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#I know literally nothing is confirmed but the concept that they may have known each other for a Long time... heck yeah !!!!!!!!

unforgivablego · 1 year

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I don't like how people after Comic Con continue to be unhappy. I mean, Neil gave us literally everything. That is, this is the best that he could provide nine months before the release of the S2. The content could've come out much later, I think around May when the official trailer comes out. But we were just given so much interesting cool information literally a year before the release and people just say that they don't like it.

I a little understand why people felt bad abot Neil because of the S1. Like there was no official confirmation of the relationship of the main characters. It meant that the cherished "I love you" didn't sound. Like, the second Sherlock, queerbaiting, Neil wants to get more audience using homo relationships that are so popular right now. But hey, Neil always said that AziCrow were in love. This was long before gay relationships in movies were the norm.

The book was published over 30 years ago. In the fucking book were so many hints of something between the main characters that I don’t understand why people even get pissed off. You don’t need to run far for an example, let’s take everyone’s favorite: “Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking,” - which literally sounds like “you are a fool, but I love you / you gave your flaming sword to people and impressed me to the depths of the soul,” or when they hold hands, saying their last words to each other before they die, or “Come up with something or… or I’ll never talk to you again,” after which Crowley just stops damn time, because, of course not talking to an angel is much worse than death. Guys, the rest of the characters in the book think that they are together, people and angels, Shadwell generally calls them a couple of Southern pansies (thanks for correct me). “Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide.” - many also liked this moment. And that's not all there is. And the book was published in the 90s!

In the S1 were many new scenes built mainly on the development of their relationship. There were events that were not in the book at all, which were invented specifically for the series to diversify the concept of their "from enemies to lovers" canon. In the third series Neil gave us excerpts from different time periods, in which AziCrow gradually converge.

The most popular scene in 1941, when Crowley runs into the church to pull the angel out of the hands of the enemies, knowing full well that Aziraphale can do it himself at any moment. BUT NO, he like a real knight, runs to save his princess on the consecrated ground, which burns his legs and, most importantly, saves fucking angelic favorite books. “You are important to me, take the books that I saved at the cost of my own life,” - he doesn't say this, but hey, how obvious is it, especially after the words: “I don’t need you, I have lots of people to fraternize with, Angel,” he said in a fit of anger at the last meeting. He apologizes for 1862 and tries to say that he has no one but an angel. When they, a minute earlier, after so many years of quarreling, start such a stupid conversation about a name change:

“- Anthony?

- You don't like it?

- No, no. I don't say that. I'll get used to it”

Because there's nothing that Aziraphale couldn't get used to in Crowley. Despite the differences, they will always be together, they still have a whole life ahead to discuss it. This short, ridiculous conversation is actually very important. Here Crowley understands that Aziraphale in his: “I’ll get used to it,” - informs (yes, that’s the word) that they will see each other again and more than once, that this quarrel is not an obstacle to their relationship. And then Crowley says, very gently, “Lift home,” as if he knows for sure that the angel is okay with it. The only question is, whose home are you going to, Crowley? Since when do you have one concept of home for two?

The whole mess is completed by a freaking shot in which angel looks at Crowley in such a way that here only a stupid person will not understand what the heck he is thinking about. As the background color changes from gray to pinkish, the music, Crowley heroically leaves the frame and this damned love look after him, that the viewer just sits there thinking: "Oh, look at this blushing bastard - he is so in love." All that's missing is some romantic 40s song that starts off with something along the lines of "And I realized..." Because Aziraphale really realizes in this scene that his feelings are mutual. Somewhere someone wrote that in this scene Aziraphale doesn't fall in love with Crowley and I so much agree with this. In this scene, the angel is already in love, but before that he didn't know if Crowley could feel something in return, and the freaking “I don’t need you,” - in 1862 finished him off. He thought Crowley had someone to hang out with besides him, that Crowley doesn't need him. It hurt him. But Crowley had just walked into the church for only him and saved his books at the cost of his life. This is not a moment of awareness of his love, this is not "the princess fell in love with the prince who saved her from the dragon and they lived happily ever after." This is the moment when Aziraphale realizes that yes - he is loved in return.

And Crowley's “I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go”, in gratitude for holy water, in 1967. Crowley, you're sitting in a car right across from Aziraphale's shop. Where are you gonna take him? You planned to rob a church a stone's throw from the angel's house. “I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go”. To where?

Aziraphale also excelled just great: “No thanks. Perhaps one day we could go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz,” which definitely means, “One day we'll have a date and I'll let you do whatever you want, but not now”.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” - that he said in the end, leaves the viewer in a knockout. Because this phrase makes us understand that they have not been talking about friendship all this time. Here it is, the official confirmation of their love. Aziraphale gives him holy water, which means: “Despite everything, you are very important to me, I don't want to lose you, but I trust you”. He's trying to make sure Crowley knows he's loved. And Crowley understands, Crowley is used to speed and he takes the next step, but Aziraphale stops him: “Can you give me some time?”. Aziraphale is not ready, he just got here and hasn't yet got used to it. The phrase: “You go too fast for me,” sounds in most direct meaning - everything is developing too quickly, I can’t keep up with you, could you wait a little more? It finally hits me.

Fucking flirting in a scene in the Bastille during the French Revolution. Yes, then they still didn't have any definite understanding of what was happening, but I think in those years the atmosphere of the 18th century had a special influence. Debauchery, accessibility, openness and lack of shame in people. It seems to me that this was precisely what caused Aziraphale to flirt so openly and intricately. And of course the clothes. It was so seductive.

This is the best scene ever and I won't stop thinking that. What Michael as Aziraphale is doing here - OMG, his game should be banned from showing to kids because it's freaking so obscene it's embarrassing. The way he just lights up when he hears a familiar voice behind him, the way he pronounces his name, so joyfully, as if it weren't Crowley, but the She Goddes herself, who condescended to talking with a mere mortal. Angel, hello, Crowley just said about the cruelty of people, where did you swim, stop your vulgar thoughts and focus. The way Aziraphale scans him from head to toe, the way he sighs languidly, and then the phrase: “Oh... Good Lord,” said with such an expression as if Crowley had suddenly undressed in front of him. The short appraising looks that the angel gives him, as if Crowley is more sweeter than any pancake for which he swam the channel during the revolution (yes, we definitely believe you, Aziraphale) - these are the looks that are called undressing, here it is, in full physical incarnation. And the situation in which the angel allegedly fell. It's just not possible to describe how obvious it is on purpose. He's handcuffed in a local prison that definitely looks like a dragon's castle, waiting to be killed by the guillotine (isn't that romantic already?), dressed in his chicest outfit, even fucking changed his hair - for the first time in 5,000+ years! - and pretends to be very helpless, playing his standard: “I'm an angel”. He can literally snap his fingers and be home. But what does he do? He lets Crowley take care of him, creating a situation similar to rescuing a poor helpless princess from the tower, while portraying such affected and understandable innocence, as if he is not an angel, but a whore maiden who argues before losing her virginity. And why is he doing all this? Because at the end he just invites Crowley to bloody dinner. I fucking love this scene.

"You're my best friend" playing in the background as Crowley tries to find Aziraphale in the burned down bookshop. And the words: “You make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me,” - just aches in the heart. Even though the angel was wrong a thousand times (only because he tried to protect the two of them, sometimes out of stupidity, angelic naivety and a desire to do everything right - yes they sometimes behave as stupidly, just like people), Crowley still considers him his closest person (?) (creature rather).

A small heart on Aziraphale's contact screensaver on his phone when Crowley can't get through (maybe an accident).

And then when he walks into a burning bookshop and breaks down for the first time in 6 episodes. He's really emotional in this scene. It's so unexpected that it's unnatural to see him like that. His voice is different, he no longer controls the tone and words, for the first time his walk tense, in this scene he cries, which has never happened before. Aziraphale is dead and Crowley feels and expresses as many emotions as he has never felt and expressed in all the 6,000 years that we have been shown. When Fredy goes into post-chorus in the background, I love that part so much. Did anyone even notice that in this scene he literally confesses his love? At the end, Crowley yells “Somebody killed my best friend!” - I can't, it's just heartbreaking.

“It's a big universe. Even if this all ends in a puddle of goo, we can go off together,” - I won't stop crying from now on, my heart shrinks every time (this is one of my favorite scenes, every word really hurts).

“I don't even like you!” - thrown by the angel for no clear purpose: to convince himself of this or to hurt Crowley. And Crowley's “You do!” in response, because, Aziraphale, who are you trying to fool. 6000 years together and you never once thought about to stop communicating. Potential enemies communicate with each other only in two cases: if they are ordered from Above, or if they themselves want it. Remind me when you received a request from the Heavenly Chancellery: "You must get close to the enemy in order to find out his insidious plans." Don't remember? No one remembers, because there was no such thing.

And when Crowley again offers to run away together in a couple of hours - YES! - Alpha Centauri is the best place to wait out the apocalypse, the main thing is not to forget my husband, otherwise he's not at all a person dear to me and in general we had a fight today, I strongly offended, but without him I won’t move a finger in the direction of escape. I'd rather die right here than start saving my carcass without this stupid feathered asshole.

Also don't forget about «holding hands» scene in a bus.

And even this is not enough for people? The series not only improves the book and confirms their romantic line, but with the help of the actors and their wonderful performance, creates a masterpiece using gestures, facial expressions and removing innuendo, taking away the opportunity to imagine something left, allowing you to focus on what your eyes see.

Neil said three hundred times that this is a fucking love story. And people just shit in his canon and say: they didn’t say “I love you”, they don’t fuck (in the original script was a scene in which AziCrow get out of the elevator very wrinkled and satisfied, Crowley "finishes getting dressed", after which the angel says kinda like: "Now THAT playing with fire", - which, accordingly, leads to certain thoughts), what kind of love is that, you're doing everything for popularity. Shut your fucking mouths! Neil is just tired of repeating endlessly that they are an angel and a demon, they are supernatural entities that do not fall within the framework of human relations. Their love is on another level. They are not gay because angels and demons are genderless, which means they have no gender (which also means they can choose their gender at will and change at will, as Crowley did). They are not asexual, because these concepts are invented for people.

And you know what? Neil just spat in the faces of the fans with a fucking poster of the AziCrow standing in front of a fucking heart made of wings. “Here it is, just choke with this your's canon, here are both main characters against the background of the wrong organ which means love to you, and just try to say that this is not an official confirmation of their relationship.” He crumpled up a piece of shit that prevented him from living and smeared it all over our faces. “Eat,” he says, “I am a local Goddess here and have descended to give you food (for fanfiction), don't thank.”

Neil talked about how after the events of the proposed third season, they would move into a fucking cottage in the St. Downs and live together like fucking old husbands. He gave a nod to Crowley's already-acting move to Aziraphale's bookshop at Comic-Con, showing exactly that moment from S2 and no other. In a bloody interview after the panel, he revealed that this season is gonna be "quiet and gentle and romantic" compared to the first and hypothetically third season, and given that the show will have 2 kisses - just choke on fucking tears of happiness. He bombarded Tumblr with answers to leading questions, gave information about when the S2 would be released approximately, leaked new characters, a teaser, part of the plot, a concept photo and people like: we don’t like it. So what is wrong with you? Because I believe that what we have is the best that could be, the best that we could have. And we got it for nothing.

Yes, golden potato jokes are funny, I wrote a couple myself. And kindly mocking Neil can be fun too, especially when we get the same thing in return. It's a relationship between the author and the fandom, and I really like it. But let's at least sometimes be understanding and patient. I don't like to watch other people's dissatisfaction knowing how much Neil has done for us. So I want you to don't forget about it too. No need to buzz about the teaser and video that we didn't get for Christmas. We all want to please Beelzebub with a tick in front of the task “Annoy Neil every day”, but can we show angelic patience? Neil knows what he's doing. Let's trust him.

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crystalelemental · 5 months

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So now that Elaine is confirmed to be a thing in a canon where Red beats Team Rocket, the question becomes, how old is she? By which I mean, as of SMUSUM, where Red and Blue appear at their oldest. Did she start her journey two years after them like Yellow did in Adventures? Or did she meet a 13-15-year-old Mina at Vermilion Harbor, who then returned to Alola in time for Elio/Selene’s island challenge a few years later?

Okay, I'm going to start this by giving a disclaimer: I do not respect the concept of a unified Pokemon timeline. My explanation for Red and Blue being older in Gen 7 is that they're different timeline Red/Blue, completely detached from the original games. Their branching timelines thing is also stupid, but they made it, and it's at least got slightly more justification than "time is literally moving forward between all of the games." The only games with known time associations are RBY and GSC att 3 years apart, and BW1 and BW2 at two years. Everything else is pure fan speculation.

So let's speculate.

I'm going to make the case for Let's Go being an entirely different timeline from SuMo/USUM, based on one fact: Red has all three starters, Blue has none of them. This could only realistically happen following a Yellow timeline, while RBY Red/Blue would each have one like in Let's Go. To really hammer home that no one at Pokemon Company or GameFreak has ever put two seconds of thought into any of this, note that Let's Go is specifically a continuity of Yellow. Because fuck consistency.

As far as I'm aware, Let's Go does not specify how long after the events of the original game this takes place. There's also not an indication that Let's Go is connected to GSC or HGSS in any way, so it's hard to say with certainty it takes place in less than three years based on Giovanni being back and still doing his thing. If we're trying to argue that all of the games are a single, unified timeline, then it would necessitate being only a year or two later, given the requirement of Gen 2 being 3 years later. Though I think the three year marker was just when Team Rocket was taken down, so in theory, that could reference Elaine's takedown of Rocket, not Red's, as Red failed to finish the job. Something about that satisfies me.

But it's unlikely. Mega Evolution is the decisive schism of timelines. Games with mega evolution occupy a separate timeline from those without, per Delta Episode. As Let's Go has Mega Evolution and the core RBY/GSC do not, they are considered different timelines. No Gen 2 iteration has Megas, so for all we know, Gen 2 may not happen in Let's Go timeline. Whether it's connected to SuMo or USUM is also up for debate, and yes, they are mutually exclusive. USUM is outright stated to be an AU of SuMo, so they are two distinct timelines, and Let's Go is only set up in one of them.

Personally, I think both Gen 7 timelines are separate. This has more to do with the fact that we have no indication that a greater passage of time has taken place between other games. The fan timeline on Bulbapedia suggests large jumps in time between all games, but we have only the Dex entries to go on between RBY and SuMo, which are already confirmed to be separate timelines without 1:1 passage. By which I mean, absolutely nothing suggests that ORAS runs parallel to RSE, where both iterations of May are taking on gyms at the same "time." Pokemon operates on rules where time "passes," but nothing changes, otherwise we'd need to establish when Oak actually dies. And they are never going to do that. So talk of consistent moving time is pointless, and thus, so is aging. If Oak can't die, the boys can't age, so the only remaining explanation is that their older forms are alternate universe iterations. Which are, fascinatingly, consistent between SuMo and USUM. Almost like they didn't think about it.

BUT WAIT! All of this is also moot, because you're asking about Elaine from Masters! An iteration that has both SuMo Selene and Elio, as well as RBY Red/Blue, present at the same time! "But Crystal, can't they be from different timelines? The presence of an unrelated Rose suggests Hoopa pulls from across timelines too." NOPE! Because literally everyone recognizes Red. More importantly, Elaine recognizes Blue in this universe as her Blue. Why is that important? Because the Kantrio did get one of each starter, but they have the wrong ones for Let's Go. Blue should have Charizard (specifically Zard Y, the superior Charizard), Red should have Venusaur, and Leaf should have Blastoise. Speaking of, is Leaf filling in for Green here? If yes, how the hell did that happen? If no, where is Green, who is Green, and why does the Blue associated with Leaf also have association with someone who doesn't know Leaf but does know Green?

So to answer your question anon: she isn't any age. None of it is real, and not an ounce of thought has been put into anything timeline associated in this series ever. But if you want to be speculative, only a year or two later if connected to Gen 2 events, otherwise pre-Gen 7 for however many years in between that is, if we're even on one of those timelines.

#pokemon #pokemon timeline

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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Play Time

Pairing | Elizabeth Olsen x reader

Summary | ‘Play time’, as it is described, is not for your own wandering hands. It is for you to succumb and be under your partner’s control, however, when she is not present, you take matters into your own hands, - literally.

Warnings | smut, spanking, masturbation, swearing, slight degradation, oral sex (fem receiving ofc), mummy kink

Requested ☑️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

There was a tension driving your actions, albeit though they were forbidden. It was obvious that Lizzie would be disappointed into your will to give into your own greed, however she wasn’t here, and you had enough time to bust an orgasm out. She wouldn’t have to know.

That was a mistake on your part, and you’d have known that if you had thought with your brain rather than your hungry cunt. Lizzie always reminded you that that was your insatiable flaw, and that was why she was the dominant counterpart rather than you.

If she were left in your own devices, then your own orgasm would remain to be your own priority, and she wouldn’t get much love. And that was certainly something that she could not have.

And so, you were laid in the nude upon your shared bed, your head reeling back at the stimulating sensations that your nimble fingers blessed upon your clit. It admittedly felt good; there was no aspect of teasing, or the sound of taunting above.

It was just... perfect. The only downside was, that the hands belonged to you, and were not those of Lizzie. But she would never touch you so gently, nor dream or giving you what you wanted straight away. There was a thrill that came with doing something that she would be strongly opposed to.

She craved the influence of the power that she had over your body, and how she had the ability to make it bend and break to her every whim. It wasn’t unusual for her to use the description of a ‘brat’ in regards to you, and it clearly was a suitable resolution in thinking of you, all things considered.

You were, knowingly, going against her strict demands, but worst of all, it was rule number one that you had broken. Do not touch yourself. That heightened a spark throughout your entirety, knowing that you were doing something bad, and deserving of being called a brat, or something worse.

But nevertheless, in all your disobedience, you continued revealing yourself in the addiction of control, pumping your slim fingers in and out of your entrance, with the assistant of your thumb providing a string of perfectly adjusted chords to reverberate through your body.

Too preoccupied basking in the glory of the climax that you were striving towards, you had not feigned to notice the silhouette leaning disappointedly against the ajar door frame, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Yes.” Heavy breaths lay abandon to your chest, the movements of your fingers faltering in their rhythm as they twitched under the flow of the pumping blood running through your ecstatic veins. With one last thrust of your paired fingers, a mewl fled from your mouth, confirming the end of your orgasm. “Holy fuck.”

“Indeed.” Lizzie squinted, stepping forward, her sudden appearance promoting wide eyes upon your face, and causing you to whip your hands away from yourself, digging their tips into the covered mattress. “And it appears that you’ve been a very bad girl, breaking mummy’s rules whilst she was away. How... bratty!”

At her specific, and degrading terminology, a whimper surpassed the insides of your mouth, as your body cradled into itself, embarrassed by the exposure that you were broadcasting to her, albeit by accident. It was clear, that you had been caught in the cross hairs of being red handed, and so, the same colour reflected in a hue upon your body, pressing through your skin in regard to the shy heat.

“Liz-“ she fixed you with a stern look, the borderline dominance flickering through her emerald hues. “Mummy.” Biting your lip, you slowly, filled with cautiousness, crawled upon the bed, and towards the woman that often instructed you in what to do. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

A tut sampled from her pink mouth, enforcing you to bow your head in slight shame. It was inevitable that she was to find out about your individually orchestrated solution to get off, but it made it that much worse, for it was not a second hand discovery.

