly what you need.”
“So you can make him… want to stay here? Not able to leave?”
“Can we make him ‘love’ you, as you requested on your form?” Her voice held no mockery, no hint of judgement. “Mr. Grant, your request is considerable, but I believe we can ensure that your boy won’t ever be able to take a step out the front door without you by his side. We can make sure those big blue eyes are focused entirely on you, no matter what you do to him.”
Owen’s free hand clenched slowly into a fist, and something twisted and untwisted inside of him.
Vince’s eyes, all on me. No matter what I do.
“That sounds perfect,” Owen breathed out, shifting in the bed. “I want him to think I’m safe. That I’m the safest thing in the whole world.”
No matter how much I hurt him.
#whump#box boy#box boy multiverse#owen grant is a nice guy#pet whump#dehumanization#erase to control#intimate whumper#creepy whumper#tw: abusive language
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hey uhh could u turn the 'laying in bed with lucio while he traces your stretch Marks and uses it as a conduit to tell dramatic stories about his scars' into a ficlet with a self-conscious fat!mc if ur so inclined i would be... so grateful
you fucking BET I CAN. (the fact that you…referenced something i wrote…im so soft…this is so sweet)
Count “Ive Never Stopped Talking But it Somehow Works” Lucio x Self Conscious Fat!MC with stretchmarks!
God im so fucking sorry this turned into 1340 words——————————————————————–
You quietly survey the bed. Lucio is turned away from you, curled up, drifting into sleep. He looks almost vulnerable, small, surrounded by the piles of pillows and blankets that adorn every inch of his space. Quickly, as silently as possible, you slip off what you’re wearing and reach for your pajamas. Suddenly, Lucio sits up and turns to you. You forget, sometimes, how sharp his senses are. Any other time it would be almost endearing.
Scrambling, you throw on your pajamas backwards and nearly stumble over the pile of your clothes on the floor.
“Are you...okay?” He looks very confused by the events unfolding in front of him.
“Mhm yeah great I’m fine! Just uh, wanted to get dressed for bed! Now it is time to get in bed!” You hurry through the words as you make your way to the bed. Lucio gets up and walks over to your side.
“Well, at least let me help you with your shirt, since I’m up now.” He barely tries to hide his genuine care with a flippant tone.
“It’s okay, I can just go to bed like this, I don’t mind.” Lucio is nothing if not persistent.
“ Is something wrong? Do you not want me to touch you?” He reaches his arm out for your shoulder, but quickly pulls it back. He cares about you, and you can’t keep this up forever.
“I’m just worried, um, scared.” His face drops.
“Scared of me?”
“No no no not at all, not exactly. I just.” You look down at yourself, and gesture vaguely towards your body. “And you’re-” You gesture up and down Lucio’s body.
“I’m not following.”
“I’m...fat and, erm, I have a lot of, uh, stretch marks and they’re so ugly and I’m.. And you’re….well you. And I’m just afraid of what you’ll think of me if...you know.” You quickly sit in bed and pull the covers up to your chest while he processes. Much to your surprise he goes back to his side of the bed and sits on the bed with you.
“You don’t need to be afraid.” He pauses, wrinkling his nose in thought. “I know what to do. And lucky for you, I don’t need clothes for it.” Lucio smirks and makes a dramatic show of slipping off his clothes, and slipping his prosthetic on. You stare at him with your mouth open a little. He is beautiful for sure, but you haven’t quite figured out what he’s actually doing.
“Lucio?” He’s still posing next to the bed.
“Yes?”
“I’m not complaining, but was there more to your idea?”
“Oh right yes, sorry.” He kneels in the bed next to you; he’s smiling but looks distinctly flustered. “It works best when your clothes are off too. I promise I’ll like what I see. Will you trust me, take me at my word, just for now?” You sit there for a moment, nervous. Underneath it all, there’s sincerity in his voice, and you decide to trust him, just for now.
Slowly, gently, he helps you out of your night clothes, stealing a kiss to your hand in the process.
“Let me take a look at you.” He looks you up and down, and you feel your face flush at least two shades of red. “ I was right. Marvelous, as I expected.” His cheesy smile falters, replaced with a slightly more sincere look. He wraps his arms around your waist, his hands sink into you. He gives you a gentle hug.
“So, they’re uh, you know. Bodies. They’re like stories.” His brow furrows slightly, waiting for your response.
“Like in a children’s book?”
“I didn’t have books when I was a child. We used to sit around and listen to stories of conquest and war. They were passed down to each generation. They made up our history.” He lays down on the bed and pats the space next to him. You lay down next to him and look over at his face. He’s relaxed, the tension of his persona seems to have melted away a little.
“Like this.” He surprises you by taking one golden finger and tracing a deep pink stretch mark along your hip,making you flinch, and then tracing a scar in the same place on his own hip.
“See this? This is a story! It was dark, I was alone in the woods when -suddenly!- I heard a ROAR come from behind! I whipped around-” He continues his story, dramatically waving his free arm around and making the bed shake with his grand gestures. You keep thinking about the feeling of his hand on your body; how he wasn’t put off. He liked what he saw and is actively trying to help you feel better. You focus on his voice again.
“-can you BELIEVE the bear would have the- the-, AUDACITY to challenge me again! While I’m bleeding! As if he didn’t know who I was!” You smile up at him and put your head on his shoulder.
“Wow, fuck that bear.”
“See! You get it! Oh now this!” He traces a finger down a stretch mark on your stomach, pressing gently into you. He moves his hand over to himself and shows you a slightly faded scar on his stomach. “This is from the time a wild boar tried to have at me. Now, I learned my lesson with the first boar I tried to fight, I was ten. My mother said I lost that fight but I put the fear of LUCIO into that boar. Anyway, this boar came charging at me-” It was easier for you the second time, to feel the cool metal on your skin, to feel his touch and not shy away. You think that he’s being sincere. You wonder if he feels as vulnerable as you do.
“-and I RAN the boar through with my sword! Not before one of his giant tusks, at least 15 feet long, SPEARED me right through! If it wasn’t for my quick thinking and incredible survival skills, I wouldn’t be laying here before you.” He smirks and plants a kiss on your head.
“Well it’s a good thing then.’ You smile up at him. “You showed that boar who’s boss.” He absentmindedly traces more of your stretch marks; you think they almost look beautiful with his fingers running along them. He passes over one on your thigh, and a sheepish look crosses his face.
“What?” He points out a scar on his thigh. “What brave battle was that from?”
“Would you believe me if I said the tree was enchanted to attack me?” He puts on a confident smile. You snort.
“Oh I have no doubt that the trees were plotting to take you down.” You both start laughing. For a moment you forget there was ever a reason to be anxious; you forget that this could have gone differently.
He gently rubs your cheek with his thumb, and trails his hand down your neck. He stops, tracing the stretch marks on your shoulder with all his fingers at once. He sits up in bed and carefully removes his golden arm. He traces the long thick scar with his fingers, looking solemn for a moment. He sighs deeply.
“Fucking Dr. Jules.”
“What??”
“Oh? He was the one who removed my arm on the battlefield. Said some nonsense about blood loss. As if having a little missing blood could kill me! Having a missing body didn’t kill me!” He quickly puts the arm back on, for full gesturing potential. Lucio launches into a thrilling tale of his mercenary days. You wonder again if he feels as vulnerable as you feel. You look over his body, covered in scars, some small, some big, some old, some new. His beauty could fill volumes with his stories if he wanted. You look down at the way you’re pressed against him, his arm around your shoulder again. His eyes are so bright. Maybe your body has stories to tell too. Maybe you can tell them together.
#Anonymous#lucio#count lucio#lucio the arcana#the arcana#the arcana game#lucio x mc#mine#i hope this is what you wanted i got carried the Fuck Away because all i care about#is uhhhhhh setting the scen apparently#scene
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How to be a better writer, recommendations for students
People who write for a living, teach writing, or write on writing generally agree that it is hard work. We all have our moments of despair as writers and if we do not, it is quite likely that it is our readers, who despair. William Zinsser, author of “On Writing Well,” reminds us: “if you find that writing is hard, it’s because it is hard. (2012, 9).
I have collected advice from great writing books and resources, focusing on writing nonfiction, writing in academic settings, and most of all - writing clearly. I’ve combined all this advice into 7 big recommendations. (This is not advice on citing and referencing, if you need that, please look here).
The intended audience is MA students. I want to thank the students whose MA and PhD work I am currently supervising, who said “yes” enthusiastically, when I asked them if a set of recommendations on writing would be helpful. Collating this has been very educational and I hope will make me a better writer too.
Most of us write unclearly, because:
- Our thinking is cluttered. To free our writing from clutter, we need to “clear our heads of clutter. Clear thinking becomes clear writing; one can’t exist without the other.” (Zinsser 2012, 8 )
- We read things into our own writing. “Our own writing always seems clearer to us than to our readers, because we read into it what we want them to get out of it. And so instead of revising our writing to meet their needs, we send it off the moment it meets ours.” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 7).
- Very few people realize how badly they write (Zinsser 2012, 17)
1. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN WE ARE CAREFUL WITH WORDS.
As William Strunk (2011, np) says: “Omit needless words. Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences.”
Zinsser (2012, 6) agrees, he urges us to get rid of words that serve “no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb that carries the same meaning that’s already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what—these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence.
Examples of what to avoid:
- long word that’s no better than the short word: “assistance” (help), “facilitate” (ease), “remainder” (rest), “implement” (do), “attempt” (try), “referred to as” (called) (Zinsser 2012, 15);
- slippery new fad words and jargon (Zinsser 2012, 15);
- word clusters with which we explain how we propose to go about our explaining: “I might add,” “It should be pointed out,” “It is interesting to note.” If you might add, add it. If it should be pointed out, point it out. If it is interesting to note, make it interesting. Don’t inflate what needs no inflating: “with the possible exception of” (except), “due to the fact that” (because), “he totally lacked the ability to” (he couldn’t), “until such time as” (until), “for the purpose of” (for). (Zinsser 2012, 15)
- needlessly long formulations: “the question as to whether” (whether), “there is no doubt but that” (no doubt (doubtless)), “used for X purposes” (used for X), “in a hasty manner” (hastily), #”this is a subject which” (this subject), “owing to the fact that” (since (because)), “in spite of the fact that” (though (although)) (Strunk 2011)
- negative statements: ‘He was not very often on time” is weak, “he usually came late” is strong
Verbs
Use active verbs unless there is no comfortable way to get around using a passive verb. (…) “Joe saw him” is strong. “He was seen by Joe” is weak (Zinsser 2012).
When important actions are in verbs, the sentence will seem clear (Williams & Bizup 2014).
For example (from Williams & Bizup 2014, 32):
- Bad: Our lack of data prevented evaluation of UN actions in targeting funds to areas most in need of assistance.
- Good: Because we lacked data, we could not evaluate whether the UN had targeted funds to areas that most needed assistance.
Adverbs
Most adverbs are unnecessary and annoying. Do not choose a verb that has a specific meaning and then add an adverb that carries the same meaning. Don’t tell us that the radio blared loudly; “blare” connotes loudness. (Zinsser 2012)
Adjectives
Most adjectives are unnecessary, the concept is already in the chosen noun. Stop stating the obvious (yellow daffodils and brownish dirt). If you want to make a value judgment about daffodils, choose an adjective like “garish.” If you’re in a part of the country where the dirt is red, feel free to mention the red dirt. Those adjectives would do a job that the noun alone wouldn’t be doing (Zinsser 2012)
General advice on words from William Zinsser (2012):
1. Care about words. Select them carefully, know the nuances of their meaning.
2. Imitate good writing, figure out how good writers (but don't assume that everything that is in a good journal is automatically well written) accomplish writing well. What makes their writing good? (But also be realistic about your skills).
3. Use dictionaries
4. Master the small gradations between words that seem to be synonyms
2. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN IT HAS UNITY
According to Zinsser (2012, 37) unity is the anchor of good writing. To keep the reader from straggling off in all directions; and to satisfy the readers’ subconscious need for order, we need to strive for:
• Unity of pronoun
• Unity of tense
• Unity of mood - any tone is acceptable. But don’t mix two or three.
Ask yourself some basic questions before you start (Zinsser 2012, 38):
• In what capacity am I going to address the reader? (Reporter? Provider of information? Teacher? Person with shared experience?)
• Who am I writing for? (Zinsser says you are always writing for yourself, Terri Senft’s great advice has been to pick someone who is your fan or who believes in you, and to write for them).
• What pronoun and tense am I going to use? (The general recommendation is to write from “I” and to use present tense apart from referring to something that clearly happened in the past “The first time I heard the term “affordances” …)
• What style? (Impersonal reportorial? Personal but formal? Personal and casual?)
• What attitude am I going to take toward the material? (Involved? Detached? Judgmental? Ironic? Amused?)
• What one point do I want to make? “Every successful piece of nonfiction should leave the reader with one provocative thought that he or she didn’t have before. Not two thoughts, or five—just one.”
Think small. Decide what corner of your subject you’re going to bite off, and be content to cover it well and stop. This is also a matter of energy and morale. An unwieldy writing task is a drain on your enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is the force that keeps you going and keeps the reader in your grip. (Zinsser 2012, 39)
3. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN WE MAKE OUR ARGUMENTS IN CONVERSATION WITH WHAT HAS BEEN SAID BEFORE
Making arguments is hard. A good start is to ask ourselves “what am I trying to say?” and imagine how we would answer the reader, when they ask us “why are you telling me this?”
Surprisingly often we don’t know. We have to look at what we have written and ask: have I said it? Is it clear to someone encountering the subject for the first time? Has fuzz worked its way into the machinery? (Zinsser 2012, 9)
Graff, Birkenstein & Durst (2018, 3) suggest that academic writing is “argumentative”, and to argue well, we need to enter a conversation, summarizing others (“they say”) to set up one’s own argument (“I say”). They call this a “they say, I say” model. It is helpful for discovering what we want to say and then how to say it clearly.