Instead, she had watched with grave eyes how you fell apart under the collapse of your own touch. Each fluid motion that you had entrusted yourself with delivering was viewed through her stealthy and hawk like eyes. And that meant, there was no solution in trying to deny her deaf accusations, for she had served witness to your lonesome relief.

“No, it won’t.” She agreed, lightly shoving you out of her way, causing you to jolt back by the act, so that she could perch herself into a sitting position on the end of the mattress that was weighted down with many intimate occasions. “You know what to do.”

Lacking any reluctance, you followed her contextual demand, laying in your middle across her apparently inviting lap, your front composed in a floppy manner on one side, and your body half mirroring it on the other.

She trailed her cursive hands down your spine, evoking the appearance of goose bumps to poke out of your barren skin. It was far too well known what awaited you in the concept of her actions, and it had you inwardly wincing.

“See, that’s you being good. Good girls do what they’re told.” It was her successful attempt of taunting you; her outwardly confirming that you were no such thing. “How many?” From experience, you knew that it was a rhetorical consideration, Lizzie was speaking more to herself by it than she was you.

“Please don’t...” the corner of your eyes wept lightly at the thought of what was to come. The thought provoked a sincere yet arousing fear within your chamber of pleasure and fertility. No matter though how much your tried to pardon yourself for your languid mistake, it would never be enough - you knew that, from a collision of experience and logic.

Your attempts though served as vigil fuel to her scarlet fire, and whether she noticed or not, it was uncertain. But despite her possible obliviousness to it, she struck your ass with a relatively hard hand, pulling a mused squeak to tumble helplessly from your heaving mouth, that was attempting to keep the moan within its confines.

“Thank you mummy.” It rolled from your tongue deliriously, like a rehearsed line. Her hand smoothed over the place of which she had spanked, soothing the slight sting, before collaborating her hand unto your skin once more, n the same abused patch of skin. “Fuck!

In a timeless instant, she swatted you once more, causing a salty drop to cascade from your urgent eye. “Remember, only brats use language like that towards their mummies.” It was something that you had a good memory of, but the sworn word had made an appearance to your own dismay.

It had been a thoughtless spew of inconvenience, one that had dug yourself into a spiralling of trouble, and resulted in thus more pain permitted onto the section of your reddened and hand printed behind. “I think we may have to continue this, unless, you have any other ideas, baby?”

Your tongue darted out to swipe across your bottom lip, before you even considered answering. Y doing so, you could taste the salt that had dripped down from the bridge o your nose, and descending down you body in an orderly fashion to reach your slick centre.

It was a frustrating concept though, regarding your eager to please pussy. There was no attention drawn to anything on that end of you; instead, all LIzzie wanted was to hear you speak, and pathetically jumble around with words to spill the perfect answer. All you had to do, was think of how a good girl would respond.

“I’ll do anything.” Your voice was hoarse - desperate. And the vocal feature intrigued Lizzie, and so she rolled you onto the bed beside her, gently grasping the side of your face whilst playing with disarrayed hairs that curled across your cheek.

“Anything?” She repaeated for confirmation; safe to say, she was intrigued. After all, she wanted to experience the efforts that you would go to in order to make it up to her. And so, with tidal integrity, she pierced her green orbs into your own, awaiting another reply out of you.

“Yes.” A sleek smile gave way on your face, showing her that you were more than leased to do anything that she told you too. At the end of the day, it was the dynamic that you had invested yourself in, and also, the saying was true, in a diverse matter; ‘mummy knows best.’

“Okay then.” A broad structure defined her cheeks, paying tribute to her happy, and impressed demeanour. “Since it’s only fair, I want you to make me cum. It’s clear that you’re so good at it, considering that you got yourself to orgasm by nothing but your own fingers.”

She was intentionally getting under your skin about your misbehaviour, ripping of the band aid that you were certain that the openness and lack of squirming away that the spanking that she delivered entailed. But instead, it was another thing that you had been wrong about that to, and so you shuffled patiently upon your knees, watching as she intimately read you expression.

Lizzie pulled you closer by her adoring grasp on your cheek, slotting your mouth against the hilltop of hers. The pair of you moved in a rhythm, sawing your tongues around each other like flexible switch blades. Whenever she pulled away for a breather, you chased her with the promise of continuation, and vice versa.

But finally, the main event was approaching, such a ploy was revealed by Lizzie shrugging out of the dress that she had worn specifically for the interview downtown. The peeling of that layer left her in nothing more than her panties, revealing that she had forgone the support of a bra, which was formidable, since the outfit of her stylist’s choice had enabled enough, yet not too much revelation of a cleavage.

No resilience was met by either parties as she removed her flushed lips away, and laid dominantly back on the expensive mattress. And without waiting for you to run like a transitioning river beside her, she removed her panties herself, flinging them lazily away by her ankle. “Last time you ripped them.” Was her excuse, though, not that she had to ever explain herself to you of all.

It was a vivid memory, one that you fondly held onto. At the time, it had merely been an accident, but no longer did you regret what you did back then. In fact, reflecting on in it was quite hot in fact, and it had indeed been flashing images from that time that you had used to get yourself off earlier.

But your prior release, nor those that were promised in the future were your concern; not at the moment anyways. Your own priority was the woman spreading her legs so confidently in front of you, and the r rated sight had saliva collecting in the globe of your mouth.

“So pretty mummy.” The compliment had her cunt clench around nothing, you could see as the slit puffed its expanse out, attempting to seduce you inside. And it’s efforts were not in vain, for you crept forwards on your forearms, your high and beheld beloved capturing your every move within her clouded gaze.

“It would be far prettier if you were to give it a kiss. I think it’d like that, very much.” An innocent smirk wandered onto her compelling face, and you were eager to oblige her insinuating command. Your fingertips rubbed the insides of her thighs, your thumbs reaching to spread her glorious pink folds.

Leaning forwards, you in took a sensual breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent that rolled off from Lizzie’s cunt in controlling waves. It reeled you closer, and closer, until your lips were pressed against her bud in a sweet peck. “Your so wet.” Was your speculation, and you couldn’t help but gravitate your fingers onto her flower, and roll them in circles upon her individual expanse.

“Then clean it up baby. You know what to do.” Her hand reached down, bunching a fist full of hair within her grip, lowering your head down once again, causing you to continue focusing on her clit, whilst your fingers played lovingly around in her slick.

With the use of your tongue, you began from the bottom of her cunt, to her sensitive clit, working in attentive upwards strokes, collecting her sweet nectar onto your spoon appendage, and leaving none to waste. Then, you prodded at her entrance with the tip of it, sinking it in the private cavern, and reaching as far as your body part would allow you to.

Lizzie had her mouth pouted, as she breathed and mewled steadily. It served as encouragement, making you rock your tongue in and out of her successfully, your thumb finding a home on her clit, and rubbing with a passive goal. “Yes.” She moaned, her noise amplifying as she ground sensually down onto your face, rubbing her excess juices over it. “I’m close.”

That’s made you continue your administrations, the only thing of them that changed being your pace, which increased to a rapid tendency and urgency to get her to finish. “Gonna cum all over your pretty little brat face.” Her other hand also found homage in your hair, as she used it as leverage to rut her mound more directly upon your features.

A light scream evoked from her chest, as you felt her spill around your tongue, the liquid seeping out from her entrance, and softly drowning her thighs. After collecting as much as possible, and drinking it all up, you removed your face, feeling how your chin and such felt quite damp.

“I hope that teaches you to not touch yourself without permission.” Panted Lizzie, making no effort to get up from the bed, tucking herself under a blanket. She lifted up one of the sides, extending her arm upwards, and inviting you into her arms. And you were happy to settle down with her and get some rest after the thrilling and erotic night.

Being a brat wasn’t so bad. And at the end of it all, you always got to curl up with your girlfriend and find comfort in her gentle embrace, it was one of your favourite parts about having an intimate night.

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covenlegacy · 2 years

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Hello! Sorry for making it seem like a marvel universe theory but I need answers. It's about Kim thv fs. One of the first tarot reader I saw on yt( Sirius blu3) said he will get her pregnant and then the transformation will take place and she will become more assured and dominant of a person( It makes me think the girl is young). Matrix of life yt channel talks about her coming from a rich family and using his influence to gain financially. Here on tumblr blog going by the name himecherri confirmed there are two person and they might be tf of each other💀. And submissive bangtan talked about fans reaction to this couple. She said media will portray tgv in a more dominant position. You also talk about a self assured person.is the journey of one person or there may be two?Idk if I treat it as a ff but I have grown a soft spot for the younger person. What do you think?

Firstly, the big word transformation can overtake a person at any age. It doesn't happen once in a lifetime. This happens several times. According to my notes, where there is nothing to destroy, there is nothing to build.

Secondly - reading cards, angels, and signs, age and education of people. I said it all has to do with it.

Also, if you put everything together, then for me there is nothing surprising. After these fortune-tellings, it took about several years? A person can change or begin to change in a day. Literally from one call or SMS.

In general, I believe in my cards. He is monogamous, and his wife will be one. Despite the fact that he quite thoroughly approaches the decision to start a family, he will fight to the last, all his alleged "second wives" will already become adults.

Thirdly, the birth of a child is a mental loss for a girl. Collossal dimensions. Plus, it is not known what happened during childbirth, before childbirth, and so on. The mental is already shaken by hormones during pregnancy. Considering the fan frenzy, the possible antics, all the contingencies...

She can become tougher, dominant, domineering. In fact, she will simply become a mother, and she will need to become such in order to prevent the child from growing up on her own. This is psychology.

When you become rich, you want to become even richer. Does using Taehyung to achieve big finances apply here if they are a family with a shared budget lol?

I also said (very early) that Taehyung loves society and its opinion of himself, and will always support the image “I'm in charge in this house” in public - ideality, though. A man is a breadwinner, and his wife, obediently and lovingly looking into his mouth.

Well, these are just my guesses.

And now to the cards - he will have one official wife / registration of documents.

And a bunch of scandals about relationships / marriage. About mistresses, about everything in the world, about his wild lifestyle. And for all this he will have to explain himself to his wife.

I forgot to say that just the very meeting with tehyung can plunge her into the abyss of the dark hour. Do you know what transformation is? It's like in the old movies werewolves turned, changing their likeness. It breaks your personality to smithereens, and on the wreckage you build something stronger to survive the next "transformation". This is pain, grief, disappointment, betrayal, everything you can imagine, and when you experience them, you say "enough", I don't want to suffer from this, pull yourself together. Then you get out of it.

A trifle usually does not come out of it... Well, you understand.

I did and do readings only on request. I didn't go into much of her personality, but it could very well be that, yes, she was a "completely different person". Perhaps something is happening to her, and she is changing now, at the moment.

It is also not worth denying that she could have infantile, childish behavior and a view of the world and things. If we take the fact that she can be from a wealthy family (again, what is in the concept of a given person who did reading is wealth), then everything basically converges. She was a rake, she burned through and lived her life (here it may also be the fact that she could be raised just as a home girl), then something happened, and she ceased to be like that.

When making layouts, many often do not think that people can change, and much. They believe in angels, but they cannot believe that a person can go through all four elements in his incarnation and reach something completely new.

Because they do not have such an environment, they simply did not see it.

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faelapis · 4 years

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what i mean when i say i like jasper’s ending a Lot in terms of “what the character needs”, rather than what the audience needs, is that the transition from “fragments”, to “homeworld bound”, to finally “the future” shows, albeit quickly, a pretty interesting commentary on “want vs need”.

“want vs need” is a pretty basic storytelling concept of, basically, writing flawed characters who have some growing to do as people. they “want” one thing, but they actually “need” another thing.

so let’s talk about jasper’s “want” vs “need”.

cont: but you are not my diamond. if you think you’re hard enough to tell me what to do, fight me and prove it.

she makes her “want” clear in every episode she’s in SU future - which is that she wants to subjugate herself to a diamond, because that’s the only worthwhile purpose in life she’s known.

but we, and steven, don’t actually want that to happen. we know it’s not good for her health. we’ve seen that it’s not, both because hierarchies like those are toxic and because we’ve been shown, specifically for jasper, that it causes her to self-destruct over and over again.

so when it does happen, it’s very fitting that it’s in the worst circumstances possible. she begged for steven to fight her with all his might, over and over again, so he could prove himself a worthy diamond - to the point where he ends up shattering her. and when she’s brought back to life, she’s not even mad at him. he’s proven himself a “worthy” superior.

so we’ve been shown very clearly that jasper’s want is pretty, well, unhealthy for her. she would literally die for it, and get nothing in return except unhealthy, oppressive structures around her. getting everything she wants, at long last, fills her with a kind of void and fragile happiness... which only lasts so long as steven embraces his role as diamond and stays with her.

hence we, and steven, only see her act at peace with her circumstances without complaint for a couple minutes, and it always (both in fragments and homeworld bound) ends in her own heartbreak. that’s the fragility of her “want”.

basically, it’s bad because, albeit she would know what to do with these structures... it would be at the expense of her own agency, character growth and health. it would always end badly for her.

this is a good time to point out the parallels to steven in “mr universe”.

much like jasper, steven doesn’t care if the structures around greg were cruel or oppressive. he never looks closely enough to notice how much greg hated his life. he just wants things he sees as “normal”. he wants guidance, certainty and authority figures to tell him what he’s “supposed” to do in life.

so. how is jasper’s “want” inverted?

much like rose would eventually do with pearl, the unhealthy attachment is cut by giving your subject a very bitter pill - disappearing from their life. by leaving them behind, you’re essentially forcing them to grow.

that’s NOT the main / only reason rose has steven, or steven eventually leaving beach city... but both serve the purpose of making someone who idolized you “deal with” your absence. and that’s certainly at least a part of their intention - rose thought of herself as stuck and likely holding pearl back. steven is horrified by the diamond role and wants jasper to do “something better”.

and that leads us to jasper’s “need” - to be free from these oppressive authority structures and find her own path in life. this would both improve her health & happiness, as well as making her stop engaging in unhealthy behavior towards herself and others.

now. is she fully “there” yet? no.

but i think that as much as her trying to persuade steven to take her with him into the great unknown mirrors pearl - ie “i should be fighting for you, because you’re too important”, her reaction to steven’s reassurance that he will be fine shows that she’s already done more growing than pearl had at that point.

she’s likely been taking classes at little homeworld (where she was confirmed to currently live, NOT just visit to say goodbye to steven) for the preceding months between “i am my monster” and “the future”. she’s somewhere near accepting that her diamond doesn’t need protection. it’s also likely something she started thinking after “fragments” - if your diamond is truly so wonderfully powerful... why would they need your protection? what is your “purpose”? steven defeating her + leaving without her in “homeworld bound” both lead her to the same conclusion - she can’t fail or succeed in protecting him, because he doesn’t need her to.

thus, her role isn’t warranted.

“i can protect myself”. “i know... farewell, my diamond”.

it’s pretty significant to me that at the end of their little scene, steven doesn’t run away or give jasper any orders to stop following him. SHE leaves, albeit sadly, because she agrees with him. he can take care of himself.

jasper’s still framing steven as a diamond / superior, but... i think a big point here is that she’s someone who was so firmly stuck at the bottom of a pit of self-hatred, isolation and meaninglessness that she couldn’t unstuck herself - not without being pushed to do so. which ended up also being true for steven.

that’s the irony of the double-edged sword of her “want” - in a way, she’s right about one thing. she can’t just magically get better on her own.

i think the episode “guidance” illustrates an interesting balance between steven and amethyst’s philosophies - amethyst would rather gems do whatever, even if they end up slipping back into their old patterns. steven would rather guide them towards challenging themselves, even if that means dismissing their autonomy.

jasper... kinda gets both? her “want” and “need” play into each other in interesting ways. i’ve been framing her want as a negative a lot, but it does have an interesting silver lining - she had to get what she wanted (to be defeated, to be given a diamond), to be pushed to what she needed.

and in turn, steven needed to listen to and adapt to HER, in order to help her. only after doing that, after being pushed by jasper in turn and truly giving her what she wants, even if it tears you apart mentally... would she ever listen to you. as steven is probably used to by now.

and despite the tragedy of it, i think that’s... kind of an okay thing to show? because not everyone will seek help on their own. it’s not the uplifting message of “anyone who needs help will eventually realize it entirely on their own”, but it IS the hopeful message of “even people who refuse help, deserve help”.

there’s horror in steven ultimately adapting to jasper’s desires, because it shows them both the fragility of their wants - for steven, being able to control jasper was a horrifying consequence. he got what he “wanted” in the worst way possible. for jasper, getting what she “wanted” meant being forced to let it (steven) go in favor of staying at little homeworld.

but honestly... we already knew that jasper would never seek help on her own. she’s too “selfless”, in the toxic sense. purpose matters most.

and she’s not alone in that.

“pearl took pride in risking her destruction for your mother. she put rose quartz over everything; over logic, over consequence, over her own life.”

pearl taking rose down from that pedestal was a slow, elaborate, exhausting process that took years of actively working on herself. the majority of that work was only done after rose was gone.

jasper’s gonna have all the same tools - a genuine support network, people who are willing to both empathize and teach a better way, distance from her romanticized superior, and her own desire to get better.

the latter point, at first, because she’s told to. but as we saw in “little homeschool”, leaving her to her own devices without any “worthwhile” path forward wasn’t ideal. her “want”, much like amethyst said... still deserves to be listened to, even if she still thinks like a homeworld gem.

but the seriousness of such an effort is, as pearl taking care of steven “for rose” and then “for him” and finally growing to do things “for herself” shows, a good avenue for REAL growth. jasper may soon yet grow for her own sake.

and the results... again, pulling pearl as my example, can be remarkable.

as i’ve said before... i am pretty sad we won’t actually get to see more of that. that’s what “the audience” may have felt they needed from jasper. the same way i’m sure rose would find it bittersweet to know how much pearl has grown without her. the same way you’re sad whenever you don’t see a character you love find love and happiness onscreen, even if it’s implied...

but in a show told from steven’s perspective, i think there is some point to that.

i’ve come around to the following: she couldn’t go with him. any forgiving hugs steven & jasper could’ve given each other at this point would’ve been hollow. that power dynamic would’ve been in the way. what they “need” is not each other. they need people who really, truly understand them, and to figure out what they want in their lives when steven doesn’t have someone to save emotionally (jasper), and jasper doesn’t have someone to sacrifice herself for (steven).

(...and it’s at this point you realize i made you read ALL OF THAT mainly to justify why pearl and jasper’s relationship is gonna be such a central thing in my post-canon fanfic. lol. anyway here’s the link again.)

#steven universe #su future #jasper #steven #pearl #amethyst #long post /#su theory #gif /

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gellavonhamster · 3 years

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cold weapons

Suicide Squad (2016) || Captain Boomerang/Katana || post-canon

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2017 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.

“So, what do you think of them?” Colonel Flag asks.

Tatsu puts the folder containing the rap sheet of Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, on top of three other folders.

“They’re complicated,” she replies after giving it some thought.

The materials in these folders could have formed her first impression about the members of Task Force X – or, as Lawton has aptly put it, the Suicide Squad. Could have, but did not, because they were given their first task earlier than expected. Which is why she doesn’t say “villains” or “scoundrels” or “worst team imaginable” – her first impression of them was formed in combat, and then in an empty bar in Midway City where they all drank together thinking it may be the last drink in their lives. She remembers all of this and says ‘complicated’.

“Very tactful of you,” the colonel chuckles. Then again, what kind of colonel is he now – an unwashed shirt, black circles under the eyes. Just another guy struggling with a deluge of work, a hard-hearted boss, and a troubled relationship with his girlfriend. “But yeah, they definitely aren’t simple,” continues Rick Flag, one of her few friends in the country that will never become her home, and Tatsu cannot suppress a tired smile.

“You like them.”

“They’re… tolerable,” Rick admits, and takes another sip of coffee. Lately he seems to be living only on coffee and whiskey and the verb “must” and (so Tatsu supposes, although they don’t talk about that) the hope that June Moone, who still hasn’t fully recovered from all the horrors she’s been through, will be all right – and will stop isolating herself and avoiding him. These means for not letting yourself just fall down and never get up are far from being reliable, but Tatsu herself lives mostly on revenge and duty and, for that matter, whiskey as well, to a certain degree, so it’s not for her to judge. “Most of them, at least. All of them minus the Australian.”

“At least he’s a good fighter,” Tatsu points out. This is the only good thing she can say about Captain Boomerang with full confidence.

“He’s not cut out for teamwork.”

“When we were fighting the Enchantress, it didn’t look to me like that.”

She does not put much meaning into these words. It’s just that at some point Captain Boomerang saved her, and she saved him – and good thing they’re even, because the last thing she needs is to owe a favour to someone so incompatible with the very concept of duty. She could have said much about the man who tried to escape at the very beginning of the mission and got a teammate killed (and for some reason stood up for El Diablo when Harley Quinn lashed out at him at the bar, and for some reason came back before the battle after trying to desert), but the only thing she’s sure of is that he’s a fine weapon; she can confirm that, being a weapon herself. At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from him.

At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from her, too.

***

It is possible that what she said about Digger Harkness sticks in Rick’s memory, because when the need to comb the area arises during the next mission, he sends the two of them to search through the same building.

“If he gets up to something, do whatever you want to him. No one’s gonna weep for him,” he flings off. This is in the heat of the moment, of course – Boomerang almost got into a fight with Killer Croc on the helicopter over some nonsense. Or rather, it was Croc that almost got into a fight with Boomerang after the latter provoked him. Complicated.

“You heard that, darl?” Boomerang addresses her with a smile so wide as if he hasn’t heard the last remark. “I’m all yours.”

Tatsu looks the other way and pointedly takes her sword out of its sheath – not completely, just a little. No further comments follow, and they part company – Deadshot with Croc, Flag with his team of spec ops, Tatsu with Boomerang – and go on a recce.

In the basement, they discover something that looks like a laboratory – if a place so far from being sanitary may even be called one. All their hopes to move without making a sound crumble as soon as they enter the room: the floor is covered with broken glass. Those who ran the place must have escaped in haste and couldn’t take the entire stock of the serum with them, so they opted to destroy most of it. Tatsu’s attention is immediately drawn to the object on the table in the middle of the room – a metal container with tubes going from it to several smaller vessels. She heads straight for the table, shards crunching underfoot. Boomerang follows her, apparently kicking the largest shards on purpose so that they fly in all directions.

“Looks like a hooch still,” he comments, having come closer, and gives a whistle. “Whoa, fuck, is that blood?”

Compared to the first task of their squad, this one looks almost effortless. Two gangs, the members of one of which possess the formula of the serum that grants superpowers to those who take it. A gun battle, collateral damage, the entire district on lockdown. If a few people weren’t noticed literally floating through the sky, the police would have been handling this. But this is an emergency, which is why they’re here, and the flying gangsters aren’t flying anymore, for Lawton is an exceptionally good shot.

As it turns out, the serum that sparked the conflict is based on metahuman blood – hardly donated voluntarily.

“I’ll contact Colonel Flag,” says Tatsu, eyes locked on the bloodied tubes, and then someone grabs her by the neck.

For the first time in her life, she really has to fight blindly – because her enemy is invisible.

Later, when the dead bodies gradually become visible on the floor like an eerie animated movie, it turns out there were four of them. Before that, Tatsu manages to lose her sword, recapture it, almost choke when an invisible hand squeezes her neck, slash one of the attackers in half, and plunge the blade into another’s stomach. Boomerang takes care of the other two, knocking over the container in the process.

Tatsu is listening to the silence that came after the fight, wondering if any other invisible foes are lurking around the corner, when she feels that something is wrong. Something is wrong with her – she just can't figure out what. Sometimes it happens that one feels unwell but cannot determine what exactly the problem is – she is experiencing something similar now. Until she realizes: the mask. Until she looks up and makes eye contact with Captain Boomerang, who is staring at her and grinning.

“You lost anything, doll?” Harkness inquires innocently, with an emphasis on the last word, and his smile grows even wider and cockier.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The invisible man she fought hand to hand tore off her mask, and she didn’t even notice. But her partner, blast him, did – and picked it up.

“Give it back,” Tatsu demands, hand outstretched. She feels naked. In combat, during the mission, she is Katana, a single whole with her sword. A cold weapon. No one needs to see her face. Truly, if she was wearing only the mask and nothing else, she would have felt less exposed – all right, this is an overstatement, and she doesn’t even want to imagine such a situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang is in no hurry to return the mask.

“What did ya call me when that fucker was about to stab me?” he asks. Tatsu clenches the sword hilt. There is no telling how many enemies drunk on the magic serum are hiding in this house, and he’s dawdling. “You said…”

Damn it, what did she say? She saw one of the invisibles creeping up on him while he was fighting another – a bloodstain was floating through the air. She shouted…

“I said ‘George’”. Isn’t your name George Harkness?”

“You bet it is. It’s just weird. Most people don’t call me George, y’know.”

“How do they call you then?”

“Digger. Boomerang. Boomer. That Prick. All sorts of things, but never George. But you,” he winks, “can call me whatever ya want. I liked the way you say my name.”

“Give. Me. The mask.”

“And the magic word?”

“I will chop your hand off,” as a proof of her intentions, she puts the blade against his extended hand that is holding her mask. In fact, she would face no consequences for doing so. No one’s gonna weep for him.

Harkness makes a helpless gesture and hands her the mask.

“Can’t say no to you, luv.”

The mask helps her conceal her identity, but what is more important is that it helps her conceal needless emotions. Tatsu really hopes that her facial expression isn’t giving away that she’s ill at ease now. This is a weakness; weaknesses are not to be demonstrated. She feels deeply relieved when she puts the mask back on.

“Let’s get out of here,” she commands, turns around, and heads for the exit. Harkness trails behind.

“It ain’t fair, by the way. You know my real name, but I don’t know yours,” he muses. “Care to introduce yourself, eh?”

He asks the same question at least three times more before they return to Belle Reve, and each time she ignores him.

***

A week later, he still doesn’t know her name – but he learns something else.

They do away with the last members of the recent gang on the outskirts of the city. Both wretches have overused the unfortunate serum, in keeping with the best traditions of the clichéd movies about superheroes and supervillains that Hollywood keeps producing for some reason, even though it is more and more often possible to see nearly the same thing on the news. As a result, one of them got puffed up almost to the size of the creature that Superman died fighting, and the other couldn’t control the flames bursting from his mouth. He burned half of the shopping centre with customers, retail workers, and guards. With teenagers in the bowling alley on the second floor and children in the playroom on the first.

Santana… wouldn’t have approved.

Both problems eliminated, they leave: the firefighters and the cops will take it from here. Flag’s spec ops stay behind, because officially it is their victory; the general public shouldn’t know about the existence of Task Force X. Through backyards, they retreat in the direction of the abandoned construction site on the other side of the street; a car has been sent to pick them up there.

There is a workers’ trailer still standing by the construction pit. The door is not locked, and Rick, Deadshot, Croc, and Boomerang go inside. Jones’s arm is broken: his inhuman strength notwithstanding, he still was no match for his enemy – not the fire-breather, but the other one. Tatsu leaves them to figure out how to make a temporary sling, and wanders away. Not far from the trailer, a piece of tarpaulin stretched over the fence has come off, and she can see the building across the street. Tatsu sits down on the ground, puts her arms around her knees, and stares at the dandelions growing by the fence.

In her head, flames are raging.

She doesn’t look up, neither when she hears the footsteps approaching, nor when Harkness – and it is him, no one else in the Squad reeks of the mixture of booze and cologne like that – sits down next to her and cracks open a can of beer.

“You want some?” he nudges her. What extraordinary generosity. It is, however, perfectly possible that if she says yes, he’ll reply along the lines of “Well, then go and buy yourself some.”

“No,” Tatsu replies without looking and, after a short pause, adds, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

With a sigh, she accepts the can from his hands, and takes a sip.

“This is disgusting,” she whispers, and takes another.

Harkness just snorts and opens another one. For a little while, they sit side by side in silence, drinking each from their own can, and study the wall opposite through the mesh of the fence – like out of a prison window. Old advertisements that are half torn off, graffiti, a writing proclaiming that life fucks us all – plenty of things to stare at to avoid looking the person next to you in the eye.

“So what the hell happened to ya?” Boomerang asks, and suddenly she could do with some serum for invisibility or, better yet, disappearing completely. Naturally, it is a fleeting impulse; she has no right to disappear. She has obligations – towards Flag, towards Waller. Towards herself.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You zoned out, Flag shouted himself hoarse before you heard him. Like you were someplace else. Didn’t ya?”

Why do you need to know? Tatsu thinks. If she almost rushed headlong into the fire, it’s her own business. If it only seemed to her that someone was there, it’s her own business. If she’s going to see things that aren’t there for the rest of her life, it’s her own business. He shouldn't have spoken. There is something comforting about being silent together.

“Nah, you don’t have to say if you don’t wanna,” Boomerang assents, and takes another pull on his can. “I just thought that you, well. Might wanna talk to someone.”

And they fall silent again. Yet now Tatsu feels awkward, which makes her angry at herself. She’s not obliged to pour out her heart to anyone who shows something that looks like care.

This silence doesn’t make it any easier.

“I have… bad memories,” she finally says. Now it won’t be as awkward: she answered his question. It won’t be, right? “About a fire”.

Harkness nods, looking at her attentively.

“Someone you knew died, aye?”

“My children,” she hears herself say, and wishes to disappear again.

“Fuck,” Boomerang says, embarrassed, and – unbelievable – looks like he actually feels bad about starting this conversation. “I’m sorry, I… well, uh, I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” Tatsu says mechanically. Nothing is okay: she can still see Yuki’s tear-stained face, still hear Reiko’s voice, she is still watching the flames run up the curtains that she and Maseo picked together, she is still breathing in the smoke and still cannot believe she deserves a gulp of fresh air. She should have saved them. All of them.

Boomerang looks at her incredulously but doesn’t say anything, and bit by bit, the silence that she doesn’t want to run from returns – the kind of silence in which one is not alone.

Then there are footsteps again, and Flag approaches them.

“There you are,” he says with relief as soon as he sees her. Rick does not let himself overstep the limits of formality – they’re on a mission, after all – but he has obviously been worried. At the sight of Harkness, he frowns warily. “You! Quit getting on her nerves.”

“Who’s gettin’ on her nerves, Colonel? I was just tryin’ to help,” Harkness protests. It appears Rick’s words have wounded him a little.

“He was,” Tatsu says. “It’s all under control, Colonel Flag.”

Flag shifts his gaze to her and then to Boomerang again, and nods.

“Okay. In any case… follow me. We’re leaving.”

Tatsu gives her unfinished beer to Boomerang.

“Don’t talk about this to anyone,” she tells him. This might be an order or a request; she doesn’t really know.

He nods, and she thinks absentmindedly: who would have thought this man knows how to make a solemn face.

“Thank you,” she says again, hoping that he understands that this is not just about the beer or his promise to keep his mouth shut.

***

After a few days, Tatsu comes to visit him. In prison.

Actually, she comes to visit all of them, of course. Not more than fifteen minutes alone with each of them – Waller wouldn’t allow more. This request seems to have surprised her, but Tatsu is certain that Waller is already picturing the new threads she can use to manipulate her special operations puppets. So it is possible that one day this decision will blow up in Tatsu’s face – or in the faces of all of them. But she cannot shake off the feeling that she must do this – so that someone except Rick, who is already dealing with a lot these days, would notice in time if the inmates are treated with undeserved cruelty. So that she knows what’s on their minds, because it is safer to fight side by side with the people whose line of thought she can understand at least roughly. So that there is some kind of variety in their lives between the missions.

This is why she visits all three of them. Killer Croc, who looks like he’s not surprised to see her in the slightest and doesn’t really seems to care that she came, but doesn’t have any issue with that either. Deadshot, who looks like he is surprised, but doesn’t seem to mind answering her questions when she notices a stack of letters in the corner and asks him how his daughter is doing. And Captain Boomerang, who, when she enters his cell, looks like he can’t figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Katana?” he frowns perplexedly. He’s stripped to his waist, so she can see a couple of fresh scars he brought back from the last mission, and he’s got a black eye – when Tatsu saw him last, he had not. Must have quarrelled with the guards again. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

For a moment he seems not to understand what she just said. Then he breaks into a smile – or rather a grin, wide and pleased. Very pleased.

“Aha! Knew it would end up like this,” he pronounces in triumph.

“Like this?”

“You,” he looks like he’s just proven a theorem of immense complexity, “missed me.”

“I haven’t missed you, Captain.”

A very, very pleased grin.

“And still you’re here.”

“I visited Deadshot and Killer Croc earlier,” Tatsu says, and sees his facial expression change instantly. Not for long: the grin is quick to return, and she wouldn’t be able to tell right away that he’s disappointed.

“Did ya now? And how are our fellas doing? Better than me, I reckon?”

“So it would seem. Did you fight the guards?”

“Why do you care, gorgeous?”

Indeed, why does she? Most likely, he picked a fight himself – and got his just deserts.

“Make up your mind,” Tatsu says, “if you think that I missed you or that I don’t care.”

Harkness chuckles and really seems to ponder over this for a while.

“Beats me,” he concludes at last. “Care to throw some light on it?”

No, Tatsu thinks, I don’t get it myself and I’m not sure I want to.

Instead of answering, she comes closer to him – so close that she can smell his sweat – and studies his face. She has to look up to be able to do that, which must look comical. Then again, he’s hardly stupid enough to laugh at her height or anything else about her, especially when she’s armed and he is not.

“You lost a tooth. What happened?”

“Didn’t get along with one of the Wall’s watchdogs.”

“You could have tried not to look for trouble for a change,” all of a sudden, Tatsu realizes that she’s mad. Really mad at him. They might get dragged to another mission this instant; whether they like it or not, they have to be in good enough shape to protect the society that the most of them have to atone before at least partially. They shouldn’t spend their energy and health on nonsense. Black eyes and knocked-out teeth are nothing, but it mustn’t come to any of them being out of action when all of them are needed. All their powers, all their skills. All the anger they should rather aim at something other than the people who can just press a certain button at any point – and dispose of the wilful weapon.

Boomerang bares his teeth – not like Croc, of course, but still threateningly. He looks dangerous now – big, sturdy, more than a head taller than her. But he still isn’t more dangerous than her – and both of them are aware of that.

“And they could have tried,” he speaks through his teeth, “not to talk shit about my mother for a change. They wanna talk shit about me, they can knock themselves out. I’ve heard enough ‘bout myself, I don’t give a flying fuck about what else they gonna say. But they’d better leave my mother out of it.”

So that’s what it is. They have found a quick and easy way to infuriate the man who has “MUM” tattooed on his chest. In uneven letters, like a child's handwriting. Tatsu noticed that tattoo as soon as she came in but didn’t look too closely at it. Now she feels like she has the right to look, to let her gaze slip lower, at the ridiculous writing that heaves with each furious breath of his, and then to avert her eyes at once.

“They have power, and you have nothing,” she says. “Do you enjoy being their plaything?”

“Oh, so I’m a plaything, darl? And do I have much choice who to be now? In these four walls, and,” Boomerang points at his neck, at the place where a bomb is implanted under his skin, “with this crap in my neck?”

Tatsu looks up again, right him in the eye.

“You already know who you are,” she tells him. “You’re a weapon. Broken weapons get discarded. And you’re letting them break you.”

He stays silent, just looks at her in an odd manner, as if she’s speaking another language but he has a vague understanding of what she’s saying and doesn’t like what he just heard – because it is the truth.

Tatsu still doesn’t understand why she cares, and with each passing minute she has less and less desire to learn why.

“Also,” she continues, “if you call me ‘darl’ or ‘gorgeous’ one more time, you’re going to regret opening your mouth.”

“Yeah? And how should I call ya?”

“Katana.”

“What, and that’s all? Nah, we might be weapons,” and she probably ought to remind him that there is no ‘we’, but in this particular case he’s right. Perhaps that is why Tatsu feels drawn to all of them: they’re cut from the same cloth, “but we’re alive as well. So far. Seriously, what’s yer real name? You know mine.”

“I should not disclose that.”

“Oh, come on. Listen,” he breaks into a pleased grin again. Another theorem proven. “How about a deal? You tell me yer name, and I will try to keep my temper if anyone else decides to stir me up. What do ya think?”

“As if you’re going to keep your word.”

Boomerang makes a show of putting his hand over his heart.

“For you, ma’am… anything.”

For you. All at once, she recalls Rick’s words: do whatever you want to him. How many minutes of the visit she has already spent on this predictably fruitless conversation?

“My name is Tatsu Yamashiro,” she says, tired, and then he smiles – not the way he did before, but in a calmer and more sincere manner. Gratefully.

“George Harkness,” he offers her his hand with an earnest air. “Nice to meet ya.”

Tatsu hesitantly offers him hers. Her hand looks very small and fragile against his huge paw, and he must be thinking the same because the handshake comes out very careful. He could easily break her wrist. She could easily kill him with one hand afterwards. But he holds her hand gently in his warm, pleasantly calloused palm, and Tatsu hastens to take her hand away, because this is a mistake of an even worse kind than the time he saw her without the mask.

“So you promise not to fights the guards.”

“I promise to try,” Harkness assures, but he’s keeping one hand behind his back.

“Don’t cross your fingers,” Tatsu says sternly. Real mature.

With a sigh, Boomerang repeats his promise, this time holding his hands within her view.

“But I ain’t promisin’ not to call you gorgeous,” he declares in the end.

“You know my name now.”

“But you’re still gorgeous.”

“Time’s up!” shouts the guard outside the door, and Tatsu cannot help feeling relieved that she has to go. She doesn’t regret visiting him, but all of this is too strange and awkward, and both of them might be weapons, but her position is different from his, and it is better not to forget that.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asks him on parting.

“Well,” Boomerang smirks. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“With something I would actually agree to do?”

“Come again. Will ya?” This time he isn’t flirting; this time she can feel his insecurity, even shyness. As if he doesn’t like to admit to himself that what she answers is really important to him.

“I’ll try,” she says cautiously. She’s not going to make any promises: she asked Waller about one time only. She doubts if she’ll be allowed to visit them again – to visit him again.

“Try,” Harkness repeats, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “This means no.”

“This means I’ll try,” Tatsu says firmly.

And she comes again in a week. And the week after next. And a week after that.

***

“Why didn’t you walk away in Midway City?” Tatsu asks him once. “When Rick broke the control panel. You left then; why did you return?”

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since the time Captain Boomerang dared to smart off Amanda Waller. Several successful missions, slightly more respectful attitude on his part – and his cell already bears a passing resemblance to a place for living, even if for living quite miserably. Now there is even a table, and a chair that she gets to sit on as guest privilege. Harkness is sitting on the floor opposite her. The question seems to catch him unawares, but only for a moment.