Graff, Birkenstein & Durst (2018, 11 - 12) offer a MASTER TEMPLATE for setting up an argument using the “they say, I say” model, it goes like this:
In recent discussions of …. , a controversial issue has been whether …. . On the one hand, some argue that …… . From this perspective, …… . On the other hand, others argue that ……. In the words of ….. , one of this view’s main proponents, “…...”
According to this view, …… In sum, then, the issue is whether …… or ………. My own view is that ……... Though I concede that …….. I still maintain that ……… For example, ………. Although some might object that …….. I would reply that …….. . The issue is important because ……….
Taking it line by line, this master template first helps you open your text by identifying an issue in some ongoing conversation or debate (“In recent discussions of a controversial issue has been”), and then to map some of the voices in this controversy (by using the “on the one hand / on the other hand” structure). The template then helps you introduce a quotation (“In the words of”), to explain the quotation in your own words (“According to this view”), and—in a new paragraph—to state your own argument (“My own view is that”), to qualify your argument (“Though I concede that”), and then to support your argument with evidence (“For example”). In addition, the template helps you make one of the most crucial moves in argumentative writing, what we call “planting a naysayer in your text,” in which you summarize and then answer a likely objection to your own central claim (“Although it might be objected that, I reply ”). Finally, his template helps you shift between general, over-arching claims (“In sum, then”) and smaller-scale, supporting claims (“For example”). (Graff, Birkenstein & Durst 2018 12).
The template is a learning tools to get you started, not a structure set in stone.
Find more “they say, I say” templates here, here.
Find an academic phrasebank of phrases that help make cautious, critical, classifying, comparing, defining, describing and explaining sentences here.
4. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN IT HAS A GOOD INTRODUCTION
Your writing needs to pose “a problem that your readers want to see solved. That problem might, however, be one that your readers don’t yet care—or even know—about. If so, you face a challenge: you must overcome their inclination to ask, So what? And you get just one shot at answering that question: in your introduction. That’s where you must motivate readers to see your problem as theirs.” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 99).
A good introduction “has the three parts that appear in most introductions. Each part has a role in motivating a reader to read on. The parts are these:
Establish a shared context – “That shared context offers historical background, but it might have been a recent event, a common belief, or anything else that reminds readers of what they know, have experienced, or readily accept” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 100)
State the problem
“For readers to think that something is a problem, it must have two parts:
The first part is some condition or situation: terrorism, rising tuition, binge drinking, anything that has the potential to cause trouble.
The second part is the intolerable consequence of that condition, a cost that readers don’t want to pay.”
“You can identify the cost of a problem if you imagine someone asking So what? after you state its condition. Answer So what? and you have found the cost” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 102).
There are practical and conceptual problems, and each motivates readers in a different way.
“A practical problem concerns a condition or situation in the world and demands an action as its solution.” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 102). A practical problem is about what we should do.
“A conceptual problem concerns what we think about something and demands a change in understanding as a solution” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 102). Conceptual problems are about what we should think.”
“The condition of a conceptual problem is always something that we do not know or understand.
The cost of a conceptual problem is not the palpable unhappiness we feel from pain, suffering, and loss; it is the dissatisfaction we feel because we don’t understand something important to us.” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 103)
“Like your readers, you will usually be more motivated by large questions. But limited resources— time, funding, knowledge, skill, pages—may keep you from addressing a large question satisfactorily. So you have to find a question you can answer. When you plan your paper, look for a question that is small enough to answer but is also connected to another question large enough for you and your readers to care about.” (Williams & Bizup 2014, 104)
3. State the solution
To solve a practical problem, you must propose that the reader (or someone) do something to change a condition in the world. To solve a conceptual problem, you must state something the writer wants readers to understand or believe. (Williams & Bizup 2014, 105-106)
5. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN WE KEEP IN MIND HOW OUR TEXT SOUNDS
“Also bear in mind, when you’re choosing words and stringing them together, how they sound. This may seem absurd: readers read with their eyes. But in fact they hear what they are reading far more than you realize. Therefore such matters as rhythm and alliteration are vital to every sentence”. (Zinsser 2012, 27)
Basically, it is really useful to read your own writing out loud. It is particularly useful to do so once you have set it aside for a couple of days, so you no longer exactly remember what and how you wanted to say and can, instead, read what you ended up saying.
A simple rule to remember is to alternate between the length of sentences, Zinsser calls this switching up the “gait” at which the sentences move.
“An occasional short sentence can carry a tremendous punch. It stays in the reader’s ear.” (Zinsser 2012, 28)
6. OUR WRITING IS CLEARER, WHEN WE EDIT AND REWRITE. ALL FIRST DRAFTS ARE SHITTY
The best thing you can do for your writing is to give up the idea that anything is good enough after the first draft. It is not, nor should it be. As Anne Lamott writes in a chapter called “Shitty First Drafts” in her book “Bird by Bird” (1994, 21): “Writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.” … “The first draft is a child’s draft, where you let it all pour out and then romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later.”
Thinking of the first draft like this helps overcome writers block, knowing it has the freedom to be bad, incoherent, childish, ridiculous will help you get out the beginnings of what you want to say, in conversation with whom, and why. Then you shape it into an argument and make it clear.
EDITING AND REWRITING
Learn to let go of what you have written. Yes, it was difficult. No it is not, therefore, pure gold. If it helps, psychologically, create a separate file called “leftovers” and paste all the takeouts there instead of deleting them. I used to do that for years.
“Surprisingly often a difficult problem in a sentence can be solved by simply getting rid of it. Unfortunately, this solution is usually the last one that occurs to writers in a jam.” (Zinsser 2012, 58).
“Rewriting is the essence of writing well: it’s where the game is won or lost. That idea is hard to accept. We all have an emotional equity in our first draft; we can’t believe that it wasn’t born perfect. But the odds are close to 100 percent that it wasn’t.” (Zinsser 2012, 59)
Please don’t send your first draft to your supervisor.
7. ARE YOU READY FOR STYLE?
Always prioritize clarity over style. In fact, it might be useful to ask yourself, as William Zinsser does: “Are you ready for style?” It’s fine if you are not.
“First, then, learn to hammer the nails, and if what you build is sturdy and serviceable, take satisfaction in its plain strength. But you will be impatient to find a “style”—to embellish the plain words so that readers will recognize you as someone special. You will reach for gaudy similes and tinseled adjectives, as if “style” were something you could buy at the style store and drape onto your words in bright decorator colors.” (Zinsser 2012, 16)
“Trying to add style is like adding a toupee. At first glance the formerly bald man looks young and even handsome. But at second glance— and with a toupee there’s always a second glance—he doesn’t look quite right. The problem is not that he doesn’t look well groomed; he does, and we can only admire the wigmaker’s skill. The point is that he doesn’t look like himself.” (Zinsser 2012, 17).
If you feel you are ready for style, here is how to do it:
- RELAX, BE YOURSELF
“Readers want the person who is talking to them to sound genuine. Therefore, a fundamental rule is: be yourself. No rule, however, is harder to follow. It requires writers to (…) relax, and (…) have confidence.” (Zinsser 2012, 17).
Because it is so hard to relax, because we feel responsible to make good, interesting arguments that offer solutions to important problems and do so clearly and with style, we tend to tense up when we start to write. Zinsser (ibid) describes what typically happens:
Paragraph 1 is a disaster—a tissue of generalities that seem to have come out of a machine. No person could have written them.
Paragraph 2 isn’t much better.
But Paragraph 3 begins to have a somewhat human quality, and by Paragraph 4 you begin to sound like yourself. You’ve started to relax. It’s amazing how often an editor can throw away the first three or four paragraphs of an article, or even the first few pages, and start with the paragraph where the writer begins to sound like himself or herself. Not only are those first paragraphs impersonal and ornate; they don’t say anything—they are a self-conscious attempt at a fancy prologue. What I’m always looking for as an editor is a sentence that says something like “I’ll never forget the day when I …” I think, “Aha! A person!”
So when you are writing, and when you are editing, stop to read, and see if you can find yourself in any of the prose.
- MOOD CHANGERS
“Learn to alert the reader as soon as possible to any change in mood from the previous sentence. At least a dozen words will do this job for you: “but,” “yet,” “however,” “nevertheless,” “still,” “instead,” “thus,” “therefore,” “meanwhile,” “now,” “later,” “today,” “subsequently” and several more. I can’t overstate how much easier it is for readers to process a sentence if you start with “but” when you’re shifting direction. Or, conversely, how much harder it is if they must wait until the end to realize that you have shifted.” (Zinsser 2012, 54).
And finally “you learn to write by writing. It’s a truism, but what makes it a truism is that it’s true. The only way to learn to write is to force yourself to produce a certain number of words on a regular basis.” (Zinsser 2012, 37)
References
Zinsser, W. (2012). On Writing Well, THE CLASSIC GUIDE TO WRITING NONFICTION 30th Anniversary Edition. Collins.
Graff, G., Birkenstein, C., & Durst, R. (2018). “THEY SAY I SAY” The Moves That Matter in Academic Writing WITH READINGS, 4TH EDITION. New York, London: W.W. NORTON & Company.
Lamott, A. (1994). Bird by Bird, Some Instructions On Writing and Life. New York: Pantheon Books
Williams, J., & Bizup, J. (2014). Style, Lessons in Clarity and Grace, 11TH EDITION. Pearson Education
Further reading:
Becker, H.S. (2007). Writing for Social Scientists How to Start and Finish Your Thesis, Book, or Article, 2nd Ed, The Universty of Chicago Press Books.
Tufte, V. (2006). Artful Sentences, Syntax as Style, Graphix Pr
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the yew tree 3.2/3.4
Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.
But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…
Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, a jealous and conflicted Erik, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.
(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required
part one and two now on ao3!
beginning of part 3)
Warnings for this part: Referenced human experimentation, referenced sexual exploitation of children
Rating: M
Word count: 3984
Notes: the long overdue update is finally here! this is basically the end of the emotional arc of the story - the next update will probably be the last (unless i get impatient and split it into two) and will mainly tie up loose plot threads
It’s a beautiful day out in the grounds, golden sunlight and verdant greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a lark trills as it ascends in flight.
An automobile idles in the driveway. It is sleek and black, its engine rumbling quietly like a great predator at rest.
The window rolls down. A powerful, thick-fingered hand beckons Charles forward.
“You’ll be good,” Uncle says. His face is half-hidden in shadow.
How do you know you’re doing the right thing?
Charles bows his head. “Of course, sir.”
The only way to stop him is to kill him.
“You remember our agreement. Our deal.”
You make it sound so easy.
“Yes, sir.”
It is.
***
Sunset. They’re to stay put until the dark of night, so the two of them are in Charles’ study now, the air so thick with tension that Charles rubs at his temples, resigning himself to a migraine. Not tonight, he prays. If all goes according to plan, everything will end tonight.
The clock ticks, the march of time slow, inexorable. Beside him, Erik stirs, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. There is a book propped open on his lap, but as Charles watches him, Erik’s eyes skim through the text without seeing, gaze flickering across the same line over and over again. His mind is a storm of questions, but it’s tempered by concern; Erik has resolved not to push Charles for answers before he’s ready, and he’s determined to stand by his decision even though curiosity is eating him alive.
Charles loves him very much at that moment.
One hour to go. He can’t delay any longer. Charles has made a promise and he doesn’t intend to go back on his word. Still, it doesn’t change the way his whole chest goes tight, shame and anxiety and fear making it difficult to breathe. His hands tremble as he shuts his book (he hadn’t read a single word these past few hours), and immediately Erik’s attention snaps to him.
Charles musters an unconvincing smile. “Let’s be going, shall we.”
Finally, Erik’s thoughts shout, but all he says is: “You sure you’re ready?”
“I don’t think I ever will be,” Charles tries to joke, but it falls flat, too honest to be funny. He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I must. Let’s go.”
He’s walked the path to the recital hall many, many times before, almost every single day of his life. But never before has he felt this mix of choking fear coupled with quiet, fragile hope.
The last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time he has to walk this path.
Erik’s mind sparks with the keen interest of a hunter as Charles pushes open the door to the hall. His sharp gaze sweeps through the room, cataloguing every detail. The small raised dais, open and exposed. The rows of benches arranged in a circular pattern, allowing the hungry audience to watch the performance from every direction, every angle.
The bookshelves, each of them stuffed to the brim. Uncle had kept expanding the hall as his collection grew. Now the bookshelves are ordered in neat, dense rows, enough of them for a small library. Display cases of glass break up the monotony, proudly exhibiting intricate scrolls and illustrated texts.
Confusion creases Erik’s brow. “This is…” Just a normal room, his mind supplies.
If only.
And the thing is, Charles can keep up the deception. The trapdoor is right there. He can just lead Erik down to the lab, leaving this whole sorry chapter of his past behind him. Erik never has to know his shame. His weakness. He does not owe Erik this part of the truth; this has nothing to do with the lies he had told concerning Shaw.
But – and Charles doesn’t wholly understand it himself – some part of him wants Erik, someone, anyone to know the truth. The whole truth. He’s lived with the lies and the silence for too long.
He wants – he hopes – for Erik to understand.
But what if he doesn’t? Or, worse, what if every time Erik looks at him from now on, he only sees a victim? Someone weak, someone piti–
“Charles?”
Erik’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Erik is watching him with a frown. He wants to demand answers, Charles can sense it, but the greater part of his thoughts is preoccupied with concern for Charles.
Charles takes a deep breath, licking dry lips. He can’t look at Erik.
“The bookshelves. Just. See for yourself.”