“Huh? Why did I return? Gotta live up to my name, that’s why. Have you ever thrown a boomerang, luv?”

I’m going to throw you somewhere one day, Tatsu thinks, yet without much irritation.

“And jokes aside?”

Boomerang attempts to feign an offended sigh.

“How do ya think? Plenty of options, all right. You gonna try to guess which one?”

Tatsu frowns.

“Is this a psychoanalysis session? Were you bitten by Harley Quinn?”

“Nah, Blondie didn’t bite me, I would’ve remembered. So don’t be jealous,” his voice gets playful again, and Tatsu stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “Lookie here… suppose I suddenly realized that I can’t leave you guys! ‘Cause you’re my mates. One for all, and so on. Don’t believe me?”

“You said something about plenty of options. What are the rest of them?”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“We-e-ell… the second, ‘course, is that I wanted to save the world. Not that the world smiles upon me every bloody day, but I still wanna live! And for everyone an’ their mother to know that the bastards like us can also be heroes. Don’t you like being one of the good guys, eh, Tatsu?”

“I’m not ‘one of the good guys’”, Tatsu protests. “And it’s not me that we’re talking about. Any other options?”

“There was no point in leaving. That was still gonna be the end of the world, aye? So I’d rather meet it in battle and in good company than on the run. All the same it’ll be the end. There you go.”

He stops talking, and in the silence that falls Tatsu can hear the footsteps of the guards in the corridor. Once again she wonders what the duty attendants that monitor everything through the surveillance cameras think of their conversations. They must make for the strangest and most pointless reality show ever.

“The third one,” she says.

Boomerang looks a bit disappointed.

“Why?”

“Not the first one, because none of us meant anything to you then. You had just met us. And it didn’t seem like you were upset about letting Slipknot down,” Tatsu explains. She doesn’t intend to offend him – she’s just saying the truth. Once, he claimed it himself that they understand each other – here’s some understanding, he’s welcome. “Not the second one either, because you’re not stupid – no, stop smiling. You never believed that if people like us stop the Enchantress, someone would learn about that. Only the third option remains.”

Harkness nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his eyes turn pensive, abstracted, as if he is there again, in the night city frozen in anticipation of the apocalypse. As if he sees himself – and makes a choice once again. “And that’s what happened in the end, didn’t it?”

“So the third option, then?”

“So it is.”

But something in his face makes Tatsu think that he was hoping for a different answer.

***

Time flies; weeks and months go by. Tatsu spends them fighting, spilling someone else’s blood, occasionally drinking with Flag at a bar or in his apartment – a bachelor’s home again; reading books – most of the plots seem too naïve and unimaginative compared to what goes on in her life, and that is even for the best, and visiting the members of the Suicide Squad in Belle Reve. Some people go clubbing Friday evenings, and she goes to prison Friday afternoons.

“Don’t get attached to them,” Rick scolds her.

“That is rich coming from you,” Tatsu replies, and he has enough self-awareness not to argue. Lest he gets offended, she chooses not to tell him that sometimes she and Lawton talk a little about him good-naturedly behind his back.

During one of her visits, Harkness raises a topic she has totally forgotten about.

“Hey, come to think of it, we never had that drink,” he points out. Tatsu doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and it must be written all over her face, because he continues. “Remember I asked you out for a drink? In Midway City, before we fought the witch.”

Tatsu has to make an effort to remember: indeed, he said something of the sort, but it never occurred to her to take those words seriously.

“We had a drink,” she counters. “When… when you shared your beer with me.”

He shakes his head, dissatisfied.

“At the construction site? That’s bollocks. I’m talking a proper bar… nah, a restaurant! With crystal glasses an’ candles an’ shit… Like normal people.”

“Candles,” Tatsu mumbles. She tries to imagine the two of them at the table at a restaurant; the picture turns out pretty absurd. On the other hand, a lot of what has happened in her life during the past few years can be deemed absurd.

“Yeah. Candles,” echoes Harkness, and continues with a crooked smile, “well, that’s me jokin’ around. In the near future,” he gestures in the direction of the small barred window of his cell, “I won’t be able to take you even to a fucking McDonald’s.”

They don’t talk about the hypothetical dinners at a restaurant anymore, but the absurd picture stays with Tatsu, who still feels somehow indebted to Boomerang – for no reason, as she keeps telling herself – for that conversation at the construction site. She doesn’t like to feel the weight of unpaid debts on her shoulders – yes, that’s what it is about.

One day, she finds a way to pay that debt back.

***

She waits for him in the car outside the prison gate. She hears him first; she cannot make out what exactly he is yelling at the guards, but that surely isn’t ‘good evening’. Then the door of the jeep is open, and someone must have kicked him in the rear because he literally falls into the car. Tatsu shrinks back on instinct.

Then Harkness looks up – and notices her.

“Katana?.. Hey, what the hell’s going on? They didn’t let me take the boomerangs, didn’t let me take anything…”

“Close the door,” Tatsu tells him, and when he, still confused, obeys, tells the driver, “Let’s go.”

The car pulls away.

“I still don’t get what’s happening,” Harkness reminds her. “Sure, I’m happy to see ya, but… you weren’t ordered to take me to the woods and finish me off under the radar, huh?”

“If Waller wanted to get rid of you, she would have had you killed in your own cell, and that’s all.”

“Wow, thanks for honesty. So where are we going?”

“To a restaurant,” Tatsu says, and turns away. Yet again it crosses her mind that it is a terrible idea.

“A restaurant?” Harkness drawls quizzically.

“As far as I recall, you said that the beer at the construction site is ‘bollocks’.”

She should turn back to him, of course. The problem is that Tatsu is ninety-nine per cent sure that if she meets his eye now, she will blush. And she is by no means going to give him any sign that might be interpreted as taking an interest… of a certain kind. She has already blundered more than a few times.

Therefore she stubbornly keeps looking out of the window. Then again, she doesn’t even need to look to picture how his facial expression is changing now; she’s seen this rakish grin enough times.

“Holy cow. Tatsu, are you serious? We’re really just going to a restaurant? We’re getting outta this shithole where they only give us porridge with rat crap to gorge ourselves on lobsters and drink wine? Oh, fuck me sideways,” in the end, she turns to him and sees him throw back his head and burst into laughter, narrowing his eyes happily. “I’ll be damned! Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Pinch me.”

“I can assure you you’re not,” Tatsu says, and realizes that she is also starting to smile despite herself. She has visited him and the others in Belle Reve often enough to know that porridge with rat crap, unfortunately, is far from being just a figure of speech. After such a diet, a meal at a restaurant must seem like the pinnacle of happiness.

Boomerang shakes his head, apparently still unable to believe her.

“Holy fucking shit. How did you do that? How do you even do all that? I’ve told ya you’re unreal, have I?”

“Yes, you have,” Tatsu confirms patiently. And more than once – too often for her to attach great importance to it, too fervently for it not to please her at all. “Let’s put it that way: this is Waller paying me for a… favour.”

“A favour, then. I take it a lot of some poor suckers died?”

“No,” she shakes her head. And it is true – but there still was a lot of blood. Both the man Waller indicated and his bodyguards turned out to be worthy adversaries. The whole thing went not as smoothly as she wanted it to – not that she wanted to; not that she would kill another person she knows nothing about if she could help it. Nothing to assure her: this one deserves it. Everything turned out rather… nasty. She had to burn the bodies. Then she got home in a haze, tended to a couple of fresh wounds – or rather, just scratches. And then she went to the bathroom and spent a long time soaping herself, as if the invisible filth that bothered her the most could be washed off with shower gel.

Afterwards, she rummaged through her modest wardrobe and dug out the only dress she has about in America. Nothing special: wine red, below the knee length, sleeveless but with a pretty high neckline – very demure. The first and so far the last dress she bought after… after. If she and Rick didn’t have to accompany Amanda Waller to some event once, she wouldn’t have bought this one either. She put it on, combed her hair, still wet after the shower, with her fingers, looked at herself in the mirror – and flew into a rage, pulled off the dress, and could barely stop herself from tearing it to shreds. Restaurant or not, what does it matter? The last thing she needs is for him to think she dressed up for him.

So the situation might be a little less absurd than it could have been. Both of them look like they’re going on another mission with the others, only she isn’t wearing her mask – he has already seen her face anyway – and he isn’t wearing his ever-present coat. It is no wonder he wasn’t allowed to take it – Waller wasn’t going to let him out of Belle Reve armed, and to let him wear his coat would probably be as unwise as to hand him all his boomerangs. Tatsu has no doubt that everyone and their dog have already searched through the personal belongings of the Squad, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that somewhere in his inside pockets Harkness has as many boomerangs as he is listed as having officially. She witnessed this man produce from his bosom at least four different lighters, a massive stack of dollars, a pocket knife, small binoculars, flat-nose pliers, and a toy unicorn. She has to admit: sometimes she doesn’t understand how he even does all that either.

It appears that the thoughts of Captain Boomerang also turn to the contents of his pockets.

“Hey, how the hell are we affording this, though? Make no mistake, I’d stand treat, but my stash is in the coat, and these assholes didn’t let me take it, y’know.”

“Don’t worry about that. Waller is paying for everything,” she explains, unable to suppress a grin, because this part, possibly the most unbelievable part of the entire affair, gives her a sort of silly, spiteful joy. Task Force X is a comparatively recent project, but they’ve already cleaned up so much mess for Amanda Waller that Heracles and his labours don’t even come close. A dinner at a restaurant is the least thing she could offer them. So when Boomerang explodes with laughter and gives her a conspiratorial wink, she looks him right in the eye and smiles. Another mistake. Then again, this is not the first time they share a secret.

He puts his hand on her knee, and she shakes it off immediately; this is way too far.

“I see you took your sword with ya,” Harkness observes, not giving any sign that something didn’t go the way he wanted.

“I am to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah. How about…” he leans in closer, and the smell of cologne blasts up Tatsu’s nose. She can only hope it is due to external use only, “we chop off his head,” he nods at the driver, “and drive the fuck away from this? Huh?”

The driver, who can definitely hear everything, doesn’t turn, but Tatsu notices him tense up.

“You’re kidding,” she says dryly. He may be, or he may be not – with Digger Harkness, one cannot always tell.

“Why kidding, doll? Zip, and done. There’s no way you enjoy working for Waller.”

“I do not. But if you pull some stunt,” Tatsu feels for the sword hilt, and Boomerang sees that – very well, it is good for him to see that, “I will chop your head off. I really hope it won’t come to that.”

“And what’s it to you? Scared of me? But I’m unarmed,” he claps himself on the chest demonstratively, implying that he has no weapons on him. “Why do you care if it does?”

“I just wouldn’t like to do that,” she says firmly, and it’s true. It works well; he doesn’t even mention running away for the remainder of the day.

This might be the strangest evening in her life.

Waller’s man drives them to a French restaurant whose name she cannot read but is almost sure that the phrase was chosen solely because it sounds impressive. They are let in through the back door, so no one among the other guests, who are sporting evening dresses and suits, pays any attention to her crop top and sword or to his… appearance in general. Their table is one of those located in alcoves, away from prying eyes, but Tatsu feels they are being watched. Which means Waller doesn’t trust her too much – well, she can understand that. She is part of a special team composed of deranged madmen, and she must admit she likes these deranged madmen more than she likes certain normal people known to her. Of course, she is Flag’s right-hand woman, but it is most likely that Waller doesn’t trust Flag either. It is doubtful whether there are any people in this world that she trusts at all.

Waller is rich. Their little feast will not shatter her wealth, all the more so since the restaurant she sent them to is not the most luxurious. But they still have a field day ordering loads of food and a bottle of the most expensive wine on the menu.

“To honour among thieves?” she suggests, when they raise their glasses for the first time.

“Didn’t ya say yer not a thief?”

“That is true,” she admits, and adds inwardly, I’m a killer.

In the end, they drink to the Suicide Squad. Then to Lawton and Jones, currently languishing in their cells. Then to Zoe Lawton, who is acting in a school play next week. To a lot of things. He asks her about her life here, in America. At some point she finds herself trying to explain to him what taiyaki is, and him telling her about banana sandwiches, and she can’t remember why they started talking about this at all. The bottle becomes empty, and another appears as if by itself.

They don’t talk about the past. They don’t talk about the future, because there might be no future at all – they can’t know for sure, what with their way of life. That evening, Tatsu laughs and thinks: good thing I’m drunk – it almost gets easier for a while.

When it’s time to leave, Harkness gets pig-headed.

“Whoa, no, no, no. Already? It’s too early, are you kiddin’ me?” he booms out when they exit the restaurant. He protests, but she drags him by the hand and he stumbles along after all, treading heavily like a dancing bear. “Let’s go someplace else, luv. Look at the pretty stars.”

“We are already late. And you… you have to go back to jail,” Tatsu tells him. The stars are pretty indeed, but she regrets looking up at them, because her head begins to spin. Thankfully, she isn’t wearing high heels. Thankfully, she doesn’t have any high-heeled shoes at all, or she could have been possessed to wear them. “Sorry,” she adds when they get into the car and set off. “There is no other way.”

“Back to jail,” Boomerang repeats with disgust. Sprawling on the seat, he unzips his hoodie, and Tatsu is swept over by the smell of cologne again. Weirdly, it doesn’t annoy her as much as at the beginning of the evening. “I’m a fucking Cinderella. I’m not back by midnight, they turn me into a pumpkin.”

“Cinderella,” Tatsu echoes, and giggles: everything is way funnier now. The driver makes a sudden turn, and she is literally thrown at Boomerang. Her cheek presses to his chest – and stays there. Tatsu feels drunk and sated and drunk again, and sleepy too, and he makes for a decent pillow, and she can’t make herself move away.

“Oh, you think it’s funny,” Harkness mutters with mock offence in his voice. It seems he’s about to fall asleep too. “Well, go on, laugh.”

They drive back in silence, and through the drowse Tatsu feels the warm arm around her waist and thinks: good thing I’m drunk, I can pretend I’m asleep.

The road to Belle Reve is long, but it still feels like they reach it too quickly.

“Inmate,” calls one of the guards, “get out.”

Harkness, his eyes still closed, moans with discontent.

“Captain Boomerang,” Tatsu says softly, freeing herself from his embrace. “It’s time.”

There is nothing to be done. He’s already about to step out of the jeep, when he suddenly moves closer to her again.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, looking her right in the eye. “Aren’t ya forgetting something?”

It takes her some time to realize what he means: he must be expecting her to kiss him. All at once she remembers everything that has happened this evening, and awful shame washes over her: it is no wonder he’s expecting that to happen.

“Inmate, get out!”

She shrinks back.

“Good night, Captain,” she tells him as dryly as she can. He looks wounded but says nothing, and almost obediently lets the guards escort him back to his cell. Tatsu closes her eyes and rubs her temples wearily. Tomorrow she is going to regret drinking so much. She already does – and that’s not the only thing she regrets.

She has to stop seeing him.

***

At first, she even succeeds. Next Friday Tatsu, as always, goes to Belle Reve to see the Squad – all of them save for Harkness. She feels sick at heart because if she did promise him anything, it was to visit him, and now she’s going back on her word because of her own stupid weakness. But there is no other way.

“He asked about you,” Waylon tells her a week later, when she brings him the latest issue of Playboy. Tatsu almost doesn’t feel weird anymore when buying it, and doesn’t try to imagine anymore what the news stand clerks think when she pays them for it. Such periodicals cause her a feeling of light disgust, but Croc, who gets let out of jail only to be thrown into another trouble spot, deserves at least some small joys.

“Who?”

Waylon, no doubt observant like all the quiet ones tend to be, bares his impressive teeth.

“You know who.”

It seems a logical solution to give up on these visits at all – but in that case she would betray all of them. Perhaps this little tradition is much more important to her than it is to the prisoners, but Tatsu is almost sure that it means something to them as well. She has no right to deprive the rest of them of this bit of understanding, companionship, normalcy because she wasn’t smart enough to stop the game she and Boomerang started before it became too late.

At home – not that the apartment she’s renting here deserves to be called ‘home’ – she, unable to fall asleep, unsheathes the sword and runs the tips of her fingers along the cool blade. A tender, habitual movement – like touching the cheek of a loved one.

“I’ve lost my way, Maseo,” whispers Tatsu. The place where the souls of the people struck down by this blade are trapped is still a mystery to her, but she knows that Maseo will come as soon as she calls him – as a voice from afar, as nebulous shapes in the swirls of smoke, as the peace and safety granted by the presence of someone dear. “I’m afraid of my own heart.”

I know your heart, Tatsu. You have nothing to be afraid of.

“It makes me act rashly. Makes me succumb to false feelings.”

I know your heart, Tatsu, and it incapable of falsehood.

Only the ones that are already far away can speak so vaguely and with such unrelenting honesty at the same time.

“I will always love you,” she whispers ardently. Not because she doesn’t want him to think it is not so; not because she herself feels like it is not so anymore either. She knows for sure that she is always going to love him, for she loved him as a lover, as a husband, as the father of her children, as the only thing she had left after all her life fell apart, burned in that damned fire. He will stay in her heart until her last breath – even if she has to close her heart to the rest of the world. Once she used to think that after all she’s been through, it isn’t going to be an issue.

And I will always love you, her husband replies, and Tatsu blinks back tears with a deep sigh.

“I just wish you were alive,” she tells him for what must be the hundredth, or maybe a thousandth time.

If he was with her – not as smoke or a voice, but as flesh and blood – he probably would have kissed her gently on the nape of her neck, as he often used to do.

I just wish, says her husband – no, the soul of her husband, which is already rushing away, deep into the world she shouldn’t hurry to go to if she doesn’t want this sword to fall into wrong hands, that you were happy.

***

Literally the next day there is a message from Metropolis that some giant snake-like beast is terrorizing the city and devouring people. The monster was last seen crawling into the building of the opera – which is where their squad heads to after reaching the city.

“Look at that freak,” Harkness comments in a low voice. The creature is curled up slumbering on stage, and they are watching it from the catwalks above. “Not a family of yours by any chance, eh, ‘gator?’

Waylon steps towards him, and the planks creak under his feet, threatening to break.

“Say that again,” he growls.

Tatsu bares her sword and wedges herself between them. Waylon backs off reluctantly.

“Knock it off,” she tells Boomerang. It feels like everything has come full circle – the day Harkness picked up her mask, he also had a run-in with Jones. The day they were sent to fight the Enchantress, she also put the blade of her sword under his chin. Why did she even think something would change?

“Oh, so you’re talking to me after all?”

“Enough,” Tatsu hisses. She really wants to try to explain everything to him. Maybe if she tries to put her feelings into words, many things will become clear to her, too. But if he thinks they are going to discuss this now, he is mistaken.

On the neighbouring catwalk, Rick is looking at them in a rage, gesturing both of them to shut up. Harkness steps closer; now the blade of the Soultaker is within a hair’s breadth away from his neck. A single careless movement, and blood will be spilled. A wild idea crosses her mind: it looks as if he’s into this. Tatsu licks her lips.

“Y’know,” Boomerang begins, lowering his head a little so that it is easier for him to look her in the eye, “I think you’re scared of me. Or of yourself, hell if I know. Am I right?”

A loud rustle comes from beneath, and the next instant the monster bites through the middle of the catwalk they’re standing on, and both of them are falling down. Tatsu manages to grab some rope, but when she tries to climb it, her hands slip, and she comes tumbling down.

The fall is far from being soft, even though she falls on the tatters of the curtain, which the snake must have torn earlier. She is lucky not to hurt her head, but her left leg and hip are aching. Only the awareness that there is no time to lie around makes her summon up all her strength and get up. Her sword is nowhere to be seen, and Tatsu is overwhelmed by fury: now she is useless.

The snake roars and shakes its head, trying to shake off Croc, who is trying to bite through its scales. Rick is shooting at the monster from above, and Deadshot, who is already on stage somehow, is doing the same from below, dodging the blows of its tail. Tatsu sweeps her eyes weakly over the stage and suddenly notices a hole broken in it. At the very edge of the hole, the hilt of her sword is sticking out of the floor. Moving as quickly as it is possible to do that with a limp, Tatsu hurries there.

The moment she pulls the sword out of the stage, Harkness’s head pokes out of the hole. Not waiting for him to ask for help, Tatsu helps him get out.

“Are you…” both of them begin in unison and drop it immediately, because the snake has managed to shake off the bothersome little crocodile – who is hopefully just somewhere on the floor and not in its belly – and is moving towards them, slower than before but still pretty speedily. They scatter, and Tatsu charges at the monster with her sword drawn. Harkness throws a boomerang at the creature, aiming at its eye, but it dodges at the last second.

Eventually, with joint forces they manage to kill the beast. To be on the safe side, Lawton fires a round into its open jaws. The long body shudders one last time and falls still. For some time, the five of them stand there looking at it.

“Where could this thing even come from?” Rick mutters.

“Remember what the Wicked Witch of the West said when she tried to get us to join her? The world is changing, the time of magic has come, blah, blah, blah,” Lawton reminds him. Rick nods absentmindedly; these are not happy memories.

Jones kicks the dead snake.

“Maybe it meant no harm,” he points out in his deep voice.

“Croc,” Rick says wearily, “it ate people.”

“So did I.”

“But at least you didn’t chew the curtain at the opera like a disgraced diva?” Lawton asks, struggling not to grin.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Well, then it’s okay.”

Rick titters nervously, and the next instant all of them are shaking with laughter.

Tatsu is drinking water straight from the tap in the restroom, when Harkness comes in.

“This is a ladies’ room,” she says reflexively.

“Hey, I just wanna wash my face, is all.”

Without waiting for her to answer, he comes closer and starts washing at the neighbouring sink. Tatsu casts a sidelong look at him and notices that the water is turning red.

“Show me your face,” she orders.

“It’s not a bad face, what’s yer problem?”

“I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes, but stands still while she examines his face, only wincing when she dabs at the cut on his forehead with a paper towel.

“Just a scratch,” he assures at once.

“Just a scratch,” Tatsu agrees. She scrunches up the towel and throws it into the sink. She would like to keep her hand on his face, pretending that she’s still wiping off the blood, but she’s done pretending.

“How about you?” Boomerang asks quietly.

“Fine. A couple of bruises. You were lucky today,” she says just as quietly, and takes off her mask. Tomorrow they might not be as lucky. “I’m happy for you.”

“And I’m happy you got out alive… darl.”

For a moment she wants him to ruin everything. To reply with a jibe, to crack another dirty joke, to try to grab and kiss her only to get smacked. Not to stand motionless in front of her like he’s afraid to scare her off. It occurred to her once that from the outside their relationship might look like an attempt to tame a wild animal. Perhaps this is a mutual process.

Do whatever you want to him.

She stands up on tiptoes and kisses him.

For an instant, Harkness freezes – possibly trying to figure out again if he’s dreaming – and then pulls her closer and kisses back. Drinks her hungrily, like this is both the first time and the last. Bearing in mind what their lives are like, it really might be the last.

Tatsu doesn’t immediately realize why she suddenly doesn’t need to stand on tiptoes anymore.

“Put me down–” she starts, but gives up and wraps her legs around his waist. Boomerang grunts with satisfaction and switches from her lips to her neck. His beard, fortunately, is softer than could have been expected.

“Stop drinking so much,” Tatsu breathes out, now that no one is trying to shut her mouth. “You taste like…” all English words slip her mind, “like… a beer cask.”

It tickles her when he laughs into her neck.

Someone simply must enter now – Rick, Floyd, Amanda Waller, the president of the United States, but no, no one is trying to stop him from squeezing her hips, to stop her from running her fingers through his hair. Weapon to weapon, blade to blade. Red-hot metal to red-hot metal. Melting until something new is forged – without fear, without regret, without the past, without the future.

Clearly, Maseo wants too much: she remembers what happiness is, and she is sure she’ll never ever be happy again.

But she can take a shot at being alive.

#suicide squad #katana #captain boomerang #tatsu yamashiro #digger harkness #kaboom #captain boomerang x katana #boomerang x katana #dc #my fic #gella talks skwad #talk talk talk #my magnum opus lmao #amazed i managed to translate this. i am not a woman i'm a god indeed #once again i still know nothing about the geography of the dceu!united states #and whether a city like metropolis could have an opera house

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winetae · 4 years

Text

wall to wall (m.) 01

↳ in a pornographic movie, refers to a series of sex scenes with no plot.

⇁ female reader x hoseok

⇁ smut, porn star!au

⇁ sex work, insecurity, jealousy, slut shaming/objectification (not the sexy kind), role played scenario that includes: d/s dynamics - dom!hoseok, porn star level dirty talk, stuff that should never happen in a kitchen bc hygiene, daddy kink, impreg kink, rough sex, spanking, a lot of finger sucking, this fic is a poor attempt at social commentary

⇁ 22.5k

. . .

Temporary popularity is the biggest threat to your career right now. Without a solid core fan base you’re doomed to be forgotten. If not now, then in a month or two, and if not then, surely by the end of the year. That’s how quickly the adult film industry cycles through their actors, especially when you’re a woman. Your agent comes forward with a proposition to help put you back on the map.

↳ or, my contribution to the lights, camera, action collab : )

part 01 | part 02 | part 03

author’s note | inspired by the piece ‘slut-shaming: pornstars are humans too’ & the life after porn documentaries on netflix. thank u to jordan, eva, amy, venus, addie and lu for being a part of this collab !! *inserts a million heart emojis and a big fat NUT emoticon*

re:warnings, the slut shaming is done by others and can also be considered as internalized oppression. it’s something the reader struggles with and eventually works to overcome. this first part isn’t as smutty as the second but regardless i hope u can bear with me lol. ty, as always, for giving my writing a chance. i hope u enjoy it or at least take something from it !

wall2wall can be read as a sequel to my fic money shot. same disclaimer applies: this story does claim to accurately portray the world of adult entertainment

SCENE 01 - YOU’VE GOT MALE. TAKE 01. ROLL A.

Today is just one of those days you wish you had slept straight through. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be dying from the sheer dullness of having nothing to do.

You huff out a sigh, bored out of your goddamn mind.

Head cradled in the crook of your left palm, you use your available hand to refresh your instagram feed. Much to your disappointment, nothing new shows up. The same video of a dog chasing its own tail plays on but you pay it no heed, the novelty having worn off after the first few times.

The next half hour passes by in a similar fashion, each result proving to be as unavailing as the last. You’d think that after a while you’d give up and find a new distraction to pass the time but whether out of habit or boredom-induced insanity, you persist with your fruitless attempts.

Today really fucking blows, you think glumly, the curve of your mouth thinning into a grimace. As the adorable corgie keeps the infernal cycle going, yapping and running around incessantly, you’re struck with a terrifying thought. Maybe this is how you will die - condemned to live your life stuck in the worst sort of monotony imaginable.

What you had expected to be a “quick and easy” shoot has turned into a tedious ordeal that you don’t see ending anytime soon. And whilst on-set complications and prolongations are frequent enough that they’re almost expected, today really takes the cake. Even during your rookie days, you can’t recall running into delays of this scale.

To top it off, the weather app announces a record-breaking heat - which in itself is bad enough. As luck would have it, it gets worse. The place rented out for today’s filming lacks proper air conditioning, equipped instead with electric fans that look like they’ve been around since the 1980s.

A quick glance into the vanity mirror confirms that you look as frazzled as you feel. Because of the humidity level that weighs down the air, your hair is in a right state. You fight a grimace off your face. The straggly hair coupled with the oily sheen on your face...it’s far from your best look, to say the least.

And to think thousands of people will get to see it up close in 1080p resolution... It’s a terrifying concept.

You’re already dreading the upcoming sex scenes that you’ve yet to film. It’s always a messy affair - fluids of all kind end up literally everywhere - but the sweltering heat undoubtedly makes it ten times worse. A shudder works its way down your spine.

Frankly speaking, the mere thought of having hot and wild sex in these less than ideal working conditions kills your libido. Under the glaring studio lights, surrounded by sweaty crewmen and pressed up an equally feverish body - it’s basically the porn equivalent of a fuckin’ barbecue party.

Yeah, no thanks. You’d rather be at home, with the air conditioner at full blast, nestled in the comfy cushions of your sofa as you marathon a series of your choice on netflix. Only the promised sum of money keeps you from bolting and calling it quits altogether.

“So when are you gonna drop the new boy toy?” a voice buzzes in your ear not unlike a pesky fly.

Tempting as it is to ignore it, you peel your eyes away from your reflection just in time to catch Seokjin shoot you the most unimpressed look in his repertoire, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arched in judgment.

In the background, an old ceiling fan whirs on but does nothing to cool you off. If anything, its constant rattling only exacerbates your growing headache.

“What are you talking about?" You flick a piece of imaginary lint off your dressing robe, your tone neutral.

Seokjin’s brown eyes see right through your feigned air of indifference. Months of working by your side have made him an expert at reading your body language, be it naked or clothed. A wolfish grin adorns his face as he swoops in for the kill.

“Oh come on. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Jongmin. He’s short - comes up to right about here.” Seokjin holds a hand up to his chest to illustrate his point, deliberately shaving off a few inches off your boyfriend’s height in order to antagonize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, careful not to spit out the retort that’s perched on the tip of your tongue. It takes a great deal of effort to unclench the muscles in your jaw but you manage to school your features into an expression of polite confusion.

Seokjin frowns, dissatisfied with your lack of response. You don’t need to be a mind reader to know that he’s currently thinking of new ways to provoke you.

When the silence stretches on and he’s yet to riposte, you allow yourself to relax again, believing that he’s given up on being an asshole.

To your chagrin, you’re sorely mistaken. The last of your self-restraint is finally put to the test as his next words do nothing to quell your irritation.

“Jongmin.” He repeats slowly, like you need it spelled out for you. “He follows you around everywhere like a lap dog. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so, you know, pathetic.”

“His name is Jimin,” you correct for the nth time.

Instantly, you reprimand yourself for playing into his games and granting him the attention he so craves. Fulfilling his twisted desire is the last thing you hope to achieve. Staying silent would be the sensible thing to do but your brain completely bypasses the memo. The moment your mouth opens it’s impossible to quash the urge to justify yourself.

Maybe it’s your pride coming into play. Maybe it’s Seokjin’s uncanny ability to get under anyone’s skin at will. Whatever the case may be, you stammer out, on the defensive, “And he’s not my 'boy toy'. We - it’s not - we’re dating.” But the word feels like a weight on your tongue. You swallow.

The statement earns you a scoff of incredulity. “Dating? Him?”

You finally set your phone down and aim a glare his way, abandoning all pretense at being indifferent because—Jesus. Is the idea of you dating that unfathomable? He’s never been this worked up over any of your other relationships. Granted, none of them have ever lasted this long but is it really any of his business who you choose to see in your free time?

“I don’t get what your problem is. What’s so wrong with me dating?”

“Have you seen who you’re dating?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”

While this isn’t the first time your agent lets a judgmental comment slip from between his pearly white teeth, it’s usually not laced with spite. Seokjin is never outright hostile, preferring sweet words of manipulation and thinly-veiled insults to shows of aggression. The attempt to get a rise out of you does not go by unnoticed. His anger, this time, feels personal.

You wrack your brain, quickly sifting through your recent memories to try and figure out why he’s chosen to be such an ass today. You’re certain that you’ve filled out all the necessary paperwork required to proceed with today’s filming, and yes, after thinking it over, you know that you went to the obligatory medical checkup last week. So there really is no reason for him to bitch at you unless—

The proverbial light bulb flickers on and it all suddenly makes sense.

You’re willing to bet a hefty sum of money that the high-paying gig you turned down two weekends ago is to blame for his abnormal crotchety behavior.

Yes, that would explain it.

Due to Seokjin's well-known propensity to hold a grudge for longer than average, the odds that he’s still hung up over the lost deal are pretty high. And as much as his disappointment and frustration are understandable from a business standpoint, you don’t appreciate being used as a verbal punching bag for him to expel all those pent-up feelings.

Seokjin hums, a knowing smirk pulling the sides of his mouth upwards. Fleetingly, and not for the first time, you find it a shame that his cockiness tarnishes his otherwise handsome face. “I give it another couple of days until you get bored. How long has this gone on for? A month? How are you not yanking out your hair from the sheer boredom of dating...that."

A muscle in your jaw ticks.

“He’s not Voldemort, you coward. Would it honestly kill you to say his name?” Seokjin’s expression begs to differ. You cut him off before he can add fuel to the fire. “And I won’t get bored. Jimin’s - he’s a perfectly nice guy. We’ve been seeing each other just fine—not that it’s any of your concern.”

“Yes, he’s nice,” Seokjin concedes easily, brushing off any attempts at putting an end to the conversation. He grins, wide and smug, like he knows you can’t refute what he’ll say next. “Perfectly nice and boring. The kind of guy you’d bring back home if your parents were straight-laced folks that wanted to marry you off to a choir boy. Seriously, how the fuck did a guy like him end up in the porn industry? He belongs in a church or, I dunno, maybe some neighborhood book club - not behind a camera filming you getting flogged by a daddy dom.”

You sniff. “Just because he tucks his shirts in doesn’t—”

“It’s not just the shirts, honey.” He leans over to pat your hand in a gesture of consolation. Used to his antics, his attempt is easily blocked by a swat of your hand.

You muster the dirtiest look you’re capable of, the kind of look that sends men to early graves, but he simply smiles in response, completely unfazed.

Any person with the minimum amount of tact would know to politely change the subject. It’s unfortunate that your agent does not belong to that pool of individuals, choosing instead to be selectively blind to overt social cues.

He continues on, unperturbed, like he has a point to prove. “Believe it or not, I know you. Sometimes, for whatever reason, perhaps a lapse in judgement but who the fuck knows, you like to venture out of your comfort zone and experiment. Like with the chickenshit gingerbread spice concoctions they come out with at Starbucks to celebrate turkey season and Christmas or the cream cheese makis they make for the white crowd who want to eat sushi but don’t like anything other than white rice and seaweed. And, trust me, while I’m all for diversity and broadening your personal experiences, don’t you think there’s a reason why you always go back to your preferred choice of an iced latte with two sugars?”

“Did you just compare Jimin to a gingerbread latte?”

Okay, so admittedly you’ve made some questionable food and beverage choices in the past, but the comparison is a fucking reach.

“You’re absolutely right." Seokjin gives a firm nod of his head, his expression serious. "Now that you mention it, he’s definitely a vanilla soy. Bland and boring. Targeted towards the middle-aged soccer moms that think veganism is a trend, not a lifestyle. Wants to be a people-pleaser but misses the mark.”

“I didn’t know it was Share Your Unwanted Opinion Time,” you grind out from behind a strained smile. “If I had, I would have said something about your receding hairline earlier.”

It’s a low blow but the way Seokjin’s plump lips curl in displeasure makes the dig worth it. One of his hands automatically shoot up to flatten the bangs that are usually slicked back with copious amounts of gel.

Offended, he spits, “It’s not receding! There’s a difference between premature balding and a bleach job gone wrong.”

"I'm not sure people care to differentiate. Looks like a receding hairline to me." You shrug while picking at your nails. “You’re nearing that age, too, so.”

“You just try looking this good at 30. Fucking try.”

He waits for a reply but your interest has already waned. You scroll through your phone, bored once more.

Seokjin makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat at the clear dismissal. You swear you hear him grumble under his breath - something along the lines of never going blonde again - but can’t find it in you to care, not when he’s finally ceased his nagging.

"Filming in twenty!" someone shouts from outside the door.

"They’re running behind schedule," Seokjin notes after glancing down at his gold wristwatch. "How can they take more than an hour to fix the lighting? Tch. Bunch of fuckin’ amateurs."

He aims a glare in your direction as if their incompetence is somehow your fault.

You have half a mind to glower back but miraculously withhold your sentiments. Admittedly, he isn’t wrong - the team you’re working with today keeps committing blunders even rookies wouldn’t dare perpetrate - but you’d rather get your driving license revoked forever than to acknowledge that Seokjin’s right and inflate his already unnaturally huge ego.

Something heavy plops into your lap. When you look down, the glossy surface of a magazine reflects the harsh lights suspended over the vanity table back at you.

“I didn’t want to resort to this but you leave me no choice,” he says in response to your look of confusion.

“What’s this?”

You hold up the magazine expecting the worst. It’s heavy in your hands, the pages thicker than the gossip rags you’d find in a dentist’s waiting room.

“’s the newest issue. Came out this morning. I’d actually like it back once you’re done because I haven’t finished reading it and God knows how hard it was to get my—hey, you can stop flicking aimlessly, I saved you the trouble and bookmarked the page,” Seokjin explains a bit impatiently.

When you shoot him a glance, his attention is trained on your face, not the magazine. He barely blinks. Like a snake honing in on its prey. And that kind of intense focus - that can’t be good. After all, you’ve known Seokjin long enough to suspect that whatever trick he has up his sleeve will give him the advantage he needs to deliver the killing blow.

Gingerly, you flip through the pages like you’re afraid the magazine might self-destruct in your hands. Which would be a waste, in your opinion, since Exquis is a damn good magazine - perhaps less intellectual than Playboy, but definitely classier than Hustler. Its reputation speaks for itself. Known for hiring the best photographers and carefully combing through their models, it’s selective, only picking the cream of the cr—

Everything around you stills.

Your eyes narrow at the spread because there, on the page Seokjin’s taken great care to bookmark, a model poses provocatively on a lounge chaise near a crystal clear pool. It’s similar to a shoot you’ve done in the past but you can tell right away that the quality of this is above and beyond anything you’ve ever done. The lighting is better, heck even the barely-there-swimsuit looks like it costs ten times more than whatever you had been told to throw on at the time.

The vexation you feel only worsens once it finally registers who the model is. Her youthful and pretty face carries a permanent haughtiness that not even makeup or acting can entirely mask.

The pages crease in your hold as you flick through the rest of the spread dedicated to the up and coming talents. With every new page that has her plastered on its glossy surface you feel your stomach sink.

2...3...4...

“Five pages,” you curse under your breath. For a magazine this renowned, it’s...a lot. Commendable, even. Your nose crinkles. “Well, fuck. me. sideways.”

Seokjin gloats, reveling in your outrage. “Hmph. I told you, didn’t I? Passing up the opportunity to work with Kim Namjoon would come and bite you in the ass.”

“Aha! So you have been a little bitch because I refused to shoot with Namjoon.” You whirl around in your chair and use the magazine to jab him in the chest. He easily steps aside, avoiding your attempt at wrinkling his trademark Armani button-down shirt.

“It was the chance of a lifetime and you knew it.” He turns his nose up and sniffs.