Erik’s footsteps are soft as he picks his way across the hall. Charles closes his eyes, building up the barriers around his mind. Already he regrets his decision.
Paper rustles.
Then–
Shock. It pierces clean through Charles’ mental defences, and Charles freezes like a child caught eavesdropping. He can hear the turning of pages again, loud and quick, a noise like a panicked bird beating its wings.
Erik tosses the book away. It thumps against the ground. He rips open another book, flicking through the pages so rapidly that Charles can hear it as a snap-snap, snap-snap, the crack of the whip, the breaking of bones.
“Charles. What is this.”
He cannot answer. Charles stares at the ground, waiting for Erik’s scorn. His eyes burn.
“Charles!”
He shakes his head.
From far away, he hears the ragged exhale of Erik’s breath. “You. All this time. Every single time you went to read for him, every single day… I, that time I forced you into that costume…”
All his usual eloquence had deserted Charles. He closes his eyes, mute, and Erik lets out a snarl, fury battering against Charles’ shields.
“How long?” Erik demands. “How long has he– When did this start?”
“I was six,” his voice sounds so quiet, nothing like himself at all, “from memory. It was shortly after I first arrived here. I…”
His voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing at his eyes, a childish habit he can’t seem to break. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t– I didn’t know how to say no. You must think me so–”
Charles jumps as Erik suddenly moves, arm sweeping out to send the row of books tumbling to the floor in a series of sickening thuds. They lie there like dead, broken things, pages bent and crumpled, covers askew. He catches a glimpse of a half-torn ink drawing, the legs ripped apart.
“Erik?”
The whole room trembles. Wood splinters, the nails that hold the bookshelf together rattling and warping. The whole thing comes apart with a clatter, rows and rows of books falling to the floor, the wooden frame tumbling down to crush them. Charles stares uncomprehendingly at their broken-spined forms. He almost feels like he’s one of them, lying helplessly on the ground as Erik pulls the world apart right around his ears.
Silver flashes through the air: metal, responding to Erik’s command. Veins bulge from the back of his hand as he clenches it into a fist, and the metal soars in deadly arcs across the bookshelves, scything across wood and paper alike.
Pages flutter to the ground. Another bookshelf trembles, coming apart with a groan and sending a cascade of books spilling across the floor. Almost in a dream, Charles stoops to pick one of them up, only for Erik to snatch it out of his hands and throws it back onto the pile. “Never again,” he says harshly, but the words seem to slip out of Charles’ dazed mind the instant he hears them. He can only watch, still uncomprehending, as Erik steps contemptuously over the pile, crushing the delicate pages beneath his shoes.
Another crash. Something falls: an inkwell, splattering black stains across the fallen volumes.
Erik is pausing, one of the exposed pages catching his eye: …if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you…
Fury. Charles’ mental shields crack.
Erik, on the ground, blades of metal ripping through the pages.
A scattering of red. Ink? Blood? Charles makes a small noise – Erik shouldn’t hurt himself, not over this – but it’s swallowed up by the tearing of parchment as Erik rips apart a stack of papers, trampling them underfoot.
One of the glass cases shatters, its metal frame warping. Crystalline shards slice through the scroll on display. It’s one of Uncle’s favourites, a depiction of a woodland hunt, the baying hounds immortalised in ink, the fleeing boy naked and half-mad with fear.
All gone now. The ragged, ruined edges of the parchment burn in Charles’ mind.
Another shelf topples. The very bones of the house seem to shake with the force of Erik’s rage, a red tide that crashes over Charles’ mind.
Strange. He doesn’t fear it, not like the way he fears Uncle’s red thoughts.
Something hard shifts under Charles’ foot. His heart skips a nervous beat when he realizes he had just stepped on one of Uncle’s books. Instinct takes over and Charles flinches away – he remembers this book, remembers being twelve and sitting on the dais and reading it aloud as every single man in the audience fantasised about raping him – and he jumps at another thunderous crash as Erik takes an armful of books and dashes them all against the ground.
He’s never seen such deadly focus in Erik’s eyes before.
Never again.
Gingerly, his heart pounding, Charles nudges at the book with his foot, pushing it beneath the growing pile of rubble. He’ll never have to see it again. He’ll never see any of this again.
The mad racing of his pulse doesn’t slow, but with that first little act of defiance, some of the fog around his head lifts. Although he still can’t bring himself to speak, Charles scrapes together enough courage to touch Erik lightly on the elbow, guiding him to the back of the room where a discreet false wall swings open to reveal an alcove filled with accoutrements Uncle likes to keep on hand: racks of wood and metal – the sort perfect for tying a small, unwilling body to – and long braided whips, silken ropes and the faceless mannequin Uncle had liked to see him straddle.
Erik destroys all of it. Charles stares at the twisted metal, the shattered wood, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to believe. In a daze he leads Erik to the trapdoor, only dimly aware of the devastation Erik leaves in their wake.
Down the stairs they go, the cold darkness broken by Erik’s churning anger and disbelief. All this time, how could I not have known…
The steel door, heavy and forbidding. Erik wrenches it apart with nothing but a flick of his wrist.
Electricity sparks. The entire bunker rumbles ominously, but Charles feels no fear; a first, considering his usual experiences in this place. He’s curiously calm as he watches Erik plant his feet against the ground and raise his arms.
The humming of Erik’s power grows, rising to a crescendo. Charles’ breath catches in wonder as every single piece of metal in the room shudders, then floats, effortlessly borne aloft by Erik’s power. There must be enough metal there to build a warship, but Erik lifts it all without a hint of strain, the look of focus on his face absolute and intense.
Then, with a defiant shriek that shakes the very foundations of the mansion, all the metal in the room crumples. The cabinets and the machinery, the cruel surgical tools – all rendered harmless in an instant.
The silence that follows is deafening. Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Charles gazes at the remnants of the only life – the only home – he had ever known.
Erik turns to face him. Under the stark white lights of the ruined laboratory, his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him,” he vows, fierce. “He’ll never hurt you again.”
Charles blinks. The fog blanketing his head stirs sluggishly. “I… I don’t…”
“We’ll wait for him to come back from his trip. Forget Shaw – we’ll deal with this first.”
“Erik.” Charles finds his voice again, the fog around his head burning away. “Stop.”
Erik whirls around to face him, fury and disbelief twisting his face into that of a stranger’s. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to let him go. Marko needs to die.” His hand sweeps out, gesturing at the twisted wreckage of the room. “After everything he’s done – all he’s done to you! You can’t walk away from this, Charles. You need to take revenge.”
It feels like they’ve had this conversation before, arguing in circles. “I don’t want his death and I don’t want revenge. I only want to ensure he never does the same thing to anybody else.”
“Killing him does the same thing.”
“I don’t want revenge!” Charles repeats in a snap, heat flaring in his chest. Some days he thinks he spends his entire life shouting into a void, unheard, all his words futile. “Enough, Erik. Please.”
He’s spent his whole life being bent to serve Uncle’s will. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Erik turns out to be the same.
Perhaps Erik sees some of his thoughts on Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t know; he’s still too much a coward to delve into Erik’s mind again, too fearful of the possibility that he may be faced with Erik’s scorn and pity. Whatever the case, Erik softens, but his eyes lose none of their intensity. “We can’t let him walk free. You know that.”
“Yes, of course.” But what can he do? Restless, Charles begins to pace down the length of the room. Some of that dream-like haze returns, but Charles forcefully shoves it away – no time for that, he can process his shock later, lock it away and toss away the key. Right now, Erik is waiting for him to come up with a plan. Charles can feel his eyes boring into his back as he walks, fingertips trailing against ruined fixtures and crumpled shelving, the physical evidence of Erik’s fierce anger.
Anger. For him. On his behalf. Even now, Charles can feel it brushing against his shields, a thundering roll of righteous fury, and there’s something else–
Protectiveness, Charles realises, with no small amount of awe. Despite everything, Erik still cares about him.
He cannot – will not – let Erik down.
Charles takes a deep breath, centering himself. Erik is right; Uncle must be dealt with, but how? Charles’ mind turns to the principles he had clung to all his life, to his belief in knowledge and education and communication, but the thought of talking to Uncle is so ludicrous that he almost laughs. No, Uncle will never listen to him.
Is there truly no other way? Charles refuses to accept that. His eyes scan the room, searching for a solution.
A pile of battered folders lies in his path, Uncle’s notes spilling onto the ground. Picking up one of the files, Charles flicks it open, carefully locking away the revulsion stirred up by memories of all those experiments. Uncle had never shared the results with him before. Now, Charles frowns at the jumble of numbers and graphs, trying to wrestle them into some semblance of sense. There’s so much information here, and this is only one file out of hundreds from the years Uncle had spent studying his telepathy – how much had he discovered that Charles knows nothing about?
Charles closes the file with a decisive snap. He bends, beginning the laborious task of stacking all the remaining folders into a neat pile. “Erik, help me gather all the files you can find.”
Erik’s discontent rubs against his mind like prickling static. “I hope you’re planning to destroy them.”
“No, I’m going to use them.” Charles responds evenly. “Despite their…origins, by all rights they should belong to me.”
“They’re the product of human experiments. Human cruelties. You don’t need them, Charles.”
How to explain this? Erik is striding up to him, footsteps quick and angry, and Charles meets his eyes without flinching. “You of all people should understand the concept of using the enemy’s own tools against them. The research exists already. Destroying it would be a waste when we can channel it towards something more productive.”
“Such as?”
Charles brushes his fingers across the back of the battered folder, all its crinkles and imperfections rough under his fingertips. “I… If I’m to live away from here, in the outside world, I need to master my telepathy. I’ve been afraid of it for far too long. These files, all the files in this lab, they contain the details of every single experiment my uncle has ever run on me and every other mutant that has passed through these doors. Our powers, our genetics, our biology, our health…” A plan is beginning to coalesce in his mind. He’ll reclaim everything Uncle has ever taken from him; he’ll take all of Uncle’s twisted research and use it for good. “We can use this knowledge to help our people.”
Erik isn’t convinced, that much is clear, but neither does he make any move to stop Charles. “The files will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“Then let’s make sure they stay in ours.”
His plan solidifies. Resolve settling into his bones, Charles takes a moment to savour how good it feels to finally, finally be sure he’s doing the right thing. He’ll gather every single scrap of Uncle’s notes with or without Erik’s help.
Erik must sense his conviction, because he exhales in that quiet way that Charles has come to recognize as Erik conceding a point.
“We’ll try it your way,” Erik says, but what Charles hears in his mind is: I trust you.
***
They don’t have much time left before their rendezvous with Shaw, and there are so many of Uncle’s notes to pack. It’s impossible to take them all; Charles does his best to pick out the important ones, trying to drown out the ticking of the clock, the movement of the wind and cloud-shadows outside his window. It’s already full dark. The gas lamp flickers as Charles pores over the notes and he rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the growing tightness in his chest.
After the third time he unpacks then repacks their luggage under the guise of rearranging the notes, Erik stops him with a light touch against his wrist. “You’re delaying.”
“I’m only being thorough,” Charles protests, although he knows the truth. “Shaw can wait a few minutes, this is too important to rush.”
“Charles. What’s wrong?”
Charles bites his lip, but, as always, he concedes that he owes Erik his honesty. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just, just rather difficult to believe this day has finally comes.”
Erik watches him, steady and intent. “You mean leaving the mansion?”
“I’ve never left, not since the day I first arrived,” Charles confesses. Automatically, his gaze goes to the window, but at that moment, the thought of the outside world is too much. His eyes skitters away, skin prickling hot and uncomfortable. “I thought I never would.”
“You’re afraid,” Erik observes. Charles braces himself for Erik’s judgement, but there’s not a whisper of that in Erik’s mind, just quiet, thoughtful concern.
“I suppose I am.” For all the time he’s spent living in other people’s heads, Charles has no idea what to expect for himself. What if he leaves only to realize he’s incapable of adapting to the outside world? What if he leaves only to realize that Uncle is right, that the only place for him is inside this mansion, inside Uncle’s reading room?
Unconsciously, his breathing quickens. Chest tight with frustration, Charles scrubs at his eyes, forcefully willing away the tell-tale prickle of heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to delay us. Shall we go?”
He doesn’t get a response immediately. Erik’s mind is a steady hum of activity, picking out words and phrases only to discard them just as quickly; Charles doesn’t pry into the specifics. He stays carefully still as Erik moves closer, but he can’t help the startled exhale that leaves him when Erik’s warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his head so they face each other properly.
Erik’s pale eyes are grave, solemn with the heavy weight of promise. “You don’t have to do this alone, Charles.” His thumb brushes across Charles’ cheekbone, against the curve of his ear, startlingly gentle. “You’re leaving behind everything you’ve ever known. It might take some time for you to find your way, that’s only normal. I won’t abandon you to do it alone.”
“Erik…” It’s too good to be true. Charles blinks rapidly, trying to quell the rising, foolish hope that threatens to overtake him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my friend. Don’t forget we still have our differences.”
“And we can work through them,” Erik insists. “Together.”
Erik’s mind burns with conviction – not a momentary blaze, but a conviction that entrenches itself into his mind with foundations of solid steel. He means it, Erik really does mean it, he’s going to stay…
Charles can’t help it; the hope and affection rushing through him needs an outlet. He stretches up to kiss Erik, swift and urgent – and just a touch uncertain – but then Erik cradles his face in calloused hands and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. For a long moment, they simply stand there, swaying against each other, Erik cupping Charles’ face and Charles’ arms wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the moment is just perfect, so perfect.
The chime of the clock interrupts them. Charles pulls away slowly, his reluctance mirrored in Erik’s eyes, but an unspoken understanding resonates between them. They need to put an end to this. Shaw, Marko – neither can be allowed to continue.
They leave his rooms, moving with purpose. Charles deftly nudges all attention away from them. The mansion is almost eerie in its emptiness as they walk through its lonely halls one last time, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet. All around them, the flickering gas lamps throw strange shadows against the wall as they walk, and Charles picks up the pace, pulse thudding in his chest. Soon.
Erik throws open the heavy front doors. The night air drifts into the mansion, cool and sweet with the first hints of spring.
“Are you ready?” Standing at the threshold, Erik looks ethereal – a spirit bathed in the spill of moonlight, silver threading against the crown of his head.
Icy doubt trickles down the back of Charles’ neck. It’s already far too late for second thoughts, but he can’t help it, all his old fears and insecurities rising in a sudden, crushing tide that constricts his throat and makes it difficult to breathe. “One moment,” he manages. God. Erik looks so untouchable like this.
He jumps as Erik’s hand closes around his, broad and warm and alive, calloused from a life spent working and fighting. Erik laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand.
“Look at me, Charles.”
Charles lifts his gaze. This is real. He’s real.
Erik is looking back at him, and the expression on his face is painfully gentle. Charles swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t deserve this, not any of this, but it’s so hard to protest when he’s surrounded by the candlelit warmth of Erik’s mind, a quiet blanket of safety and acceptance settling around his shoulders.
“I won’t leave you,” Erik vows.
You’re not alone, his mind promises.
And, finally, Charles believes him. He nods. A smile breaks across Erik’s face, fierce and joyous, and he grips Charles’ hand with renewed strength.
They cross the threshold and step into the moonlit grounds. A lively breeze ruffles Charles’ hair, bringing with it the scent of new grass, the fresh growth of spring, the trill of a faraway nightingale.
Erik never once lets go of his hand. Together, side by side, they make their way past the boundary of the estate, leaving behind them the silver-dappled shadow of the yew tree.
(next part)
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Video Killed The Radio Star
Paring: Billy Hargrove/Reader
Tags: female reader, tutoring, teen angst, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced child abuse, canon related, Neil Hargrove Is an Asshole, angry Billy Hargrove, 1980s, set Post-Snow Ball Stranger Things s2.
Summary: Reader isn't exactly Brooke Shields -- she's quiet, prefers books to people, and likes to listen to the newest hits on the radio with her friends. But when she's paired up with the Billy Hargrove by her math teacher to help him from falling behind, the status quo of her life with her dad and sister, and of Hawkins High is interrupted.
Word Count: 2,769
Current Date: 2018-10-15
“Why do you want me to hate you so bad?��� you whisper to him.
You were sitting on the porch of Mr. Hargrove’s house on the edge of Hawkins, drinking soft drink and trying to tutor the newcomer to Hawkins High on math. His credit transfer from his old school in California might have been good over there, but in Indiana, in this small town where there wasn’t anything to distract someone from their studies other than sport or dating, it wasn’t up to scratch. Thus, you were here, trying to get Billy to pass the next quiz.
Billy blinks, and with a straight face that makes you want to punch him right between his pretty eyes, he says, “Because, sweet cheeks,” he looks away, down the driveway that Neil Hargrove could drive up any minute, “I am bad.”
“Yeah?” you ask him. Shoving the maths textbook away from you, and your hands into the pockets of your jean jacket, you bite your tongue. It was cold out, and your Dad warned you before you took your bike here, but you liked your jean jacket. “Well, then Hargrove…why is it you want me, and everyone else to believe you’re a Danny Zuko, when you’re just a Brad Majors?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says, voice sharp like broken glass underfoot. He clicks his lighter to life and lit up the end of a cigarette.
You shrug. “I don’t know, Hargrove, why don’t you tell me?”
He takes a pull of his lit cigarette. “You don’t like Grease?” he replies.
You shake your head. “No, Hargrove.” Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, “Who are you trying to fool? I know you’re a nice guy. Under all of that.”
It’s then he chokes. Coughing, he wheezes, “Nice guy?” he laughs, “_________, I’ll have what you’re smoking.”
You huff. “I’m not smoking anything!” you cross your arms, feeling a little mad. “I know you’re not half bad –,”
“First nice, now half bad? _________, who’re you – I’m Billy Hargrove, asshole, king of Hawkins High. I am not nice. I’m an asshole, and you know it.” He’s nothing short of angry, and in his temper, he tosses his cigarette on the porch, and crushes it, still lit, under his boot. “Is this because I agreed to let you tutor me? I don’t need pity, much less from a nerd like you.”
You blink, watching him. “What are you saying?”
He doesn’t respond. He just sits there, looking at his shoe which smashed his cigarette into the wood of the porch, and it is then when you take a deep breath, and begin gathering your books.
“Whatever,” you say, trying to not show how much his words hurt.
Nerd.
Nobody had called you that in years, since you were in middle school, and Nancy threatened to beat up anyone who called you that. “This took up too much of my time anyway.” You shove your books into your backpack, and in the hurry to pack up, some of the textbooks become dog-eared. You don’t care. He’s on your nerves. You turn to look at Billy to say a goodbye but doesn’t meet your eyes at all.
With a huff, you march to where your bike rests against the porch, and flip the bird to the King of Hawkins High, “Good luck passing math.”
---
The next time you will see Billy Hargrove, you’re seated in the back of the math classroom, using your free period, and the availability of the empty room before math class for some alone time. It’s nice. Nancy is off holding hands with Jonathan in the shade of their favourite tree in the schoolyard, and Steve is off working on his American history report last minute in the library. You’re thirty pages into To Kill A Mockingbird when you realise that the little office off the back of the math room is not empty – as there are voices coming from there.
“It’s either be tutored by Ms. __________, or you fail this class.” Mr. Mundy’s voice carried, slightly louder than his usual tone.
You frown, placing your homemade bookmark in place, lowering the book. It’s then you hear a bang! like small thunder, or a fist upon a desk, and you hear, “No! No. I can’t fail. Isn’t there anyone else who can…” there’s a silence, “tutor me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hargrove, but no.” His tone is firm. “I cannot bend the rules for one student.”
Your heart beats faster, like a rabbit learning there’s a fox nearby. Instinct wants you to run out the math room before anyone sees you. Your more logical part of the brain thinks it’s better to duck under the table. Instead, when Mr. Mundy and Billy come out of the backroom, you freeze, and amidst your panic, you fall from your chair.
“Ah, Ms. _________,” Mr. Mundy says, as you look up from behind the desk you toppled behind. You know your face is heating up in embarrassment, you can feel it in your ears. “I was just speaking to Mr. Hargrove about the little issue between the both of you. I know you said you don’t have the capacity to tutor Billy anymore, but, is there any off-chance you would take him on again?”
You stand, brushing the dirt from your knees, and look to where Billy stands, behind Mr. Mundy. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket that the other girls at school might think is bitchin’, but to you, it’s uglier than lumpy Christmas sweaters, and reminds you of his father. Billy’s scowling, too, and if you know a scowl (they’re commonplace on your sister’s face, especially when she doesn’t get her way), he hates your guts.
“Mr. Mundy,” you start, shaking your head. “I told you that I don’t have the time for tutoring. Or the patience. He’s quite behind.”
“Yes, I know –,” Your teacher wiped a hand over his stubbled chin and huffed. “I didn’t want it to get to this… _________, if you tutor Billy, I will personally write a letter of recommendation to your preferred college, come senior year.” You look between Mr. Mundy and Billy, and, as you do this, he adds, “I’ll organise this to be written as an extracurricular –,”
“Fine.” You look at your shoes. If your Dad heard how hard you changed your mind, he’d march right into the principle’s office and demand a hearing between them both. “I better get a great recommendation.” You say, as if a curse under your breath. As Mr. Mundy goes to move, perhaps to the staff lounge for his pre-class cup of coffee, or behind the gym classroom for a sneaky cigarette with the English faculty, you add, “And if I quit one more time, I’m not tutoring him again. No matter what recommendation I get.”
Mr. Mundy walks out, mumbling in agreement. But as Billy turns to go, you address him, staring him down. “Tutoring starts at eight in the morning, my place.” Fishing in your backpack, you tear the back cover off, and write down your address. “Be there or be square.”
---
This time, you have Billy over at your house. It’s nothing much – your Dad lived sidled up to the woods in a tiny house. It has enough room for you, your Dad, his collection of music, and your little sister. It feels weird to have Billy Hargrove over, especially since you thought you rid yourself of him already. You’re set up at the dinner table when he knocks on the door, and when you greet him wordlessly, and lead him inside, you know he’s staring at you.
“What?” you ask, deadpan. “Do I have two heads?”
He shrugs, dropping into chair opposite where you’re set up. “Nothing, nerd.”
You frown, jaw set. “Okay, if I’m going to tutor you, Hargrove, we need some ground rules. Like, don’t call me a nerd. Or any names. Just _________.” You grit your teeth. “Just because I’m good at some subjects at school doesn’t mean you or Tommy H can walk all over me.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, I won’t do those things.” He wipes a hand through his long hair, and with a groan, he rolls his eyes, “Can we start? I gotta be done before noon.”
You nod, moving to take a seat. “Yeah. Um, this week was basic algebra, so I found these problems from the textbook, so we can practice some examples…” before too long, you delve into the problems, and explain the fundamentals of how to understand the problems.
When it got to ten o’clock, you noticed how hungry you had gotten, and how broken Billy’s attention was getting. It was when Billy worked on the latest batch of examples, you moved to the kitchen, and began preparing the oven for pizza rolls. Your sister had really taken to them, and there were lots of them in the kitchen. It wasn’t until you shoved them in the oven that you realised that Billy had been watching you.
“What?” you demand, hands posed upon your hips. When he doesn’t say anything, you turn to the egg timer beside the oven, and clock the right amount of time, and return to your seat opposite Billy. But he’s still staring at you. “Have you never had pizza rolls before, or…?”
He shakes his head. “You’re different.” He says, and adds, quickly, as if speaking as he’s thinking, “Every time you open your mouth.”
“What, you’ve never met someone who’s progressively more pissed off at you?” you retort, rolling your eyes. When Billy says nothing, you pick up your pencil where you left it before you got up and go back to the algebra problem you had begun to sketch out for him. “Anyways, it’s not like you’re being horrible to me now, so I’m sorry if I’m not spitting fire.”
He shrugs. “I was going to say that you’re not half bad.”
You chuckle at that. Didn’t you say that about him, before? “Don’t get soft on me, Hargrove. We’ve got limited time before the pizza rolls are ready.”
---
There’s a drive-in cinema just on the outskirts of Hawkins, and your father has the night off from work. You’d think that as police chief, he’d be able to work out more times off with his family, but no. It’s nice – you’re in the backseat of the station wagon with your sister Jane, and as you pull into the lot and pay for the tickets, you watch as Jane skirts away from a kiss goodbye from Dad when she goes off to find her friends. As you watch her find Steve Harrington’s car – your friend often took her and her friends to the movies – you clamber to the passenger seat beside your dad.
“So, what’s this movie about, again?” your dad Jim Hopper asks you, pulling on the handbrake.
You roll your eyes. “It’s in the name, Dad.” You point at the flyer you picked up at the ticket booth, pointing at the title. “Superman III. The third Superman movie. You know, about…”
“Superman?” he guesses.
You laugh, but midway, you choke on it. Because walking this way is none other than your tutee, Billy Hargrove. He’s wearing a button-down shirt that’s actually decently done up, and there isn’t a cigarette hanging out of his lip. In the split second between you noticing him and your dad noticing something’s up with you, you bend as if you’re going to tie your shoelace to hide your face. But you forget the dashboard that’s between you and your task, and you headbutt it in the effort.
You’re rubbing your sore head when Billy sees you, and, your father. His step falters, and, as if it never happened, he keeps on his path, and walks away.
“What was that?” your father asks you.
You shake your head. “Nothing, Dad.” You give him a withering look. “What, a boy looks at me, and now this?”
He nods in earnest. “Yes, _________. Because that’s the Hargrove boy who’s always making trouble around town.” He replies, and narrowing his eyes, he adds “Don’t tell me you’re friends with him.”
“No!” you cry out. “No.”
But internally, you’re not sure. Now at school, he actually acknowledges you in the hallways, and when you meet up at Hawkins library for tutoring – a neutral location that isn’t his house with Max or his father around, nor your family – he’s, well, not an asshole. Passably nice. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re seeing less bruises on him when you meet up, or if it’s because you’re not noticing his bloodied knuckles wrapped around a lead pencil anymore, but whatever it is, it’s working.
“Alright then,” your dad raises both his hands in surrender. “Sorry, kiddo. I just don’t want you mixing with the wrong crowd, you know?”
You frown, facing your father. “I know you mean well and all, Dad, but I’m not a kid anymore. I can be friends with nice Nancy Wheeler, quiet Jonathan Buyers, cool Steve Harrington and bad Billy Hargrove if I wanted to.” You look at your lap. In a quiet voice, you add, “besides, I think I am.”
“Didn’t you just say…?”
“I’ll be right back,” you tell your dad.
Before he can protest, you dash out of the car, following where you saw Billy walk off earlier. Weaving through the parked cars on the open field, you stand on tip-toes, trying to see where he got off to. You can see Mr. Clarke’s car parked nearby, Tommy H and Carol making out beside the popcorn booth on the edge of the field, but no Billy.
“Didn’t know you came here,” you hear a family voice behind you.
Turning, you see him. He’s holding a small popcorn, and in the other hand, a packet of sweets. A girl beside him groans when she realises Billy has stopped walking, and tugs at his sleeve.
“C’mon, the movie’s starting!” she urges.
Billy shakes his head, “Yeah, I know Max.” He passes her the food, and adds, “You go back to your friends, I just want to say hi.” She makes a face, but silently walks away. When it’s just you and Billy, standing between stranger’s cars at the drive-in, you clear your throat, unsure where to go from here. You hadn’t thought it this far. “Hi.” He says, after a beat.