“That’s what you said about filming with Min Yoongi last month.” You roll your eyes. “I can’t take you seriously if you’re gonna say the same thing every time a new guy shows up.”

“Shooting with Agust D did help you gain some mainstream popularity. You’ve gotten love calls for catalog printings and your name is now automatically on the invite sheet for every C-list event in town. Namjoon would have given you another needed boost.” Seokjin folds his arms, lecturing mode switched on. You struggle with the instinctive urge to tune him out. “Sure, he’s got a niche audience, but he’s famous in his field and it would have helped expand your fa—“

“Not to kink shame or anything because we don’t do that, but Namjoon is a freak. And don’t deny it, I’ve seen his videos.”

“He’s specialized in particular—“

“You were the one telling me not to film all sorts of shit right off the bat,” you cut in, refusing to back down from your stance. There’s no way you’ll let him sweet-talk you out of this one, not after the multiple videos of Namjoon you’d binged one weekend. “Stick to one story.”

“Well, we’re not exactly ‘right off the bat’ anymore, are we? We’ve passed that stage. Right now is a crucial time in your career so you’ve got to make it count. Filming rehashed videos of the same pizza delivery guy scenario gets boring and fast. As pretty as you are, you’re not offering anything new to the table, are you?”

Fuck him. He’s right and you know it. Temporary popularity is the biggest threat to your career right now. Without a solid core fan base you’re doomed to be forgotten. If not now, then in a month or two, and if not then, surely by the end of the year. That’s how quickly the adult film industry cycles through their actors, especially when you’re a woman.

Still. “I refuse to work with a guy whose porn alias is Cock Monster.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Well I said no,” you insist stubbornly.

“Well if you had said yes, maybe it would be your ass cheeks getting their own two page spread in Exquis instead,” jabs Seokjin, hitting you where it hurts.

Ugh. The reminder that Joy’s bested you yet again riles you up even more. That, coupled with the likelihood of your career ending imminently, makes you stop and think.

Your agent goes on to say, “Don’t you want the AVN for best newcomer? Where did that competitive edge go? At the rate this is going, Joy’s going to steal it from right under your nose.”

“Like fucking hell,” you hiss. The magazine bends under the strength of your grip. “That one’s mine.”

You absolutely refuse to lose out to her. Every fiber of your being rejects the idea of letting her one-up you again.

“Not if you don’t start branching out. The last time you did anything substantial or interesting was about a month ago. It’s already old news. People are going to forget you shot that sequence altogether if you don’t do anything that puts you back on the map.”

A pause. “…I really don’t want to film with someone who willingly named himself Cock Mons—”

“Fine.” Seokjin heaves a resigned sigh. “You don’t have to fuck the monster willy. Willy monster? Hm. Wouldn’t it make more sense to name himself Monster Cock and not Cock Monster? Wonder why he does th—”

You suppress a snort. “Please spare me while you can. It’s amazing, that talent for making everything sound a lot worse than it already it is.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“You trying to insult someone who’s willing to find you someone else to work with? I can always ask Monster Meatstick if he’s up for—”

“No! No, that’s - not necessary.” You force out a smile that wouldn’t fool anyone into thinking its genuine. “Why would I ever insult you? You’re the best agent one could ask for.”

“That’s what I thought.” He takes your compliment, forced or not. When he smiles, smugness rolls off of him in waves. “One day you’ll realize you’re taking my talent for granted. I’ll find you another onscreen partner even though you don’t know what you’re missing out.”

“Thank you.”

“But!” He interjects and this time you don’t bother swallowing down your groan, already dreading the stipulations he has in store for you. “You have to promise to hold up your end of the bargain and try your best.”

Indignation colors your face. Your mouth falls open, retort at the ready. “When do I ever slack off on the job?! I’ve never given a half-assed blowjob in my life - and trust me, the temptation was there. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay focused when the guy can’t cum on command? I once had to get my jaw realigned.”

“I’m not saying you’re slacking off,” he backtracks, switching tactics. His expression is soon replaced by the business-like smile you’re used to seeing on the regular. Tone buttery and appeasing, he tries to convince you through flattery instead. “You work hard and do a good job… I wouldn’t have signed you on otherwise. The problem isn’t with the quality of your work but with - all the rest.”

“The rest?” you parrot back dumbly, trying and failing to comprehend.

Seokjin scowl returns, unable to keep his genuine emotions under wraps.

“D’you honestly think you’re at a point in your career where you can pick and choose your jobs like this? Ever since you started dating that - that thing - your workload has significantly decreased. And not because you lacked opportunities. You had them but you turned them all down.” Visibly getting worked up over the issue, his voice rises an octave, then two. “What should’ve been a good spring board, only brought you back to square one. I know I can’t force you to take jobs if you refuse to, but I can say that your potential is going to waste. I’ve never seen someone sabotage herself like this before and it’s driving me up the wall. While I get that you’re under the delusion that you’ve found true love or whatever Disney fantasy Jungmin has sold you, you can’t turn down projects over and over again without there being serious repercussions. You’re smart enough to know this. I shouldn’t have to remind you.”

Seokjin’s chest heaves as he takes in several big gulps of air, visibly out of breath after his monologue.

For him to explode like popcorn kennels in the microwave... You reckon he’d let his feelings pile up inside him for a while, silently stewing.

You’ve never seen your agent look so visibly distressed. He’s normally the picture-perfect image of composure so the sight that greets you is enough of a shock to render you speechless.

Deep down, Seokjin probably means well. There aren’t a lot of agents like him; you’re one of the lucky ones. Most girls are discarded by their agencies as quickly as used tissues once they get milked for all their worth.

Thankfully it’s never been that way with Seokjin. He claims that he’s in it for the long run. According to him the quick buck isn’t worth seeing the light die out in girl after girl. Perhaps that’s why he takes the task of ensuring your safety so seriously. How many times has he warned you to steer clear of this or that seedy director or ban you from attending drug-heavy parties? While his behavior can come off as overbearing on the worst days, at least he cares.

Sadly, it’s more than you can say for most.

In a way, he’s the only one in this business rooting for your success—if only because his paycheck depends on how well you perform. You like to pretend there’s more to it than that.

“I’m not - what’s Jimin got to do with any of this?” you splutter, still digesting the long tirade you’ve just been subjected to.

“Are you serious? That’s all you got from what I said?”

“Well, no, but I still fail to—”

“Do you think me a fool?” He crosses his arms tightly across his broad chest. “The only scenes you’re willing to shoot are when he’s on set. Are you a kid or something? Since when do you need supervision to shoot a sex scene?”

“N-no. It just worked out that way, okay?” In reply to his dubious expression, you force yourself to explain. “Okay, okay - I get it. Maybe I might’ve lessened my workload recently but it has nothing to do with Jimin, alright? My vagina needs rest from time to time. Just because it’s my job doesn’t mean I don’t need a break. I’m human too, not some blow-up doll.”

“You expect me to believe that he has nothing to do with it? You were perfectly fine before he entered the picture. And now that you’re all loved up you only pick—”

A knock, so timid you barely catch it, cuts off the rest of his sentence.

“Yeah? Come in, I’m decent!” you yell - not that you care whether someone sees you naked or not. The concept of modesty has long been lost on you. Some might call it shamelessness or vanity, but you take pride in how you look. And why wouldn’t you? Your body is your bread and butter. You spend hours in the gym every week so that your ass looks good no matter what camera angle.

“It’s me.”

The door opens a crack and the speaker tentatively sticks his mop of hair through the small opening. As soon as you recognize him, your heart leaps at the sight and you quickly tighten your robe together.

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Seokjin mutters under his breath.

You resist the urge to throttle him and plaster on your brightest smile instead.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. Sorry I took so long... I would’ve come earlier but they needed my help.” Jimin scratches a spot behind his ear, sheepish. “Someone tripped over the cables and smashed a camera lens so we had to find a replacement. The director threw a fit and wanted to call it quits so we’ve been trying to calm him down this entire time. He did - eventually, anyway, after he called his dealer on set.”

A disapproving frown tugs at his mouth corners and mars his otherwise perfect appearance.

You take a moment to swoon internally. You’ll never get tired of admiring your boyfriend. Unlike the majority of the on-set personnel, he doesn’t reek of weed or booze or stale cigarette smoke. His ironed clothes and immaculate appearance always make it easy to spot him amidst the hungover crew.

“That’s fine! I kept myself busy.”

Jimin returns your smile, his eyes creasing into beautiful half-moon crescents. You don’t know what kind of love-struck expression covers your face but next to you Seokjin makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a gag and a cough.

“Oh! Here, I brought snacks. I didn’t know what you liked so I just grabbed everything I could get my hands on.” He holds up a paper plate stacked with treats no doubt stolen from the catering service. “I know I kind of went overboard but I wanted to make sure you kept your sugar level up.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you coo, reaching to take the plate from him. He’s piled on the sweets so high that it’s a miracle nothing has toppled over yet. You aren’t especially hungry but take a bite out of a chocolate candy to show how much you appreciate the effort. Its gooey consistency melts on your tongue, the taste so sweet it sticks to your teeth.

“How adorable,” chimes in Seokjin, his hand grabbing a licorice stick from the mountain of candy before you can swat him away. “Thanks Jongmin.”

“Jimin,” he corrects good-naturedly, his smile not budging an inch. You think, privately, that’s what you like the most about him. Not many have the ability to block out Seokjin’s bullshit so effectively.

“Mmh,” your manager says around a mouthful of candy. “Seokjin. Pleasure.”

You elbow him while gritting your teeth. “Can you...give us a moment?”

Seokjin swallows down the treat and opens his mouth in protest. He has the audacity to look betrayed. “You’re kicking me out of our room so the two of you can get it on? Really?”

Jimin’s cheeks flush and you quickly cut in before your agent can make matters worse.

"I just want to talk without you breathing down my neck. Weren’t you going off earlier about how I didn’t need adult supervision anymore? Well?”

“Fine. Fine! But you owe me. Again.” He grabs his portable phone charger from the vanity table before making his exit. “And don’t forget what we talked about!”

What a fucking drama queen. You have no idea why he always insists on making a scene when you know for a fact that he would’ve left of his own volition in five minutes anyway. For reasons he has no trouble disclosing, he can’t stand Jimin’s presence.

“I won’t,” you grumble just so that you can get him out of your hair faster.

The door slams shut with more force than strictly necessary. Silence hangs in the air for a brief moment before Jimin turns his warm gaze towards you.

“What was that about?”

“Uh, nothing. You know how he is...” You play with the ends of your braided hair. “He can’t go very long without throwing a tantrum.’

“He seems very protective of you,” remarks Jimin, a thoughtful expression painting his angelic face. “I think that’s why he’s not that fond of me.”

“Nonsense,” you rebut immediately as you take his hands in yours. “Who could ever not like you?”

Jimin allows his lips to quirk into a small, self-deprecating smile that you promptly erase with a kiss. His lips feel pillow-soft against yours, and you let yoruself indulge in the feeling before pulling back.

You sigh, remembering the scene you’ve yet to film. “If only my co-star was you.”

He laughs at that. “Seokjin would probably throw a fit, huh?”

Jimin treats you to dinner that night.

He chooses the restaurant. It’s a small, quaint place, tucked into a hidden corner just minutes away from the bustling main street of the shopping district. It’s not the kind of place people stumble across by accident but judging by the occupied tables, business is doing fine by reputation alone.

The owner comes out to greet Jimin by name. They exchange warm greetings, the woman asking him how his brother’s been doing and whether he’ll stop by anytime soon.

“Ah - I’m not sure... You know how he is... I’ll let him know you said hi.”

“Tell him I’ll give him an extra serving of ribs. That was his favorite, right?”

When her eyes trail over Jimin’s shoulder and spot you, she grins so wide you’d think she won the lottery or something. “Park Jimin! You’ve gone and found a girlfriend! And so pretty, too. Ah, really...time sure flies by. I remember when you first started coming here - and now!”

You smile back, greeting her with a polite handshake. The owner is quick to usher you into a small booth in the back. She hands you the menus while patting Jimin on his shoulder. “I’ll get you drinks. It’s on the house.”

“You don’t have to do that!” protests Jimin, shaking his head. “Really. It’s not—”

“Nonsense.” She waves a hand at him. “You’ll get two more if you keep that up, Park Jimin.”

Once she knows she’s earned Jimin’s compliance, she leaves with a satisfied smile. You can tell by their genuine interactions that she’s close to Jimin. Family, perhaps? Either way, this isn’t a place Jimin tracked down on yelp. He flips through the menu with ease, like he’s done it hundreds of times before.

“Sorry about that,” he says once she’s out of earshot. “I used to come here all the time with my family when we all still lived here. They moved and live in a different town now so we haven’t had a meal together here in years, but. I still come here. The food is good, of course, but - I dunno. I have good memories here so I thought I’d share it with you. It sounds stupid now.”

He laughs quietly, cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

“I love it.” You can’t help but smile, cheeks hurting from the force of it. Invisible liquor runs through your bloodstream, a ball of warmth unfurling in your belly. “Thank you.”

A pause ensues. It’s one of those moments in which you’re unsure if you’ve said too much or not enough. Being here with Jimin means a lot. You’re not the most verbose person but you hope that Jimin can feel your sincerity.

Maybe your stare comes off as too intense because Jimin breaks the eye contact and clears his throat.

He fiddles with his earring and says, “The food is really good!”

Pink dots his cheeks as he attempts to change the subject. “I don’t know how long the place has been around for but the food is exactly the same. Apparently it’s the sauce they use? Auntie still won’t share the recipes with me and I’ve known her since I was a kid.”

He chatters on, gaining confidence when he notices you’re not put off or bored by his numerous anecdotes. As time passes by, he’s visibly more relaxed. His laugh is more natural, less restrained, like he’s using all the muscles in his face and not just the ones near his mouth.

It’s a stark difference from the first date, you think. Back then he had come off as quite shy, preferring to let you lead the conversation, only offering up tidbits from time to time. Now the conversation flows easily. Nothing feels forced or awkward and - it’s nice. The normalcy of it. Like a hot cup of tea before bed or the scent of the fabric softener your mother uses. It’s something you find comfort in, that you can see yourself coming back to and not growing tired of.

Seokjin can say what he wants - that Jimin’s too uninteresting, that you’re too mismatched of a couple - whatever.

Jimin likes you for you.

When you’re out on dates or when the two of you talk on the phone late into the evening, he rarely brings up your job. Instead, he asks you questions about your favorite TV shows, your dipping sauce preferences, the first album you purchased. These small details might seem inconsequential to others but to you, they’re a welcome breath of fresh air.

For all the talks of Jimin being too average and too normal, men like him are in reality surprisingly hard to come by.

Because what you haven’t failed to notice since you began your career as a porn star is that people love the idea of you. People who avidly watch you from their laptop screen in the comfort of their own home think that you’re some type of sex goddess - that you’re basically up for anything. In their minds, you’re a fun girl who loves sex, all kinds of sex, any kind of sex, and who doesn’t have any qualities or attributes other than making people cum until their limbs go numb.

Your feelings? Not really important. Feelings would make you human and being human would ruin their favorite fantasy.

That’s what takes you a while to learn - you don’t get paid to have sex, you get paid to sell dreams.

It doesn’t bother you at first. In a way, you think, it’s like acting. The porn star people jerk off to daily is a character you play, a mask you can take off at your leisure once the camera director yells ‘cut!’.

Very quickly, you learn people don’t share the same sentiment. To them, the line that distinguishes you from your job persona isn’t blurry - it simply doesn’t exist.

In the beginning, you’d stayed optimistic. Once people get to know you past the image they’ve built up in their heads, surely they’ll realize you’re not a sex-craved addict who only has dick on the brain, right? But with every new date you accept to go on, the reality of your situation only leaves room for disappointment and barely reigned in revulsion.

Even in non-romantic situations, people let you down. Old classmates, neighbors... It pisses you off that they assume you have no self-worth just because you’re a sex worker. Stevie from 308 down the hall once tried throwing crumpled bills at you, expecting you to crawl over to him for a fifty. The memory is enough to set your blood boiling. You can’t wait until you earn big enough bucks to move out of your shitty apartment into a nice high-rise penthouse, away and above all the scum of the Earth.

“You okay?” asks Jimin, noticing the crease that burrows your brow. “The food alright?”

You blink several times, belatedly realizing you had zoned out. Guilt and embarrassment well up within you.

“M’yeah,” you swallow down the spoonful of stew stuffed in your mouth. “Sorry.”

Jimin chews his bottom lip. Finally, he settles with, “Tell me if I’m boring you.”

“No, no! You’re not.” His evident doubt does nothing to alleviate the sudden nausea swarming your lower belly. “I’m serious, Jimin. I’m - Sorry if I gave off that impression. I just - I have a lot on my mind but you’re lovely. I’d tell you if you were - you know. Promise.”

“Would you? Sometimes I think you’re too nice.” It’s not delivered as an insult, but it doesn’t exactly sound like praise, either.

You force out a snort. “Heh. Wish you’d tell Seokjin that.”

“He’s not too cross with me, is he?” Jimin’s expression looks awkward, like he’s forcing his facial muscles to stay relaxed and mien nonchalant.

“Wh- oh, you mean because of earlier? He isn’t. That’s not him being angry. It’s not even you. It’s me. We just have - a slight difference in opinions, I suppose. If you can even call it that.”

“He doesn’t want you to date me,” concludes Jimin.

The frustrations you’d repressed earlier in the day come back. Why does Seokjin’s opinion matter? You huff, putting your spoon down.

“He’s not my dad. And even if he was, I’m grown. I can make my own decisions.” You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it... It’s not like it’s any of his business in the first place.”

“Still...” Jimin says, unsure. “He’s your agent. I wouldn’t want the relation between you to sour because of me.”

“Honestly, I’m convinced it’s not even you he has a problem with. We talked about it today and I think he’s getting antsy because, um, you know, I haven’t accepted any big offers lately. Like, I’m staying too much in my comfort zone or something. He says that in the long run that can be detrimental to my career.”

It’s a bit strange, discussing your work with Jimin. You both work in the same industry, Jimin as a second camera assistant and you as an adult entertainer, but outside of filming sets, you rarely acknowledge what the other person does for a living.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He wants me to branch out and try new things.”

“What, you mean anal? Gangbangs?”

“Um, yeah. All that, probably...” You have to blink several times because of the shock of hearing Jimin say that so casually. “...Is that okay?”

“Huh?” Jimin in turn blinks at you, like your question doesn’t properly register. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’m fine with it. You said it’ll be good for your career?”

“Apparently.”

“Then, yeah.” He shrugs like he isn’t bothered by the news at all. “Of course that’s okay.”

A part of you wants to push the issue, ask him why he’d be fine with his girlfriend filming intense sex scenes with random men, but that inner voice is snuffed out before the poisonous thought has time to take root.

Isn’t this what you always wanted? A boyfriend who is accepting and understanding of your profession?

You wash down your worries with a gulp or two of soju, determined not to let your own insecurities ruin the rest of your night.

Less than 24 hours after you’ve agreed to work on a worthwhile project of Seokjin’s choosing, a slew of texts blow up your phone.

Unsurprisingly, it’s your agent. A quick scroll through your phone reveals that your agent has left you with no less than 15 messages, 1 voicemail, and 3 e-mails.