You give him a little smile. “Hi, Billy.” Nervously, you bite your lip, and add quickly, “Um, are you here with your sister?” you ask, watching as the little girl walks away to Steve Harrington’s car where the other kids are hanging out.
He nods, playing with his shirtsleeve. “Yeah, just dropping her off.” He chuckles, looking at you. “I didn’t know you came out here.”
You shrug. “Didn’t you hear? Video killed the radio star.” He laughs at that, but after, neither of you say a thing. A beat passes between the both of you, and you speak up. “You know, if your dad gets too much for you, my Dad can step in.” you say, voice low so anyone listening in around can’t hear.
Billy frowns. “Wait…that guy who you were with in the car – your dad is –,”
You nod, pocketing your hands. “Yeah. Chief Hopper.” you shrug. “Well. If that’s not enough of a buzzkill in itself, I’m sure you’re itching to go back into town to hang out with your friends…” you say.
He shrugs. “Or I could hang out with you.” He says. “if that’s cool.”
You blink, unsure if what you’re feeling is shock. “Yeah, um. I’m just here to watch the movie.” You motion to where your dad is parked with your shoulder, and add, “Would it be more of a buzzkill if we watched it with my dad…?” you propose. “He won’t admit it, but he’s lonely without my sister and me.”
Billy takes a deep breath, and after a moment’s consideration, he says, “What the hell, why not.”
You watch Superman III in the backseat of the police station wagon, ignoring your father’s wide eyes. When it comes to the credits, you ignore Jane’s wide eyes, as well as the quiet stares of her friends, including Max and Steve Harrington. The drive home is quiet too, with the exception of the moment in which your dad took the key out of the ignition once you all got back to the house.
“If _________ has a boyfriend, I want to kiss Mike.” Jane pipes up.
In the rear-view mirror, you watch your father’s face pale. “No!”
#billy hargrove#billy hargrove x reader#billy hargrove/reader#stranger things imagine#stranger things fanfic#stranger things x reader#chaotic--lovely#pendragonfics#Female reader
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ESSAY on the ‘’sexually queer female gaze’’ for referance
BY AMY KEANE
‘’Taking a range of photographic images or a single photographer’s work, discuss how the gaze is addressed through issues of Gender. From your research define your understanding of the gaze’’
The gendered Gaze, brought to the forefront of the medias attention by Laura Mulvey in her essay published in 1975 ‘’ Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’’. The ‘’male gaze’’ represents the portrayal of women in media, to be objectified and sexualised, as heterosexual men are prominently in control of the camera. Referencing to both voyeurism and Freud’s theory of scopophilia, Mulvey coined the term to produce the ‘’female gaze’’ to then represent the gaze from and for the heterosexual female viewer. Gender is dominantly used in the male gaze, assuming that the males in control of producing the media based content, are heterosexual and are therefore sexually and/or romantically attracted to the female subjects. From this their judgement and ability to produce un-biased content is non existent. In this essay I will further explore the gaze’s and their relation to gender but also question the theory of what gaze the sexually queer female would have,sharing their natural sexual and/or romantic attraction to women and the female body. Wether this makes them exempt to the male gaze as identifying as female. Further questioning if the obvious exploitation of women in media, and the common knowledge of this oppression to all women, overpowers the fact that sexually queer females could also only posses the power to sexualise and objectify the female body?
Freud in ‘’ Three essays on sexuality’’ looks at scopophilia. The theory that ‘’ looking itself is a source of pleasure, just as , in the reverse formation, there is pleasure in being looked at’’. In Freud’s research he linked this widely to’’taking other people as objects,subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze’’ This information seems critical to Mulvey’s work regarding the gaze as a basis of where the nature of objectification comes from. To take this theory and understand that it can be somewhat pleasurable to condemn a subject to objectification is a flaw to Mulvey’s work that of focusing clearly on the heterosexual view of this. Looking at the apparent bigger picture should it not be classed as a contribution to the gaze but with the inclination of not being specifically gendered. As being a form of fetish that can be used by any gender as well as being able to be projected onto anyone of any gender.
A generic male gaze has been papable with the historically obvious patriarchy system in which still dominates the art world. The male gaze can been seen in works as early as 1538. Titian’s ‘’Venus of Urbino’’ is a painting of a woman in nude, lounging on a bed of expensive fabrics. One of her hands placed on her upper thigh covering herself and the other dropping a handful of flowers. The models head is tilted to the side with a controlled expression. The image posses a visual showcase of the male gaze, being a calculation of everything in which would be sexually appealing to a heterosexual male in context to the time produced. The female being nude, in which was considered to be a lot more promiscuous at the time, not having the prominent exposure to nudity that is classed as neutral in the twenty first century, is an obvious compliment to the ‘’peeping toms’’ and ‘’ obsessive voyeurs’’ ‘’ whose only sexual satisfaction can come from watching an objectified other’’. From the passive expression and pose to the models surroundings the woman is in the image simple to be looked at. Comprehending the surroundings of fabric and flowers you could say that the woman is placed and organised into position just as a still life of fruit would be composed. To be looked at, objectifying her for nothing more than her body. Submitting to a quote found in Mulvey’s writings by Budd Boelticher ‘’What counts is what the heroine provokes, or rather what she represents. She is the one , or rather the love of fear she inspires in the hero, or else the concern he feels for her. Who makes him act the way he does. In herself the woman has not the slightest importance’’. Referencing that to the role of the heroine is the everyday woman and the ‘’Hero’’ is the everyday man. As an example in Titian’s image the role of the woman is to get a reaction from the male viewer. It is the idea in which the woman inspires with her appearance and pose rather than her intelligence or through a visual role of actual significance. This is easily communicated into modern day photographic advertising with women unnecessarily over-sexualised in order to capture the attention of the forever dominant heterosexual male audience for purposes of sales.
Annie Leibovitz is an American portrait photographer, with her work being projected world wide. Photographing for publications such as the Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair, Leibovitz portrayal of her subjects and models have a monumental affect globally for representation of said person. Overall holding a responsibility as a photographer to capture a positively un-bias viewing platform for the audience. Leibovitz is an openly sexually queer woman who often produced work with her late partner Susan Sontag for example a book called ‘’Women’’ photographs by herself and writings by Sontag. One of Leibovitz’s more famous shots is one of Demi Moore on a cover for Vanity Fair. The model was shot nude, the image itself has the subjects body profile cradling her pregnant stomach and covering her breasts with the other hand. Moore is looking away from the camera with a calm and strong expression. The image exudes with a comfortable confidence. It posses the power for the viewer to see and acknowledge the actress, the soon to be mother, the person present in the photograph. Creating the exact opposite to the male created ‘’Venus of Urbino’’ where all is acknowledged is the female form in a sexualised setting. Both images contain women as well as both images being nude pieces yet the process of expression differs being composed by different genders. Mulvey would point this to be a representation of the male and female gazes. The male gaze prominent in the ‘’ Venus of Urbino’’ as it was composed by a man with ideologies of being seen by men. Whereas Leibovitz’s shot this as a female, with the female gaze for the female audience. The argument now starts wether or not Leibovitz can truly shoot such images without the presence of the male gaze being included with her work considering her non-heterosexual sexuality and attraction to women. The question is as poses how could someone whose is sexually and romantically interested in women, especially in a nude based shoot, not over sexualise or objectify said model?. In the book ‘’Women on women’’ accurately coinciding with the title of being women photographers shooting women models, Sacha comments ‘’ Man always sees a showcase, a shop window, the way a woman shows herself to the outside world. A man can look at it, but not be in it- thats the difference’’. In this comment she is referring to the differences between the two gender gazes. Promoting the theory that as a woman, Leibovitz can find the distinction between women being sexual beings:when posing in erotic or non-erotic ways, with or without clothing as well as including sexual inclinations or not and alternatively women being showed as sexual objects. Mario Sorrenti, a heterosexual male, photographs what in the present day is not a shock or abnormality; the world of media bending to suit the heterosexual male and his desires. Sorrenti’s work is popular in the genre of advertising, in particular his work with model Kate Moss for the Calvin Klein men’s perfume Obsession. The sole purpose for the advertisement is to sell the product being perfume, yet the only content in Sorrenti’s image is a naked Kate Moss. An advertisement main goal is to attract its prime target audience with aesthetically grasping imagery to associate the product or brand to, furthermore increasing sales. The male gaze is at its most pronounced in this situation of literally using the woman and her body as an object of sexualisation for sales. Contrasting to Leibovitz’s image of Demi Moore, of which was used as a cover for the sale of a magazine. It puts into perspective if the same model was shot by a heterosexual male, like Sorrenti, and following the theory that sex is a large contributor for sales; would the new image of Demi Moore contribute to the sales of the specific magazine? This is only questioned with the idea that the male gaze is overbearing and not only affects the women oppressed by the gaze but the women that are influenced by this ‘’norm’’ that is in modern day culture. Because women have been so heavily exposed to such imagery subject to the male’s desires, could this also demonstrate a brainwashing of women to think that this representation of women is normal, positive or even influential? As to be the subject of the male gaze is what a male would describe to be desirable. The short answer would be Yes. Shown with the growing market of diets, beauty products and cosmetic surgery advertised to gain the ‘ perfect’ look/image. With this many examples of the ‘perfect’ image would also be a direct representation of what the heterosexual male conceives as attractive in a woman. The male gaze directs this idea in the twenty first century being a great deal more obvious than the critic of male appearance. Photography is a direct catalogue of this information especially within in the advertisement industry. Cases of this can be found in the clothing company American Apparel in which has had many advertisements banned in the UK due to their explicit nature involving women and their bodies. Particularly I am drawn to this series of photographs and text that purpose is to sell pairs of socks. Everything about the image screams that it has been raped by the male gaze. The main image consists of a woman in a submissive pose gripping her knees up to her chest, being the only thing apart from her hair loosely covering her breasts. The camera angle depicts the viewer to be looking down and aggressively onto the model. The expression of the subject being blank staring back up to the viewer with a somewhat fetishised ‘’ innocent ‘’ appearance. The set of three images to the left of the composition see the model mid chest to forehead laying down on sheets pulling prominent facial expressions widely associated with pleasure from performed sexual acts. The main text on the image states ‘’ Safe to say, she loves her socks’’. The comment is to that of a sarcastic remark referring to the viewer stereotypically looking at everything but the socks in the image due to the extreme sexualisation of the model. Finally with more text at the bottom right of the composition stating ‘’ Meet Lauren Pheonix. 150lbs of magic. Actress. Director. Look her up on Google’’. Firstly the mention of her weight is also completely irrelevant to the purpose of selling socks and only to a means of objectifying the woman to her physical stats. A small amount of ‘’Google’’ research puts forward the information that the model has a career in the pornography industry. Observing the image and the model disregarding this irrelevant information pointing to exploit the career she chooses to earn money only brings to mind one thought. Why is it necessary for a porn star to assist in the sales of socks? Even in perspective that the model, for her appearance alone suited the casting for what is suitable for American Apparels sock model, it has been made a statement with the text included that the brand wants to associate itself with what is a taboo subject, with sex. ‘’ Look her up on Google’’. This image is a prime example of photography that is used for the male gaze. It is the representation of the unnecessary objectification of women in advertising to please the most common viewer, being the heterosexual male. For an audience this promotes sexism and a divide between genders the male gaze in this instance is a promotion for this sexism that women and their bodies are to be used for any means like advertisement or sales. Looking at the works of Zanele Muholi, specifically indulging in her ongoing project ‘’Faces and Phases’’ showing photography of the community in which she is a part of being LGBTQI. Zanele Muholi has known not to be shy with her subjects of which have been photographed. Some of her work for example ‘’Being scene’’ depicting blurry video footage of bodies, lesbian couples including herself and her long term girlfriend being intimate. The representation in the photographs is important here being some of a small world wide collection of a sexually queer woman photographing sexually queer women. With my evaluation of Muholi’s images I have come to the conclusion that the images must posses both gender gazes or neither. Potentially collecting the alternative term as the Queer gaze? Defining as the depiction of women through the gaze of a queer photographer. Because of the photographers sexual preference in conjunction with the subject it could be advanced that the photographer has the potential gaze in which that would have be neutral? In comparison to David Hamilton’s representation of queer women in the book ‘’sisters’’ Muholi’s work can be analysed to be a honest depiction of the subject whereas Hamilton’s to be a exhibition of what he thinks queer women should be portrayed as. It could be argued with the obvious exploitation of queer women in media, especially in pornography, that Hamilton’s gaze is a explicit statement of the male gaze. Hamilton being male and queer women being sexualised more so than the stereotypically average heterosexual woman wether that be because of the fetish of the straight male only being able to use his gaze to look on the queer woman and not being able to posses her. Or due to the fact that there is a stereotype that makes queer women, especially their sex lives, to be that of a performance to please the straight man. This can be evident again ,as a second interpretation, of the quote by Sasha stating ‘’Man always sees a showcase, a shop window, the way a woman shows herself to the outside world. A man can look at it, but not be in it- thats the difference’’. The sexually queer female from my research does hold the ability to sexualise and objectify women. With the sexually queer photographers I have looked into it has been evident in their work that their knowledge and perhaps the personal accounts of sexism and oppression of gender sported from men and their gaze educates the queer woman not to do onto others what is done on to herself. Acknowledging that women can be sexual beings without being sexual objects. Identifying with their female gender first before their sexuality. With the knowledge of there being more than two genders and a spectrum of sexualities, including but not exclusive to heterosexuality, my research on the gaze has been refined to that the term needs to reassessed. An idea for this would be to look at the gaze not referred directly to gender or sexuality. But as a view that being a person whom does not identify with the same as your subject your ‘’ gaze’’ will still be evident on them, wether recored in a media form or not. IT will not be a true representation of that person. Although gender is relevant to the heterosexual male gaze for its history in photography dividing prominently females and males in a battle of equality between the sexes. Feminism, Equality for all, is a constant battle in the twentieth first century specifically in media pushing for representation of camera operators, editors, directors, producers etc of a multitude of genders and sexualities to find a balance of the gaze’s and a fair and equal representation of all current minorities. To achieve this would effectively almost execute the idea of objectification.