It’s...a lot. You’ve grown to expect that kind of fanfare with him. Like any man who deals with legally binding contracts on a daily basis, Seokjin ensures that you keep your word. He can be extremely persuasive when he sets his mind to it. You’ve seen men and women alike succumb to the force of his magnetism. Back when your filmography had solely consisted of amateur sex tapes shot in bad lighting with low-grade filming equipment, Seokjin's charms alone had been sufficient to win over lukewarm casting directors and book you jobs.

SEOKJIN : hey!!!!!!!!

SEOKJIN : ???

SEOKJIN : wow. you’re leaving me on read.........the audacity.

SEOKJIN : i raised you on my back and this is how you repay me?

SEOKJIN : do you not respect your elders in your household?

SEOKJIN : i swear if you’re blowing me off for jimmy instead of answering your calls .........

SEOKJIN : or blowing jimmy. either one.

SEOKJIN : ok it’s been 10 min. i’m chill but not that chill.

SEOKJIN : can you please stop sucking dick and read your emails. it’s important.

YOU : ever heard of multitasking? god gave us two hands for a reason

SEOKJIN : oh. nasty.

SEOKJIN : way to ruin my lunch.

SEOKJIN : well. suck down that nut sauce asap

SEOKJIN : cos what i sent you needs your undivided attention

YOU : i’m nasty?? me????

YOU : you don’t hear me saying nUT SAUCE you freak

SEOKJIN : nutté sauce

SEOKJIN : there. fixed it.

YOU : ...that’s not even a thing

SEOKJIN : well it should be!

SEOKJIN : adding accents makes it instantly classier, don’t you think? nutté sauce. has a nice ring to it.

SEOKJIN : honestly. sounds like some fancy four star french starter now.

YOU : ???? it absolutely doesn’t but ok

SEOKJIN : imagine. during a scene you just yell out

SEOKJIN : “i’d like a serving of your nutté sauce to go”

YOU : dicks would shrivel up on the spot

SEOKJIN : what? i think it’s brilliant!

SEOKJIN : my talent is wasted as an agent. should’ve been a scriptwriter instead.

YOU : yes i’m sure the oscars are weeping over the missed opportunity

He takes your sarcasm at face value, feeding you more ridiculous variants of faux french cum lingo—that which you very wisely choose not to reply to. Instead of humoring him, you open the .pdf file he’s sent your way, ignoring the near-constant buzzing of your phone as he’s no doubt pestering you for an immediate answer.

Had it not been necessary for business, you’d have blocked his number ages ago. In fact, after that nut sauce comment you’re seriously reconsidering, business obligations be damned.

To his credit, the film project he suggests you work on doesn't sound half-bad despite its questionable title. Why anyone would choose to name it THE SPERMINATOR is beyond you.

As you read through the proposition, you’re surprised to find it’s tamer than the initial imaginary scenario you’d played out in your head. Expecting to read through a long list of unnameable kinks and dicks, the scene description is rather domestic all things considered.

Your shoulders sag in relief. You enjoy sex as much as the next person, but even you have limits you’re not willing or eager to cross. You’re a human being, first and foremost, and, contrary to popular belief, not competing in the sex olympics.

From what you’ve read so far, nothing in Seokjin’s offer seems too strenuous or perverse. The scene in question is centered around a young, newly married couple trying to conceive for the first time and the sex acts are described as “romantic insemination” - whatever the fuck that means. The only complication you can think of is that you’ve never played the part of a married couple before. None of your previous films specifically target couples or women. Is romance something you can sell accordingly?

You’re quick to shake the concern off once you remember that no one cares if your acting is shit or not. All you probably have to do is yell out ‘Daddy’ a few times mid-thrust and call it a day.

Honestly, you’re a bit disappointed in Seokjin for choosing such a safe, no-risk project - especially since he constantly advocates the risk-return trade off as the way to live by. But you’re not about to start complaining. You’d rather shoot this type of innocuous scenario than ridiculous, hentai-like scenes involving freakish get-ups and toys of monster proportions not realistically made to fit in a vagina.

The deal is perfect. Almost too perfect.

Subconsciously, you must realize something is wrong. Maybe Seokjin’s many lessons have finally rubbed off on you because there’s a persistent voice in your ear warning you that the film proposition is a trap, one that you’ve unfortunately walked straight into.

Your wariness increases when he refuses to send you the script upon request. Alarm bells ring off but by then it’s too late.

“The thing is... Director Ryu wants to try a new type of project," Seokjin says over the phone once you call him up for answers. "He thinks he’s going to pioneer a new genre of porn and revolutionize the industry - his words, not mine.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“How do I explain this without you getting the wrong idea..."

“Is this meant to reassure me?!” Dread drips from your tone. You should’ve suspected something was off from the very moment Seokjin suggested to shoot vanilla porn as your next big project. What a joke.

“Calm down, it's not as bad as - whatever you're thinking.” Too bad that his attempts to calm you down have the opposite effect. “He’s been wanting to try out a new improvisation format for his porn movies.”

“Come again?”

A beat of uncomfortable quiet passes. Reluctantly, Seokjin explains, “Which means - there isn’t an actual script to go off of. That’s why I couldn’t send it to you - because there is none. He wants it to be as realistic and natural as possible so he’s looking for actors who can go with their gut and create their own scenario instead of ones who need to be directed.”

Your resounding silence speaks for itself.

Sure, sometimes they provide scripts to act as guidelines, roughly giving the actor an idea of how the scene will unfold, but no one is expected to follow it word for word. Most porn films rely on improvisation rather than scripts because of how notoriously bad porn stars are at acting and memorizing more than a few lines at a time, and the introduction scene never lasts very long anyway for it to make a noticeable difference. Besides, after filming a handful of movies, you’ve noticed the dialogue is more or less all the same.

What bothers you is that this director wants you to carry out a movie that relies heavily on improvised dialogue. Convincingly.

“C’mon,” Seokjin tries when you refuse to deign him with an answer. “It’ll be fun. You like acting, right?”

“Seokjin...” You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to keep your composure in check. “How do I break this down for you? I think you’re forgetting the most crucial detail here - I can’t act! The closest I've ever gotten to acting is faking an orgasm and I’m pretty certain that doesn’t count."

“And you do that very well!" says Seokjin encouragingly. "You'll be fine. Don’t stress over it. Your scenes with Min Yoongi last time were perfectly acceptable!”

“That’s the thing.” Stress makes your voice raise a half-step. “He did, like, 90% of the acting! Back then, all I had to do was moan and act like a slut! Which hardly counts - I was being myself. Whatever this - thing - you’re attempting to rope me into - I’m not qualified for it.”

“Sweetheart, we’re not aiming for the fucking Oscars here.” When he laughs, it’s practiced enough to sound sincere. “At the end of the day, it’s still porn. Nobody’s expecting you to be the next Meryl. And besides,” he presses on, clearly refusing to change his mind. “This is exactly what you need right now. Something fresh, something new. If you pull this off, you’ll gain exposure.”

“If I pull it off. Big if."

“I know it sounds like a gamble. I get it, I do. But remember what I always say? High risk—”

“Yes, yes. High reward. I get it.” Your frown deepens. “There’s no way to know this will work, though.”

“A good co-star already guarantees you half of the success. And luckily for you, the guy they signed on seems like the real deal. He’s hot, you’re hot. People will pay money to see you two fuck regardless of how good or bad the acting is.”

“Well. That’s reassuring,” you say, voice as flat as a board. “Although I suppose watching porn on mute is always an option if it comes to that.”

“It was a joke!” What worries you is that it doesn’t sound like it is. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve seen some of your co-star’s tapes. He’s got a mouth on him, if you know what I mean. Just let him lead and it’ll go swimmingly.”

“It’s one thing to follow someone’s lead during sex but you want me to - to improvise for God knows how long! That’s just asking for a disaster to happen.”

“You said you were up for a challenge!” Seokjin throws your words back at you, his tone accusing.

“And you said this would be beneficial for my career! How is making a fool out of myself going to help me any? I don’t want to be remembered as the girl who can’t act to save her life.” You want to cry in frustration. If you had wanted to act you would’ve chosen that as your major in college. “I don’t - I can’t do this. I’m not - this isn’t what I signed up for! How do you expect me to convince viewers what they’re watching is real...”

“Just—” Exasperated, he takes a deep breath. Exhales. “Trust me. When have I ever been wrong about film projects.”

Is putting your career at risk really worth it? You’re not sure anymore.

On the bright side, it’ll finally get Seokjin off your back, you reason, trying to remain positive. That in itself is worth celebrating, right?

Fine. You’ll agree to it out of pettiness. Once Seokjin realizes what a terrible idea this entire ordeal is, you won’t hesitate to rub it back in his face. He’ll never hear the end of it.

"Who am I working with, anyway?”

"Ah, hm, well." Hesitation creeps up his voice for the first time, putting you instantly on edge. "...You won't know him. He's new to the scene - got started a month or two ago, I forget."

"Great. Not only am I being used as a lab rat for this director to experiment on but you're also pairing me with a fucking rookie. Jesus.”

"He’s not half bad! He’s not bad at all, actually. I wouldn't be insisting if I didn't trust him not to blow his load early."

"Aren’t I lucky,” you deadpan. “So I don't have to worry about him busting a nut before the director gives the signal?"

“All you’ll have to do is act like a married couple with baby fever,” he talks over you, ignoring your overflowing sarcasm. “And how hard can that be? You’ve been loved up with Jumin for a month now - that’s plenty enough practice if you ask me. I know you’ll be able to sell that romantic shit to the public without too much trouble.”

“It’s Jimin,” you correct from force of habit.

You’re promptly ignored — not that you expected anything less from him.

"Just give it a thought? And get back to me when you make up your mind. The sooner the better. The offer won't stay on the table forever." Even over the line, you can picture Seokjin raising his eyebrows at you, expectant. “If you’re serious about this job, you know what you have to do.”

You both know that you’ll accept the offer. Seokjin’s got you all figured out. As much as you don’t like being pushed around, the need to prove yourself is your main driving factor. The acquaintances who sneer at you, the family members who’ve shun you, the peers who expect you to burn out after the five month mark—you’d rather roll over and die than prove their misconceptions right.

It’s a matter of pride when you sniff and reply, “I’ll think about it.”

But the decision is already made before the call ends.

SCENE 02 - THE SPERMINATOR. TAKE 02. ROLL B.

Eight days later you find yourself squeezed into a brazenly short dress that zips in the front, more fit for a night out in a club than a dinner at home. It’s so ridiculously tight, you feel like a prey being swallowed down by a snake. There’s no room to breathe. You can’t wait for the scene to start, if only so you can dispose of the piece of fabric and never wear it again.

Unfortunately, your outfit gets worse because thrown over the clubbing attire is a frilly apron with small hearts embroidered along the hem. The mismatch is jarring. You’re not sure what look the stylist is going for but the end result is very...peculiar.

You comfort yourself with the knowledge that it could always be worse.

A quick glance at the digital clock on your phone confirms that you’re running on time. Good. After your last gig, the last thing you want is to spend hours waiting for the personnel to set up the cameras and sound equipment correctly.

Thankfully, today’s team works like a well-oiled machine. All that’s left are the last-minute preparations before the shoot begins.

Your false eyelashes are still drying when Seokjin elbows you sharply in the ribs. You crack open an eye to glare at him. “Ouch - ah, seriously? What is it now?”

“That’s him, that’s him!” Seokjin whispers under his breath, his gaze glued to a point somewhere beyond your shoulder. “Wooow. Aren’t you a lucky bitch? I’d gargle his nutté sauce for breakfast, if you get what I mean. He looks way better in person, damn.”

“Firstly - please never say that out loud again.” You fake a gag. “How do I buy myself a new set of ears?”

Seokjin ignores your dramatics. He shoots you a look. “You let that last guy draw a starfish on your face with his crème de la nut but did you hear me go sick?”

“That’s not the same and you know it!” Your jaw drops in indignation. “And can you stop trying to make nut cream a thing for the love of—”

“What’s this about nut cream?”

You whip your head around, mortification already etched onto your features. Your mouth opens, defense at the ready, only for your throat to clamp up.

“Oh.” You blink up in surprise because - well, Seokjin’s earlier assessment isn’t embellished. The guy is fit as fuck.

You’d seen photos in passing, had even googled his name out of curiosity, but the two-dimensional version of him pales to his real life physique. There’s a sharpness to his features that the camera fails to pick up on, a vibrancy that gets lost in the medium.

“Hey. I’m Hoseok.” His grip is firm, assertive, and your eyes naturally wander over his form. The loose muscle tee he’s thrown on puts his toned arms on display and makes it easier to admire the seemingly endless expanse of sun-kissed skin. He’s neither too thick nor too spindly, his muscles lean and firm instead of bulging. Strong but not intimidating. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” You swallow, mouth dry.

You expect him to leave it at that like most of your past co-stars usually do. Or worse - for him to abandon all pretenses and cross lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. As someone who has experienced it all - from standoffish to creepy and vile - nothing surprises you anymore.

But unlike your, admittedly low, expectations, his gaze is warm and friendly. He speaks smoothly, leaving no time for an awkward silence to instill itself.

“Yeah, I know who you are! I saw a video or two of yours before - you were featured on the agency’s main page last month, right? Fuckin’ genius, by the way. Best stuff I’ve seen in a long ass time.” An easy grin sits on his face, nothing about it fake or contrived. “I hope we get along today. I haven’t done much work myself - yet anyway - but I hope this can be a good experience for the both of us.”

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seokjin assures, patting your shoulder like a proud parent. “_____ here is the best talent I’ve signed on.”

“That I can believe,” Hoseok chimes, his smile never waning. “I’ve heard good stuff about you. I won’t lie - it reassured me a fuck ton when I heard I’d be working with you. The stuff we’re doing is, well, it’s a bit of a gamble at this point, but I’m sure it’ll go well because I’ll be working with you.”

For a brief, embarrassing moment, you’re robbed of words, unable to respond to his flattery. From experience, you know to be wary of guys like him. Whenever someone lays it on thick they always have an ulterior motive. But what could possibly be his?

“Seokjin’s saying that because I’m the only one who can stand his nagging,” you finally say, your shoulders stiff. Maybe it’s because you’ve just met, but it’s hard to figure him out and it doesn’t help that you’re naturally wary of strangers.

“Oh hush. You love me.” Sensing how guarded you’ve become, Seokjin mercifully offers you an out. “It was nice meeting you, Hoseok. Wish we could stay and chat but she has to get ready to film the pre-interview portion.”

“Oh yeah, that’s cool. Catch you later.”

You offer a quick smile he returns tenfold, its brightness momentarily dazzling you.

Slightly dazed from the intensity of it, you stagger behind Seokjin, sun spots dotting your vision. Your surroundings blur together as your mind tries to recover from the interaction.

“Sooooooooo?” Seokjin sing-songs once you’ve walked far enough to be out of earshot. His brows are raised knowingly, an infuriating type of smugness clinging to his features. “What did I tell you! He’s hot enough to single-highhandedly melt a glacier, huh?”

You scoff, not willing to admit anything. “He’s okay.”

“Oh c’mon. He’s baby daddy material for sure. Which works out well for you since he’s gonna pump one into you later.”

For once the grimace that crosses your face isn’t exaggerated. “Please. Stop. Talking. I’m this close to heaving out my lunch.”

You’re not even joking with that one. Attractive as Hoseok may be, any talk of baby-making is enough to dissipate any smidgens of lust.

The reminder of what the upcoming scene entails and the expectations people carry crash down on you like a pile of bricks. Although you’ve done your best to ignore the fact you’ll be acting today, the meeting with Hoseok yanks you harshly back to reality.

You’re going to act. As a married couple. Trying to conceive a baby.

Three things that have never, ever been on your bucket list are now about to be crossed out in the span of the same afternoon. To that you can only say - what the fuck is my life.

Like a mounting wave before the inevitable crash, panic crests within you. You feel it gradually build and build, flooding your lungs and every crevice of your body with overwhelming anxiety.

Seokjin sighs. “How are you going to make it through today? The whole point of the sex scene is to get you pregnant. Or fake pregnant. You know what I mean.”

“Um...” You try to laugh but it comes out shaky. Seokjin shoots you a concerned look. “I’ll be fine! Really! I can do it. It’s just acting like you said, right? It’s not like he’s actually gonna knock me up in real life. So. Totally fine. It’s fine. Perfect.”

Seokjin’s concern grows. His eyebrows pinch together and his expression turns serious. He asks with no trace of mockery, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay!” you reply. It’s too rushed of an answer to convince him. Your palms feel clammy and you wipe them off your damned apron. “Just. Nervous. Y’know.”

His steps slow to a halt and he places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. The weight, familiar and comforting, grounds you to reality. “Hey. What’s there to be nervous about? You got this.”

“Yeah.” You nod. Maybe if you say it enough times you’ll trick yourself into believing it. “I’ve got this.”

“Look. Let me be honest for a second. I’ve been an agent for eight years now and I’ve seen a lot of talents come and go. No pun intended.” You smile back at him weakly. “You’ve got something...extra a lot of them lacked. I knew the moment I saw you on film you’d go far. The energy you bring onscreen is insane. I know today might seem new and strange - but so was your first ever professionally shot film, right? And you got through that fine. You’ll do great. I know it. And, not to toot my own horn, but I’m always right.”

That earns him a laugh. The nerves are still there but thanks to his pep talk it’s easier to breathe.

Despite being a big pain in the ass, Seokjin is exemplary at his job. Without him, you’re acutely aware you wouldn’t have gotten half as far as you have. Having him by your side is a reassurance in itself.

Someone calls your name, pulling you from your thoughts. When you turn around, you’re face to face with the round, bespectacled face of Director Ryu. You reckon he’s in his early forties but he acts younger than his age. It’s your first time working with him but so far he’s been nice enough, if a little full of himself. Not that you’re unaccustomed with working alongside conceited colleagues.

“Oh good, you’re back. You can get seated for the interview bit.” He points over to a chair placed in front of a pale yellow wall. From close up, you can see a paint job is in order, the old coat chipping off in several places. “Alright, this won’t last long - just need you to answer some questions on tape and we’ll be good to go.”

“Sure thing.” You nod and follow his directions, sitting still while the hair and make-up artist steps up to give your lips a final touch-up.

Strictly speaking, the before and after interviews aren’t a necessity. In your experience, directors mostly film the short question-and-answer sequence when you’re set to film hardcore sex scenes as a way to show viewers everything is consensual and that you thoroughly enjoyed the experience despite whatever might have transpired on screen.

You reckon the director wants to film you today to document the process behind his “groundbreaking film project”. Cue roll of eyes.

Somebody needs to tell him he isn’t inventing anything, you think while watching him fiddle with the camera until he’s completely satisfied with the angle. All he’s done so far is add unnecessary pressure on you. You hope Hoseok is faring better because the amount of performance anxiety you’re experiencing is an instant boner killer.

“You nervous?” the director asks once he’s done adjusting the camera lens.

While by some standards you’re still considered a newbie in the industry, you’ve done this enough times to fall into a routine. Wake-up, breakfast, get ready, arrive before call time, fill out all the paperwork and get ready to shoot your solo stills. It’s familiar enough that you’ve long stopped getting pre-performance jitters.

Today’s rush of anxiety is as surprising as it is unwelcome. They don’t want to hear that particular truth though, so you keep your reply sweet and bubbly.

“Nah,” you grin, wide and easy. “I’m super excited to film today!”

“Oh yeah? Is it perhaps because of your co-star?”

Your smile freezes for a second. Somewhere over the director’s shoulder you can see Seokjin nodding enthusiastically while giving you the double thumbs up. “Hoseok? He’s hot, sure.”