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My thoughts on... Beauty and the Beast
Yesterday, I decided, on a whim, to watch Aladdin, one of my favourite Disney movies thanks in no small part to the catchy songs and Robin Williams' Genie. Since I had started on Disney, I figured why not watch some more? Thus I moved on to the 1991 animated film Beauty and the Beast before concluding with the 2017 live-action adaptation. Which did I like best, the animated film or the live-action one? Overall, and perhaps quite predictably, I'd say I personally favour the animated version. This isn't to say the live-action adaptation doesn't do a few things good or better even, depending on your point of view.
For instance, I much preferred Kevin Kline's more subdued interpretation of Belle's father. He's an artist (that one's new) and inventor, yes, but he's not played as over-the-top as his animated counterpart (well, one could argue said crazy interpretation wouldn't work in the adaptation). He also has, to my mind, the stronger bond with Belle. Of course, precisely because he isn't played as extravagantly crazy as in the 1991 film this presents an issue later on, which I'll mention in due course.
For better or worse, the 2017 film decided to set a date and place for this tale as old as time as opposed to the original: 18th century France. Okay, maybe you could've guessed as much from the original (I personally couldn't, not 18th century at least), but the live-action adaptation does a more thorough job trying to faithfully reproduce the fashion, decor, dancing, and probably even construction (I'm not as learned, though I'd venture a guess they took some liberties with the castle) from that time period. Perhaps the most prominent example takes place right at the beginning, when we're introduced to The Prince as he's hosting a party only minutes before encountering The Enchantress (no, not that one).
This scene is supposed to show his character and backstory in a similar way to the animated movie. The voiceover narration is practically the same (with a few additions) but lacks the beautiful stained glass windows from the original and, in my opinion, suffers for it. If I'm allowed to be a little nitpicky, I'd say the intonation of the voiceover in the 2017 version lacks the emotion from the 1991 film that goes hand in hand with the music that plays in the background. Watch the two side-by-side if you want, or just look at how both narrators deliver that last line, "For who could ever learn to love a beast?" With the delivery of that one line, the 2017 narrator seems to wink at the audience, music cue and all, as if posing the question, "And you all know who that is, right? Say it with me... Belle!" The original movie simply did a better job with the intro (side note, Ubisoft's Child of Light uses the same narrative device to introduce and develop its story; I thoroughly recommend it). Plus, in a way, it spoils the surprise of seeing Lumière, Cogsworth, Chip, et al, become human again.
I’m sorry, 2017 version, but you simply can’t compete with this beauty.
Damn, I'm already giving the 2017 version crap. Quick! What else did I like? Um... I liked some of the things they did with The Prince. Given his aristocratic upbringing and the timing of his curse, it makes sense that he'd have an "expensive education" as he puts it, sharing Belle's passion for books in general and, as we later learn, adventure/romance stories in particular. I did not like how they tried to explain away how much of a spoiled jerk he'd grown up to be, but to each his own. The timing of the curse also brings its own set of problems.
In the original, The Prince is cursed at a very young age. In fact, he was just a spoiled brat kid when The Enchantress decided to teach him a rather harsh lesson in humility, one that would last a decade! In the 2017 version, it can't have been more than a couple of years between the events at the beginning and the lifting of the curse. Therefore, the adaptation has The Enchantress doing some memory alteration to the villagers so they'll forget their loved ones, something that on second viewing is hinted at when Belle greets Jean Potts at the beginning (I didn't make much of it at the time). I’m glad she only decided to curse The Prince. Can you imagine if she had decided to curse the village too? I'll admit that the adaptation does a better job at integrating the castle and the prince's entourage with the village. In the animated film, the castle seems to be something out of an old tale, completely disconnected from the world around it. However, many things follow from the timing of the curse, such as The Prince's inability to read in the original (arguably, he hadn't yet learned to) or his poor manners at the dinner table (not very convincing in the 2017 version considering The Prince's age and upbringing).
Okay, let's talk about some of the rest of the cast, shall we? Gaston was a walking contradiction for me in the adaptation. At first, I thought they were trying to tone down some of the more cartoony aspects of his character and even try to make him somewhat likeable, if no match for Belle's rapier wit. It made sense that he would offer to help Belle's father in order to score some points. It didn't make sense however, that he would stick out his neck so far as to punch him, tie him up, and leave him to be eaten by wolves. To my mind, this entire (extra) scene was done in order to set up the "Belle's father is crazy!" plot, only this time it is more likely Gaston did so in order to cover up his crime than to gain Belle's hand in marriage. As I mentioned earlier, up to this point, we'd been given no indication that Belle's father might be crazy or be viewed as such by the townsfolk so I guess this is the best way they found to solve that problem. Beyond this, Luke Evans' rendition of the character wasn't too bad.
Which one will be the Belle of the ball?
Concerning Belle... *sighs* I think Emma Watson did an acceptable job, but I don't think I ever saw in her the spark that I saw in the 1991 rendition of the character, not when she was on her own nor when she was with Beast. One could go as far as saying Emma Watson's portrayal of Belle wasn't very animated. (*runs away from the stage*) Seriously though, was it just me or did she wear the same expression on her face throughout? Perhaps I am being too harsh but I saw very little emotional range, better than a teaspoon but still.
Also, the singing. The singing is... I mean, it's not the only thing but... uh, how should I put this? If I didn't know what autotune was then, rest assured I do now (sorry, had to throw in some shade there). To be fair, the songs aren't bad, but I think they would work better (I could be wrong) if we could hear more of Emma Watson's voice, without all the sound correction. As it stands, sometimes the songs take me out of the experience. This is even more noticeable during pieces like 'Belle' where she sings along with other people who either don't use autotune or use very little of it.
Beyond these flaws, the 2017 version of Belle shows her doing some tinkering of her own, taking after her father. Perhaps it could be argued it's a sort of modern approach to her character? We certainly didn't see animated Belle's creative streak, rather she was busy reading about adventures on faraway lands (by the way, the village library in the 2017 film is a joke). 2017 Belle also shows some initiative like when she hatches a plan to escape the tower, although she never carries through with it. I'm not entirely sure why the writers decided to expand on her backstory with the plot about her mother. I feel it didn't add to her character and introduces a trinket that is never used again. Naturally, I'm talking about the book.
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“Belle” song comparison. A pity it doesn’t go all the way to the end but the difference is already noticeable.
See, in the animated film, besides the rose, The Enchantress gave Beast a magical mirror he could use to see whatever he wanted to, be it a place or a person. One could argue it was an unexpectedly kind (yet somewhat cruel) gesture seeing as Beast would likely never see the outside of his castle again. Indeed, Beast uses it early on to spy on Belle. Later, Belle uses it to see her father and, lastly, she uses it to convince the townsfolk that the Beast is real. Thus, while it is introduced as a curiosity, it ultimately serves a (rather crucial) purpose. The same can't be said about the book.
In the live-action adaptation, The Enchantress also bestows Beast with a magical book that allows him to travel anywhere he wants to. Unlike with the mirror, this is an outright cruel gesture, as Beast would probably be hunted on sight if he went anywhere near other people. Worse, the only purpose it serves is to take Belle and Beast to Paris so the former can see the place where she was born and find out the reason for her mother's death. It is never again used or referenced, even when a perfect opportunity does present itself for it (when Belle leaves Beast to find her father). The worst sin that this magical book commits is, to my mind, that it's utterly pointless, adding nothing at all to the original story. I mean, they could've used it to hint at the end that Belle isn't settling for a married life as a princess/noble and instead is going to explore the world with Beast (now returned to regal form). They could've easily included a few lines that read something like this:
BEAST and BELLE say farewell to their guests. As they stand at the castle's entrance, BELLE ponders rather wistfully.
BELLE: Is this how it will be from now on? Throwing parties and entertaining guests?
BEAST: Well, it is true that nobility does entail certain social obligations...
BELLE braces herself.
BEAST: But there are some perks as well. Did I happen to tell you about this book I own? It is very special, one of a kind actually. Perhaps you would care to read it?
BELLE and BEAST smile at each other and enter the castle hand in hand.
Forgive my poor attempt at hastily throwing together this ending, any writer worth his salt could do it much better. The point is that it would solve what I've come to perceive as THE flaw in the original 1991 movie, that Belle ultimately seems to give up her dream about having "adventure in the great wide somewhere." If you ask me, aristocratic life doesn't sound very adventurous, unless events take place around the time of the French Revolution. That would certainly be an adventurous time, deadly adventurous probably. However, and as I mentioned before, the book is never referenced again in the entire movie. This likely poses more of a problem for 2017 Belle as she is more of a tinkerer and forward-thinker (teaching little girls to read, the gall!), something that doesn't seem compatible with aristocratic life at the time.
Concept art for the sequel.
Enough about Belle. What else am I missing? Plenty. LeFou is anything but the village idiot in the adaptation, being smart enough to switch sides at the end. Also, I don't understand why people wanted to make his character gay? He wasn't gay in the animated movie and, in fact, there is very little to suggest otherwise in the adaptation. Lumière kind of steals the show but this isn't surprising considering he did the same in the animated film and probably has the most lines out of any of the enchanted characters in the movie, save perhaps Beast. I don't know how I feel about Ewan McGregor's accent though. His 'Be Our Guest' musical number is a nice variation, with some beautiful lighting effects, though it deviates a little from the dinner theme at times insofar the evoked imagery is concerned. Also, I can understand spoons in my punch, but feathers? That's pushing it. McKellen's Cogsworth has, unfortunately, less material to work with than he had in the animated film. Finally, I'd be much obliged if someone would enlighten me as to why The Enchantress needed to be in this film at all.
There are probably any number of things I'm forgetting to mention but this review has gone on for long enough. When all is said and done, I feel that the 2017 adaptation is trying to emulate the magic and charm of the 1991 film rather than recreate it. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that the animated film can make certain creative choices that wouldn't work in a live-action adaptation. The 1991 film also benefits, to my mind, from its brighter (more cheerful) colour palette and, as I've mentioned throughout, better performances overall, especially where the relationship between Belle and Beast is concerned (the heart of the film, really). The 2017 film takes advantage from having access to superior technology (and budget), what makes for some impressive musical numbers, and it must be commended for its attention to detail as well as its attempt to bridge the (narrative) gap between The Prince's castle and the village, even though, in so doing, they create numerous issues of their own. I also liked how they pushed the drama a little further at the end, having the enchanted characters fully transform into furniture and cutlery. It was a particularly poignant and well-executed scene. In the end however, one must come out on top, and as far as I'm concerned, the 1991 rendition of The Beauty and the Beast remains the better of the two.
Of course, there's also the 2014 French adaptation of Beauty and the Beast. I wonder how that one will hold up?
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The time I started writing a comic book / graphic novel (Part 2 of idk how many, this may take a while LOL)
This is Part 2.
Click here for Part 1:
https://artradhikita.tumblr.com/post/618740135510540288/the-time-i-started-writing-a-comic-book-graphic
@azonip btw did I mention my character, Alex, was a ninja? XD
Yep, this is the first drawing of Alex in his ninja getup. Pose was referenced from a poster of Spiderman XD
So yeah, this guy is a ninja from San Francisco and his friends are werewolves basically. I started writing a story like a script of a play on a text document, not even microsoft word.
I am posting the first ever draft of the utterly ridiculous and awesome story I wrote when I was 20 (please don’t judge!). Here it is. Yes, the original title was “The Brotherhood of Wolves” which I thought was perfect until I realized there’s a movie with that title and that pissed me off because then I felt I had to change it.
Copy-paste of the original first draft:
the brotherhood of wolves
it is a dark cloudy day, a young man (alex) is working at the japanese antique shop when a strange man walks in. the man picks up a sword.
alex: can i help you? that's an ancient samurai sword used in battle. it's one of our most treasured items.
the man examines the sword. then swings it.
alex: do you have a name?
the man suddenly points it at alex and smirks. alex is surprised but doesn't flinch.
man: i know who you are alexander cadeyrn. i've been watching you for some time now. you work in an antique shop and you are the lead guitarist in your little rock band....but all that is just a cover for something more secret. and i know your secret, alexander.
alex: who are you?
man: i'm here to tell you that you and your gang are not alone, and you have enemies. we run this town and all the land around it, and we don't like it when people get in our way. i strongly suggest you and your friends leave herrington and go back to where you came from, or face the consequences. *alex glares at him* you don't want to know me, alexander, i am not a friendly man. but if you stick around, i promise i will make your life hell, and all those around you will also suffer. consider yourself warned.
puts down the sword and begins to walk away. he pauses and looks over his shoulder.
man: my name is rafa morton. don't forget it, because if you don't leave you'll be cursing my name until your last breath. *walks out the door*
alex stands there, his eyes towards the door, in deep thought.
end.
a week later...
alex is standing in front of a group of young people, talking to them.
alex: okay guys. i'm going to go pick up my sister. remember, we're just a band trying to make it in the music scene. we share this house. not a word about the brotherhood or wolves or any of that stuff. she doesn't know any of it and i'd like to keep it that way. if i had i my way i wouldn't have let her come at all, but my mom's out of town and lucy's not allowed to be at home alone all winter break. so be careful, don't slip up.
kai: chill out alex, we've managed to keep it a secret from the rest of the world. this'll be easy.
alex: the rest of the world doesn't live with us. she's going to be here for 2 weeks! please, just keep it under control until she leaves.
myrina: don't worry, if anyone steps outta line i'll put them back in. *winks*
alex: i'll be back in 20 minutes.
alex drives towards the station thinking: *damn it lucy, i don't want you to get caught up in my life. half the reason i moved so far away was to keep you from getting hurt. if my enemies find out about you they'll use you to get to me. i just know you coming here is trouble.*
alex arrives at the greyhound bus station and sees lucy with her backpack. he calls out to her and waves. lucy runs over and hugs her brother.
lucy: alex! thanks for picking me up. it's so great to see you again!
alex: it's great to see you too. i can't believe how much you've grown! sorry i missed your 18th birthday.
lucy: yeah, you owe me for that. *smiles*
they drive away and return to alex's house.
lucy: wow, this is where you live? it's a big house.
alex: it's got 5 bedrooms, i share with my band mates.
they go into the large living room and are greeted by the others.
alex: guys this is lucy. lucy this is ralph cheveyo, quan randolf, his sister myrina randolf, and you remember kai, don't you?
lucy: *waves* hi everyone. hello kai.
kai: *staring at her* lucy, wow, you've really grown up. last time i saw you was that christmas party 2 years ago. *laughs*
lucy: oh...yeah, i remember. *looks embarrassed*
lucy has a flashback. she is 16 years old and wearing a fluffy blue dress, sitting alone in a hall full of well dressed men and women. it is the christmas ball her mother's club has organized, and she is not happy to be there.
sorelle: lucy! stop frowning, you look positively miserable and it's really off-putting.
lucy: maybe that's because i am! mom, please, why did you make me wear this stupid dress, i didn't even want to come in the first place. *crosses arms and pouts*
sorelle: i worked hard to put this event together, it would be nice if my own daughter would show me some support. all the other girls are having a great time. why don't you join them.
lucy: what!? no! they're bitches.
sorelle: lucy eira cadeyrn, you watch your language!
alex enters with kai and walks over to lucy.
lucy: alex! *jumps up and hugs him* *whispers: please get me out of here!*
alex: *laughs* lucy you look like cotton candy.
sorelle: she does not! she looks lovely. as for you alex, it's good to see you back from santa cruz for the holidays. but couldn't you wear something more suitable? jeans and t-shirt just isn't classy. *pauses* oh hello kai! nice to see you. how are your parents?
kai: hi mrs. cadeyrn. they're good.
sorelle: oh look who just arrived! i'll see you later my darlings. *walks off*
lucy: hey kai.
kai: hi lucy. haven't seen you since we left for college. you've grown.
lucy: *shrugs* it happens.
alex: how's everything been?
lucy: ugh. since dad died, mom's been working twice as hard to turn me into "a lady". as you can see.
alex: *laughs* you look alright though. *lucy rolls her eyes* no really, the dress sucks but you look nice.
lucy: *smiles* thanks.
a group of girls see lucy and walk up to her.
jessica: wow, lucy.
lucy: *scowling* hi jessica.
jessica: i like your dress. it's...umm....interesting. don't you think so ashley?
ashley: yeah. what are you supposed to be, cinderella?
they giggle, lucy glares, and alex crosses his arms.
jessica: *flirtatiously* oh, hi alex! how's college life?
alex: you'll find out when you're mature enough. come on lucy, let's get going.
they walk out.
kai: ever been to a pink floyd concert, lucy?
lucy: no.
kai: you're about to.
lucy snaps out of her flashback.
kai: good times, huh?
lucy: *smiles* yeah.
alex: lucy, myrina's offered to let you stay with her in her room. you can bring your stuff up there.
myrina: come on, i'll show you around.
lucy: thanks.
they go upstairs and enter myrina's room. she sits on the bed.
myrina: you can put your stuff on that shelf. i made a little space for you. hope it's enough. the bathroom is the next door on the left and next to that is my brother's room. across from him is ralph's room and kai's room. alex has the room downstairs. we usually chill out in the living room, but when the weather is good we go out into the back yard.
*she points out the window and lucy leans over it to look*
lucy: wow it's pretty big! you've got a redwood tree in there! and a whole forest behind your house!
myrina: *laughs* yeah, it's great. i took the responsibility of keeping the yard nice and pretty. see the fountain back there? that was totally my doing. these guys don't care about how it looks, but they appreciate my efforts. it was a mess when we got here, all overgrown and stuff. although, kai says it looked better that way. he thinks i'm silly for trying to tame nature.
lucy: tell him you're not taming it, you're just leading it in the right direction. i like it, looks really feng shui.
myrina: yeah that was the idea. alex practices his fighting out there in the lawn a lot. he says the atmosphere helps him focus.
lucy: i think i'm going to like my two weeks here.
end.
it's a foggy winter's day. lucy walks through a large evergreen forest. there are snow drops growing in little patches on the forest floor. she picks one and leans against a tree.
lucy: i wish i had a forest next to my back yard. alex doesn't know how lucky he is.
she walks a little further, she suddenly slips on some wet leaves and cuts her hand on a sharp rock.
lucy: ouch!
she sits up and looks at the cut, then closes her eyes and puts her hand over it. it stops bleeding and it heals. the skin repairs itself. she is left with nothing but a bloodstain on her sleeve.
lucy stands up and looks around. she begins walking again but stops dead in her tracks. she sees a wolf approaching nearby. the wolf sees her and stops. it stares. she stares back. lucy feels frightened, but somewhat awed at the same time. the wolf is enormous. lucy knows it could kill her in one leap. she doesn't move, she hardly breathes.
the wolf slowly moves towards her, stopping several times as if to consider. the wolf comes right up to her and sniffs her. his eyes are level with hers, and she stands looking straight into them. lucy understands that the wolf will not harm her. she slowly raises her hand and touches the wolf's fur. she smiles, and the wolf smiles back with it's amber eyes.
lucy gives the wolf the snow drop, who takes it between his very sharp teeth.
the wolf walks away into the woods and disappears. lucy doesn't move for a while, then she begins walking back to the house.
end.
3 weeks later
it's nightime. kai and alex are walking down the street. alex is on the phone to lucy.
lucy: thanks big brother, i had a really great 2 weeks with you. and your friends are actually kinda cool.
alex: it was good to see you too. i'm really proud of you lucy, you've learned a lot and grown into a wonderful, strong person.
lucy: alex, don't. you're making me want to cry. *laughs*
alex: how's mom?
lucy: same as always, but she's a bit more cheerful since she got back from puerto rico.
alex: that's good to hear. anyway, i gotta go. i'll call you soon. take care of yourself kid.
lucy: i'm not a kid!
alex: *laughs* okay, bye lucy.
lucy: bye bye.
alex hangs up and he and kai begin to walk toward his car. they hear shouting and running footsteps down a nearby alleyway and go to investigate. a man is being cornered by two hooded men.
alex: hey! didn't you know it's not nice for both of you to gang up on one man like that? someone might think you're afraid of a real fight.
both the hooded men turn around to look at kai and alex. one of them speaks.
man 1: oh look fred. it seems we have unwanted guests at the dinner table. shall we invite them in?
fred: *to alex* whoever you are, you would do well to leave us alone. we have no quarrel with you. let us do our business and we will not harm you.
kai: where are these guys from, the 18th century?
cornered man: please! don't leave me with these monsters! they're going to kill me!
man 1: the entree speaks! come on fred, enough faffing. i'm hungry, and this man's heart is pumping hot blood, just for us! i say we finish these intruders off and get on with our meal.
alex: what are you? cannibals?
fred: shut up aeron! you have revealed too much already. *to alex* i told you to leave us be, now we must eliminate you.
fred and aeron attack kai and alex. their hoods fall back, revealing their pale faces, black eyes, and fangs.
kai: vampires!!!
a vicious battle ensues. alex fights fred but he is incredibly swift. aeron jumps on top of kai and attempts to sink his teeth in him, but kai suddenly pushes him off with supernatural force and transforms into an enormous wolf.
aeron: were-wolf! you can't kill me, i am immortal!
kai springs on aeron, dashing him to the ground. he slashes him with his claws but aeron gets free. meanwhile alex is struggling to fight off fred, he delivers many powerful punches but fred doesn't seems to even feel them. fred slams alex against a wall and attempts to kill him, but alex plunges a sharp knife into his belly and slices it open. fred screams and retreats with aeron.
aeron: *screaming* you have not seen the last of us! one day you will feel the wrath of rafa and the sanguines!!!
alex: rafa! so he's the one behind all this.
man in the corner: *looks at kai, who is still a wolf* what the hell is going on here!?!??! *runs away*
alex: come on, kai. i think it's safe to turn back to human now.
end.
it is dusk on a cool late winter's day. the orange rays of the sunset filter through a lush evergreen forest. 4 wolves are bounding across the forest floor. they come across a gorge, 3 of the wolves stop but the other accelerates and jumps over it.
myrina: kai! will you please not be so reckless?
kai looks at them from across the gorge and howls.
ralph: knucklehead. *he backtracks, then runs and jumps over the gorge.*
myrina: ralph! see what a bad influence you are kai!
ralph: it's really not that bad. come on!
myrina and quan both jump across the gorge. kai snaps at myrina's tail and then rolls on the ground.
quan: *laughing* you look like a puppy who just got a new toy.
myrina: stop acting like an animal.
kai: i am an animal! and so are you, so quit stressing and have fun!
kai snaps at quan's paws. ralph chases after myrina, the two run around in circles and then disappear into the woods. kai and quan look at each other.
quan: looks like we've been ditched.
kai: *laughs* race ya!
the two bolt off once again.
end.
#omg so cringey#how embarrassing#please don't judge me#i was very young#infantile storytelling#story#original character#original story#original comic#original writing#script#comic book script#webcomics#web comic#storytelling#dialogue#ninja#ninjas#wolves#werewolf#shapeshifter#magic#fantasy#horror#vampires
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Was I blind and deaf and dumb I didn’t know how bad it had become Or how to save you (because I'm basic and part of me hurt me emotionally)
This is a character study of the relationship between Larry and Connor. Its towards the beginning of Connor's junior year, and is a lead up to what is implied to be his first attempt. This is really dark, so please be safe.
Warnings:
f slur
suicidal ideation
psycho used as a slur
sociopath used as a slur
referenced abuse
drug addiction
referenced self harm
referenced suicide attempt
This is cross posted to AO3 here x.
This is canon compliant, but since its pre-canon it could be considered a prequel to Connor lives AUs
I also took the idea of Connor's middle name being Lawrence from @Ch-ch-ch-ch-cherrybomb as they are my biggest writing inspiration.
Larry Murphy had never been able to bond with his son. Connor was complicated, and a total mama’s boy through and through. Their interests didn’t coincide, their social lives were complete opposites, and while Larry’s masculinity was hard to doubt, Connor had always been a bit… prissy. Of course Larry cared for and loved his son, he just wasn’t sure how to generally interact with him in any way. After their fight last night he wanted to try and fix the bond that had been lost somewhere along the way.
“Connor, where were you last night?”
“Out.”
“Out where? Your mom’s sleeping meds were also missing. I want to see them now, and I want every pill that should be in the bottle to be in the bottle.” Connor scoffed, shaking his head. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, rimmed with red. There were long fading tear tracks going down his cheeks. His hair had obviously gone at least a week without being washed.
“Yea… I don’t think you’ll be too pleased if you want all of the pills in the bottle. There’s maybe,” he looked at the ceiling in thought, “half? Yeah. Half a bottle left.” He nodded with his lips pursed before speaking again. “Although, I ran into some kid and he made a joke that wasn’t at my expense and I was able to-” Larry finally cut the brunet boy off.
“Half the bottle is left? Did you overdose? How did you not pass out? Where were you?” Connor rolled his eyes, only the blue and brown one visible from behind his curtain of hair.
“Jeez, I didn’t take them all. Like you said, they’re mom’s prescription.” Larry could feel his jaw tensing.
“Well you shouldn’t have taken any. I want the bottle back right now Connor Lawrence Murphy.” The boy pushed his chair out from the table.
“Fine!” He huffed before running up the staircase. About five minutes later he came back down with a small orange bottle with the name Cynthia Murphy written across its label. He handed it to the redheaded woman, and sat back down. His plate had barely been touched.
“Connor, sweetie, you really shouldn’t take anything that isn’t prescribed to you.” She reached out to run her hand over his hair but he jerked away making a strangled noise.
“So, Zoe, how’s school been this week?” The younger Murphy made a small non-committal sound before looking up.
“My teachers have been trying to cram a lot in before Thanksgiving Break, but for the most part it's okay. I got the solo in the jazz band concert again. You are coming right?” She looked up, hopeful.
“Of course Zoe! We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Zoe’s hair was in a ponytail, fully showing off the vibrant indigo streaks running through it like lightning.
“Well… I mean, you missed it last year.” Suddenly there was an intensity in the air that could be cut with a knife.
The year before, during the Thanksgiving jazz band performance, Connor had been home alone. During it he went out to get high, but ended up passing out and being found by a young mom and her two kids in a park. Cynthia had missed most of the concert due to being in the emergency room with her sobering son.
“That won’t happen again this year dear. I promise, we’ll be there.” Her look was tight, like a wound coil, but she managed to smile at her daughter. It was in moments like these that Larry truly loved his wife. She’d do anything to keep the family together.
“What about you Connor, how’s school been for you?” As soon as the question left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. The evening hadn’t been perfect, definitely tense, with fairly terse answers, but asking this question was like cocking a loaded gun. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zoe pull her legs up to her chest in a defensive pose. Cynthia began, as imperceptible as possible, to move all of the cutlery away from Connor. His son, for the second time this meal, looked up through the curtain of that damn hair.
“I-uh- it’s been… fine?” He could see Connor clenching his fist into his palm, but for some reason decided to push.
“Has it really?” Connor nodded, looking down at the table. Zoe shot a glance in between Larry and Connor, and readied herself to dart from the room. “Because I got an interesting call from your latin teacher. She said you haven’t been to class in two weeks.”
“Not now Larry, Connor has been feeling sick. We can discuss this later.” Cynthia’s tone was soft but commanding. It was obvious she was demanding her husband to not push their son further. The one in question simply lowered his head more, face completely concealed by hair, and muttered a low ‘fucking bitch’ below his breath.
“No Cynthia. I doubt he’s been sick for two weeks. In fact, the only class that i haven’t been informed of your missing has been English. Where are you during the day Connor?”
“I’ve been out.”
“Where?”
“Larry not right now.”
“God does it even fucking matter?” Connor’s head shot up, and Larry could see the tears forming in his son’s eyes. He’s not high then. He would be yelling by now if he were, the red was simply from crying. For some reason he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He was sick of this, this shit that Connor would pull. He’d do anything to get out of class, even fake stomach aches and claim that the people there made him want to throw up. Larry remembered being a teenager, he was similar to Connor - skipping class to go behind the school and smoke cigarettes with the rest of the jocks. He knew Connor wasn’t actually sick, he just wanted to go feed his oxy addiction.
“It does matter. You need to go to class Connor. You can’t live on our couch forever.” Connor stood up abruptly, causing Zoe to finally dart out of the room, slamming her door shut and driving the lock home.
“You sound like my fucking counselor! You can’t keep failing Connor!” he was sneering in a voice that was definitely nothing like his counselor’s. “English isn’t a viable degree Connor! Your math grades are too fucking low Connor! Don’t you want to graduate? Do you really think that your parents want to be stuck with you for the rest of your fucking life? Do you honestly think, that anyone would want to support a fucking piece of shit like you?” He smashed a glass as he said the last one, tears flowing down his angular cheeks, and gasps falling out of his mouth. Cynthia stood up and began to walk towards him, but Connor backed away from her. “God, do you honestly think I don’t fucking know I’m on the verge of dropping out? Do you honestly think that I don’t know I’m throwing everything away? I can’t fucking do this any fucking more! You’re my parents! You’re supposed to hold me and tell me it’ll be okay and help me lay out my fucking options but you don’t fucking care! No one fucking cares! No one fucking listens when I say that I can’t fucking stand that place! I can’t go in without people making school shooter jokes, or cowering, or shoving shit into my locker, or telling me to just fucking kill myself as if I don’t already fucking want to!” He was full out sobbing now, his hand cut up from the broken glass.
“Connor, oh Connor. You don-”
“Yes! I fucking do. I just fucking want to be fucking dead. I can’t fucking take this any fucking more.” Cynthia walked up to their now hyperventilating son and walked him over to the couch where she held him.
Later that night Larry and Cynthia got into a fight about whether Connor meant what he said or not. Larry just couldn’t accept that his son was honestly suicidal - it had to be for attention. A way to get more drugs to get high off of. Cynthia had argued back that he couldn’t be lying. That this isn’t the first time their son has told them that he wants to die.
He came back out of his reverie in front of the banged up door of his sixteen year old son. The door was banged up, covered in dents and scratches from nights when Connor had come home too drunk or high to even open the door. He reached up and knocked softly, calling out “Connor? I want to come in.” He cracked open the door to see his oldest lying on the bed reading. He was totally engrossed, headphones on, knees at his chest, head buried into the pages so deep that only his eyes - visibly alight with excitement - and a light blush across his cheeks were visible.
Larry stood there a moment, staring at the boy. His hair was getting relatively long, reaching to about his mid neck in length. His jacket - something that Cynthia had picked up from the consignment shop that looked like it belonged with a dressier shirt than what Connor usually paired it with - was rolled up to his elbows revealing a scattering of scars. They made Larry sick to his stomach. Connor had self harmed on and off since the end of sixth grade, and although most of the cuts were so faded you couldn’t even see where they were, the newer ones were a dark red. His shirt was disheveled and had rid up to expose a small portion of stomach, also littered with the dark lines. His legs were bent supporting the relatively thick book resting on them, in black ripped skinny jeans covered in white and blue paint.
Larry cleared his throat and finally Connor looked up, the light clearing from his eyes to be replaced with a blank stare. “Hey, wha-what are you reading?” Connor looked down at his book, back up at his dad, and then at the book again.
“Its-” his voice was hoarse, desperately needing to be cleared, “It’s War and Peace? Like… the book by Leo Tolstoy?” When Larry said nothing, simply moving closer to his son to attempt to talk, he flushed and continued. “There’s, a um, there’s a musical in previews about it. So I uh, decided to read it.” Larry nodded and sat at the edge of the dark bed.
“You like musicals? I always thought you were more into rock bands.”
“I like both.” So far this was going better than expected. Connor had opened up about his book and taste in music without it becoming a screaming match.
“Why don’t you put on a musical for me then?” Connor looked up at him suspiciously. “I’m trying to bond with you Connor. I want you to feel safe here.” Connor simply looked down again, before carefully opening his bedside table’s drawer. Larry paled and felt sick at what was inside. It was lined with various bags of pills, powders, and weed. Some were obviously painkillers, others were sleeping pills, and some he didn’t want to know what they were.
“My drug issues aren’t exactly secret.” Connor murmured while grabbing his phone out from underneath a bag of light blue powder. He probably felt that this was an excuse for blatantly showing it off to Larry. “Can you just… can you not tell mom? I don’t want her to worry. Like, I know I’m a dick, but I’m not that much of a self centered ass.”
“She’s already worried Connor. Every night when you don’t get home until two, three in the morning - if at all, she’s worried. Every time you come home drunk or high, or come to breakfast hungover, she’s worried. When those damn scars are on display, she’s worried. Last night when you said you wanted to kill yourself, you made her worried.” Connor looked up at him, his eyes hard.
“Is that really why you’re in here? To make me feel guilty? Are you going to record this as well? Hahaha,” his sarcastic laugh was cold and bitter, “How fucking funny is this! Connor Lawrence Murphy feels bad! He’s not a total sociopath after fucking all! Lets all laugh at his drug addiction while he has a fucking breakdown!” His face had grown cold, hands clenching at the book.
“Connor, that’s not why I’m here. Why would I want to show off my own son’s tantrums?” Larry’s voice had risen, he felt it himself. This wasn’t what he wanted, he had wanted to try. “Wait, Connor,” He had taken a deep breath while his son curled himself even more into a ball, “I didn’t mean it like that. Why do you think I’d record you?”
“Zoe would.”
“Your sister wouldn’t Connor.”
“Look me in the eye and say that.” At this Connor looked up and made eye contact. Those peculiar eyes with brown speckling the left sea of blue. Neither Cynthia nor Larry knew where the heterochromia came from, both of them being blue eyed. When Connor’s eye first started darkening Larry had assumed that Cynthia had cheated on him. When she denied it, half in tears, he decided to just leave it alone.
“Connor, I don’t want to do this right now.”
“You can’t can you?”
“Connor-”
“Do you know what they call me at school?” Larry looked back at his son again, raising an eyebrow.
“Psycho Connor, Crazy Connor, Connor the School Shooter, bomber, fucking serial killer. They film me and then put it on the internet. They call me fag and sociopath and revolting, they tell me to kill myself before I kill one of them. I just wanted to know that someone could guarantee that they didn’t believe that about me.” Connor looked up through his curtain of hair. “I’m abusive to Zoe. I’m awful to mom, mom who lets me do whatever. And then to you, I egg you on. I’m an ass. You treat me like a criminal, and I give you every reason to.” Connor looked back down at his legs, biting his bottom lip. “Can you go?”
“Connor I-”
“I just want you to go!” His voice raised, eyes full of tears, face flushing a dark red. Larry did leave at that, and he pretended he didn’t hear the broken sobs. He pretended he had never seen the drawer of drugs. He pretended the scars, and paranoia, and slurs weren’t parts of his son.
Larry had never understood his son, but the next morning when they found him in a pool of his own vomit, an empty pill bottle in his hand, he wished more than anything that he had tried harder.
#connor murphy#larry murphy#cynthia murphy#zoe murphy#tw self harm#self harm#tw suicide#suicide#tw f slur#f slur#tw psychopath used as a slur#psychopath used as a slur#tw drug abuse#drug abuse#character study#relationship study
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Hugh Hefner was a sexist pig—intellectual, liberal, stylish, all true. But nonetheless—a pig!!!
As part of his glorification and ascent to the Valhalla of dead celebrities, Hugh Hefner has received far too much credit for the positive impact he had on American society and far too little condemnation for the negative.
True, he advocated for abortion and took other liberal and progressive stands, typically from the standpoint of libertarianism, which is not such a good political ideology in many areas. He did popularize a number of important non-mainstream ideas in philosophy, psychology, politics and cultural studies. He did help to loosen up the entertainment mores of the strait-laced post-war mass culture.
And yes, Hefner did popularize important ideas about sexual freedom. But his version of sexual freedom posed the existence of woman as solely for the convenience of men, for their sexual pleasure and as a signifier of male social and financial success. He twisted the sexual revolution into a new version of the same old female subservience to male domination. Feminism would have proceeded without him—birth control pills and college-educated Baby Boom women were going to make sure of that. Hefner wasn’t needed to support the causes for which he is now getting praise.
The basic message of the sexual revolution that Hefner helped to promote was fine: it’s okay for two or more consenting adults to have sex, and anything goes, as long as everyone is fine with it. I might add that there’s no need ever to feel guilty about what you do or did in bed, or with whom you did it. People change, grow, mature, slow down, and so do their sexual needs, desires and feelings. It’s all okay, as long as nobody is hurt. Of course, in Hefner’s version, the man dominated, and coercion and transgression were often subtexts to the action.
There are five ways in which Hefner’s Playboy philosophy and empire of magazines, videos and clubs harmed American society:
1.The infantilization of men
The playboy remains a feckless boy, immature, irresponsible, narcissistic, as younger men often are. The focus of remaining a child for the playboy is not having any responsibility in relationships with women. Playboy thus marks one of the earliest instances of the mass media attempting to keep adults acting—and thinking—like children.
2. An unattainable and false ideal of sexuality
Playboy photographers and designers used airbrushes, filters and lights to erase the flaws that particularize a woman’s beauty, homogenizing her real flesh into a rarely attainable ideal. Elective plastic surgery and cosmetics further sculpted the reality off Playboy models and bunnies. In Playboy’s universe, all women had large breasts, unreal proportions, flawless skin, no body fat, high cheek bones and eternal youthfulness. Hefner took an extremely narrow band on the very broad spectrum of female beauty—a far narrower band than in Hollywood movies or television—and promoted that as the only ideal of beauty for the successful, accomplished, “cool” man. Heterosexual men who bought into the Playboy ideal had to feel at least some dissatisfaction with their regular sexual partner(s). Of course, dissatisfaction is what advertisers want consumers to feel, because in America, satisfying a need—real or fabricated—involves buying something. Which brings us to…
3. The commodification of sex
Hefner’s enterprises turned sex and sexual experience into commodities that you buy into a number of ways. First and foremost, Playboy made women into both commodities and a reason to purchase other commodities. The playboy doesn’t pay for sex (although the later, cruder laddie boy will), but he does shell out a lot of money wining, dining, transporting and gifting her as a precondition of sex. But beyond the transactional element implicit in the playboy’s relationship with any woman is the position women hold in his universe, the entirety of which is overrun by gadgets, gee-gaws, fads and new services. The woman is another commodity that can be replaced, not a person demanding interaction.
4. The objectification of women
Perhaps because I’m male, I don’t see anything wrong with thinking about individuals of the sex one desires as sex objects, as long as you treat them as a full human being with equal rights: keep that secret lust to yourself and work as hard and as smart as you can for your female boss. In the Playboy world, however, everything a woman does is an extension or manifestation of her sexuality. For example, whenever referencing a centerfold’s achievements, profession or hobbies, Playboy invariably added a double entendre with a sexual connotation, a sly joke that reminded everyone that her Fulbright grant, award-winning work as a photographer or interest in African art were less than icing on the cake, perhaps akin to the little diamond-studded pin she wears on the dress you take off her—or command her to take off—when you’re getting ready to help her fulfill her true purpose in life, to be a man’s sexual toy.
5. The domination of men
In Hefner’s world, men dominate women. Women may have access to birth control, abortions and professions, but in Hefner’s fantasyland they still lack control over their lives. Men still set the mores and decide what to value. They still control the relationship.
That’s a lot of harm that Playboy and Hefner have inflicted on American for more than sixty years.
On a personal level, I never had much use for Playboy. I never sought it out, and when I occasionally happened to see a pile of old issues, e.g., while waiting for a friend to get ready, I would flip through the pages for the cartoons and read the page of jokes always on the last page of the centerfold section. Child of the 60’s, the photos never stimulated me: I have always preferred women who don’t look like Barbie dolls and my idea of beauty in a woman encompasses a very wide range of sizes, shapes and colors.
As far as the articles go, by the time I saw Playboy for the first time, I was already a cover-to-cover reader of The New York Review of Books, Nation, Dissent, Harpers and Ramparts. I was not impressed by the “great” articles, as I read so much thought-provocative material in these respected publications of the intelligentsia. Furthermore, I recognized the difference between true intellectualism and an intellectual patina gilding old-fashioned sexism.
Maybe I hang around with the right crowd, but every woman I have ever admired, liked, loved or desired (except for those I’ve just seen passing in the street whose thoughts I can’t read) wouldn’t be caught dead in the Playboy world; even the most tolerant of them would think less of me if she thought I was a regular reader.
That’s okay. I would think less of me, too.
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