“Ooh. Already on a first name basis?”

“Hm?” you let out a noise of polite confusion, only belatedly realizing that his viewers know him better as his porn alias, J-Hope. But there’s no way in hell you’re going to yell that out loud while he’s fucking an orgasm out of you. Not only does it sound ridiculous but it’ll shatter whatever carefully crafted illusion you manage to build. “Um, yes. We’re getting to know each other. He’s very friendly.”

“I’m sure he is.” And there’s an implication there that doesn’t sit too well with you but thankfully Director Ryu chooses to move on and put that particular subject to rest.

“You ever shoot an insemination scene before?”

“Not yet.” You make sure to keep the smile on your face even if your cheeks are beginning to hurt. “I can’t wait to get to it. It’s a fantasy I’ve always had but never tried out for myself. I’m excited to film a first on camera!”

The director has yet to call you out for your bullshit so you slowly start to relax. Acting is a bit like lying, isn’t it? Maybe you can get through today after all.

You breeze through the rest of the questions, forcing out practiced laughs here and there all whilst keeping your voice syrupy sweet. It’s quick work, especially when you know what to expect. Before you know it, it’s already time to film the pièce de résistance. Everyone that’s allowed on set during filming filters into the kitchen, conversations between crew members dying down as they use their last recreational moments to check their phones.

The director’s filming style exempts you from shooting the customary pre-shoot sex stills which are essentially promotional pictures of you and and your partner in every sex position that you’ll be filming for real later on. You’re thankful for that, at least. Even with all of your on-camera experience, staying perfectly silent and still with someone’s dick inside you is no easy feat. It’s worse when you have to keep eye contact with your co-star and fake sexual gratification because the shot calls for it.

Hoseok waves at you from the other side of the room, the hair and makeup artist dusting some powder across the slope of his nose.

How can he look so relaxed?! You’re barely holding your lunch down. Honestly, it’s a miracle you’re able to now tat the butterflies are back in full force, making a mess of your stomach.

You feel queasy but try not to make it too obvious even as Seokjin comes around to check up on you. The last thing you want to do is make a scene, especially when your onscreen counterpart's demeanor is making you look amateurish in comparison.

Maybe Hoseok is a better actor than you’re able to give most porn stars credit for because try as you might, you fail to detect any nervous undercurrent in his tone. For someone who is supposedly starring in his first major project, he doesn’t seem all too bothered about how it might play out.

How does he do it?! In all honesty, if Seokjin hadn’t informed you of his rookie status, you would be none the wiser.

There’s an ease with which he carries himself, a fluidity in his movements that belies no anxiety or awkwardness. Even from this distance you can tell that there’s never a hint of hesitation in his movements or speech; he doesn’t seem self-conscious in the least. He talks and moves with the assurance of someone who has been in the industry for months, not weeks.

In that moment you envy him. You’re so nervous about the upcoming scene that it’s hard to feign an air of professional detachment.

His boisterous laugh is loud enough to carry across the room and interrupt your line of thought. When you look over at him again, you find him folded in half, hands clutching his sides, and wearing a grin so bright it eclipses the entirety of his face.

“He seems nice.”

You jump, startled by Jimin’s sudden appearance. You hadn’t even heard him draw near. With a sheepish expression, you turn to look up at him only to find him already staring off into the distance. There’s a strange look painting his face, and a small crease in his brow that usually isn’t present. When you follow his line of sight, you’re met with the image of Hoseok talking animatedly to the the small crowd that’s flocked around him.

“Yeah.” You aren’t sure what else to say. Although there’s no sarcasm attached to his words, you can’t help but find Jimin unnaturally tense.

Which makes sense, you concede guiltily. A mere stranger is minutes away from dicking down his girlfriend. You’re not sure how you’d feel if you were to stand in his shoes.

You breathe in deep, silently willing away the knot of distress in your belly. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing. It’s just a job. A profession that Jimin has always been fully aware of, even before you’d begun dating.

Even as you remind yourself of the facts, it does little to dispel the lingering feelings of doubt and guilt.

“Hey.” Jimin frowns at you in concern. “You alright?”

“Yep!” you say then immediately sigh, knowing that lying to your boyfriend is pointless. “I’m just a bit nervous.”

“Nervous?” Jimin’s worry grows, the crease in his brow deepening. “What about?”

“Just—” You gesture around with your hands. “All of this.”

“Oh.” He looks genuinely surprised. “But you don’t usually get nervous... Is it the impregnation thing you’ll have to do? I know you’ve said you’re not a big fan of that. Or... Is it something else?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. It’s a bit of everything yet at the same time nothing you can clearly pinpoint and put a finger on. In all logic, you know that you’re feeling disproportionately stressed out but you can’t stop yourself from feeling how you feel. “It’s not that I don’t want to film. I just - I’m worried I won’t do well.”

Jimin takes your hand between his, running a thumb in soothing circles across the surface of your skin. He repeats the motion several times until your heartbeat is completely synced to his touch.

“You’ll do great. You always do.” The lines of his mouth bend into a smile. “I’ll be on the sidelines cheering you on.”

“My very own cheerleader.” You allow yourself to relax and and smile back fondly.

As much as you worry about Jimin being upset with you filming sex scenes with other actors, he’s never been anything less than the supporting boyfriend you’ve always dreamed of. Seokjin calls Jimin’s constant presence on set maddening, but you’re thankful that your boyfriend sticks by your side while others might flee or shame you.

Suddenly, you’re overcome with emotion. Maybe it’s the stress, or maybe today you’re more hormonal than usual, but your eyes threaten to well up as you grip his palm tightly in your own. “Jimin, I—”

“Okay, lovebirds!” Seokjin claps his hands once, effectively ruining your moment. “Hand-holding time is over. We’re moving onto the more R-rated stuff.”

“Seokjin!” you hiss, upset over his horrible timing.

“It’s fine.” Jimin shakes his head. “He’s right, shoot’s about to start anytime soon. I need to get ready, too.”

“Right.”

Reluctantly, you let go of Jimin’s hand.

“Don’t pout.” He laughs and presses a quick, chaste kiss to your mouth. “I’ll wait for you after filming and we can go grab dinner. Italian sound fine?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” You bob your head eagerly. “I’m literally dying for carbs. Italian sounds more than perfect.”

“Good.”

You can’t resist sneaking in one last peck before Jimin retreats behind the cameras and you’re pulled to stand in front of a granite kitchen tabletop. Director Ryu is waiting for you, Hoseok already by his side.

From close-up, your co-star looks even more striking. The make-up artist’s work highlights his features without going overboard. The lines of his face are sharp, like every single one has been meticulously drawn. What usually would give someone a hostile and unapproachable impression is balanced out by the liveliness that lights up his eyes and his wide smile that looks almost too big for his face.

“It’ll start in the kitchen and then we’ll work out way to the bedroom.” Director Ryu points down the hallway. “I was thinking of keeping it all in the bedroom but nothing screams domesticity more than kitchen scenes, right?”

“Uh-huh.” You give a polite nod. Next to you, Hoseok coughs into his fist.

“Depending on how this goes we might have to take several takes - just keep that in mind.”

That’s nothing out of the ordinary. Sex scenes are never filmed in one take. There’s always one thing or another - a smoke break, a flaccid dick, a lighting fixture that needs to be changed. A 45 minute porn movie is the result of the editing team that painstakingly goes through, cuts and assembles hours of footage.

“Remember,” Director Ryu instructs, one hand cocked on his hips. “You’re still stuck in that honeymoon phase. All the two of you want to do is fuck like horny bunnies but your husband’s been away all day. Both of you have been waiting for this reunion for hours and hours. I want to feel that level of tension, got it?”

Hoseok nods like a dutiful student, his expression comically serious. You’d laugh if it wasn’t so inappropriate.

“Yep. Ok. Got it.”

You just want the director to stop talking so that you can get this over with quickly. The monologue is just delaying the inevitable.

Director Ryu spends extra minutes setting up the scene, emphasizing how in love and passionate the two of you should behave, describing how long you’ve been wanting to try for a baby, going into explicit detail about what the sex scenes should convey to the viewers. He just goes on and on and on with no end it sight.

At this point even Hoseok is growing restless. His feet refuse to stay still and his eyes dart around the room as if his attention is drawn elsewhere. It’s Hoseok’s constant fidgeting that draws Director Ryu out of his monologue. He finally senses that there’s a unanimous decision to start filming and retires behind the camera to settle himself in his appointed chair.

Hoseok shares a long look with you. “Is he always like that?”

“God, I hope not.” You lower your voice to whisper, “Seokjin - my agent - he says apparently Director Ryu wanted to make a career off of documentaries once he graduated from film school but quickly switched genres once he saw how little filming the mating habits of koalas was earning him.”

“Ah,” Hoseok nods conspiratorially before his features shift into something more serious. “Hey. Before we start, is there anything you’re not comfortable with? I know this scene is supposed to lean towards vanilla but you never know... I’d rather make sure. Just in case.”

You blink, taken aback. Hard limits aren’t really discussed outside of hardcore scenes. Sure, everyone is given a safeword before shoots begin but even screaming out “STOP!” or “Can we take a break from filming?” is enough to put the filmed scene on hold.

“Ah... No. I’m okay. But thanks for asking.” A moment passes and you add, “Is there - are there any words or kinks that bother you?”

Hoseok shakes his head. “Not for this one. Just - if there’s anything you’d rather me not say or do, don’t hesitate.”

You nod in reply, not sure of what else to say. Unfortunately your past experiences with men have made you suspicious of any form of flattery or kindness.

Soon, though, you relax. What reason is there for Hoseok to deceive you? Maybe he still has that rookie mindset. You can relate to the eagerness and the desire to do well you’d had in your early days of filming.

“Alright. Good luck, Hoseok.”

His smile is so bright that it erases your previous doubts. Surely someone with ill-intentions wouldn’t be able to smile like that, right? You return a tentative smile of your own. Something akin to understanding seems to pass between you. Although you don’t know Hoseok and he doesn’t know you, you trust him enough for this scene.

The moment is broken when Director Ryu directs Hoseok to wait outside the camera’s line of vision and you’re left alone in front of the kitchen stove.

Any moment now, you think. A telltale silence falls over the staff members as they all anticipate the director’s signal for the scene to start.

The first few seconds are always tricky. You’re no actress. There’s no switch inside of you that flips on and off as soon as the director commands “ACTION!” and “CUT!”. The world around you doesn’t fade out, your ‘porn star persona’ doesn’t claw its way out from within you and lunge for the nearest available dick. Sometimes, if you’re not attracted to your onscreen partner, you find your mind drifting off, making an inventory of your fridge and wondering what you’ll be able to cook up for dinner with two eggs and leftover rice.

When Director Ryu shouts “ACTION!” and slams down the plate, you freeze up. Usually you have an idea of what to say or do, but the words and actions won’t come to you this time.

Someone behind the cameras lets out a light cough. Oh right, you blink down at the simmering pot of water in front of you. The cameras are recording you making an utter fool out of yourself.

The spike of humiliation forces you into action. You’re more professional than this, damn it. You give the water a tentative stir, movements wooden and stiff. It’s hard to concentrate. All you can do is watch as the water simmers to a boil, the sound of bubbling water like a roaring current in your ears.

A door creaks open, signalling your onscreen husband’s return home.

To your horror, you find that you’re unable to move, as if your limbs had forgotten their primary function.

Before the scene had started, you had envisioned yourself throwing yourself into the arms of your loving husband and welcoming him home with a shower of kisses and words of affection. You had internally rehearsed it, had even thought of what you could say to him between pecks, but the reality is far removed from what you had practiced.

“Darling?” Hoseok’s voice is soft but loud enough for you to hear him over the angry sounds of boiling water. The vowels he uses are rounded, different from the bright pep in his tone from earlier.

You want to respond but your tongue feels like lead, too heavy in your mouth to articulate and form the proper reply. What are you supposed to call him, anyway? Honey? Hoseok? A nickname derived from his name? What do newlywed spouses call each other? Why couldn’t you give this more thought before the cameras began rolling?

Panic balloons inside you, threatening to burst. For a terrifying and mortifying second, you think that you’ve gone and ruined everything. The muscles in your shoulders bunch up and you half-expect the director to shout ‘CUT!’, give you a public scolding for missing your cue and berate you for your overall ineptitude.

Hoseok’s arms wrap around your middle before you have time to agonize any further. Just as you suspected, his arms are strong, the lean muscles flexing as he readjusts his hold around your waist. What you don’t expect, however, is the unadulterated warmth he radiates. His body burns hot; even through the layers of clothing separating the two of you, his warmth seeps through. But it’s strangely comfortable, not unlike basking in the afternoon sun during the last days of summer. You let yourself melt into his embrace.

“You’re not even going to say hi?”

With your back turned to him, you can’t be sure, but you imagine the pout playing at his lips. He tucks his chin in the crook of your shoulder. If he feels any awkwardness, he doesn’t let it show.

Miraculously, your mouth seems to be in working order again. It takes you a few seconds too long to find the appropriate answer, but it finally comes before the director can cut in to make any remarks.

“If I turn around right now, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you,” you explain. “And - I don’t want to ruin our dinner.”

Just to keep up the pretense, you add a handful of spaghetti into the pot of water.

Hoseok lets out a hum from behind you. He’s standing close enough for you to feel the vibrations low in his throat.

“I hate it,” he says after a stretch of silence.

You pout. “What? My cooking? What’s wrong with it?”

“No, silly. I hate -” he sighs, buries his face in your neck before looking back up so the camera can capture his expression. “I hate not being with you. I missed this.”

He hugs you from behind before kissing your neck. It starts off innocuous - his lips pressing short, chaste kisses down the column of your throat. Quickly, however, his mouth lingers on your skin.

“Ah - don’t. I’m cooking!” you shriek when his teeth scrape over a sensitive spot under your jaw. Your protests are half-hearted and go by unacknowledged. The pot of pasta could overflow right now and no one would care, least of all you.

Hoseok noses your neck while he tightening his grip around your waist, the movement bringing his hips flush against your lower back. You give the pot in front of you a very unenthusiastic stir, attention focused instead on the way his lips tenderly skim the surface of your skin, testing and teasing. The sensation feels nice - and keeps your mind off of the several cameras directed your way.

“But I went all day missing my princess,” he sighs, open mouthed against your neck. “Spent all day thinking about you.”

“Y-you did?”

“Mhm.” He gives your exposed shoulder a peck. Then another. “Thought about your cute little laugh.”

His line catches you off guard. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Porn is often crude and to the point. You’re used to men complimenting your body parts or praising your skills in bed. You’d never minded, either. But Hoseok’s choice of words make you eager in a different way.

“What else?”

“Well, your cooking, for sure. Without you I’d be eating out of ramyeon packets for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

You let out a snort.

“That’s true. Your cooking is so horrible it’s offensive.”

“Hey now. Don’t be mean.” He pokes your cheek before pinching your chin to turn your head towards him. “I can cook a decent omelet.”

Hoseok’s a good few inches taller than you so you have to strain your neck to be able to look him in the eyes. The slight discomfort barely registers. You’re too transfixed by the way he stares at you. It’s hard to place the expression because you’ve never seen it on a fellow actor before. Normally, the men you work with stare you down with hungry and lustful intent, but there’s none of that in Hoseok’s gaze.

The expression on his face cannot be described as innocent, either. He licks his lips, drawing your attention to the pretty lines of his mouth delicately curved into a smile.

“I missed the way you feel in my arms.” His voice sounds deeper, this time. “I missed holding you close to me. Kissing you. Reminding you how much I love you. I missed the look in your eyes when - “

“When?”

He smirks. “You sure you want to hear it? What if you can’t keep your hands off of me after? I don’t want to be held responsible for soggy pasta.”

“Hoseok,” you whine, one of your hands reaching down to slap at the hold around your stomach.

He tightens his hold around you and your breath hitches, suddenly all too aware of how firm his body feels behind you. The smirk on his face widens as he leans forward to confess his next words.

“I was thinking about how I miss the look on your face whenever I make your pussy sloppy with my cum.”

“Hoseok!”

One moment he’s crooning sweet words of affection, the next he’s spitting out filth. The quick back-and-forth gives you whiplash but you can’t say you dislike it. Unlike the tired and overused clichéd porn scenarios you’ve filmed in the past, Hoseok’s unpredictable behavior has the advantage of keeping you on your toes.

“You missed it too, hm?” He kisses your neck, lips soft and warm. “Kept thinking about how pretty you sound. So, so pretty. Especially when I give you what you want.”

“How would you know what I want?” You turn your head forwards so you can pretend to check up on the cooking pasta. “You were away all day.”

Hoseok’s eyes flash dangerously.

“How would I know?” he parrots back, his tone sweet and mocking. Something about it sends tingles down your spine and has you standing up straighter. “I always know what my pretty wife wants. I know because your body can’t lie to me.”

His hands wander, one of them inching up the material of your frilly apron to reach between your breasts. The movement is slow enough for a camera to zoom in and follow its trail. Hoseok rests his hand on your left breast and gives it a squeeze.

“See?” He repeats the action. “Your heart’s racing like crazy.”

You swallow audibly, finding it hard to come up with a witty riposte.

He continues with a chuckle, “You can’t deny it, can you? Your body’s too honest for your own good. It’s okay. You don’t have to say you missed me. I know.”

His self-assured way of talking makes it easier for you to react. This - the cockiness, the playfulness - you’re familiar with.

You roll your eyes and continue to give the pot in front of you a few additional stirs only for your breath to hitch when he starts to grind his hips against your lower back in time with your stirs.

Fuck is your only coherent thought. He rolls his hips so well it’s impossible not to imagine them doing something else. Your bottom lip grows numb from how hard you bite it.

“Of course I missed you.” You keep your tone as light as possible, determined not to show that his words and actions affect you.

Hoseok’s eyes narrow. He removes his hands from around you but keeps his front pressed against your back. He smiles again, dimples poking through.

“You don’t sound convinced... That’s fine.” It sounds like the beginning of a challenge and you soon learn why.

His nimble fingers play with the knot of your apron and you tense, expecting him to make quick work of your clothes and dive straight into dessert, so to speak. Once again, he surprises you by leaving the apron alone, hands falling to his sides.

His knees hit the floor, the noise startling you. Before you have the chance to truly react, he’s quick to pull your hips backwards until your back is arched. The sudden change in position forces you to adjust your stance so as to keep your balance.

“Hoseok?” you start to question but he cuts you off with a tut and light smack to your ass.

“You just keep your eye on dinner like you were doing before.” His fingers play with the hem of your short dress, stretching the fabric until it bunches up around your hips and leaves your lacy thong on display. “You can do that, right?”

Flustered by the position he’s maneuvered you into, with your hips thrust back obscenely, legs splayed wide and pussy on show, you grip the wooden spoon in your hand with more force than necessary. “It’s just pasta. I can manage.”

Maybe you sound less indifferent than intended because Hoseok seems more amused than offended by your feinted nonchalance. He barks out a laugh, his hands spreading the meat of your cheeks aside to get a better view of your lace-covered bits.

Privately, you wish you could witness his reaction. If there’s anything that turns you on, it’s knowing how much someone else wants you. If feels good to know that you’re wanted and desired. Even if fucking is part of your job description, the act needs to be mutually enjoyable for you to be completely satisfied.

“Sure.” The lilt in his voice is so sweet that it borders on condescending. “While you do that, I think I’ll have my appetizer.”

It’s corny, overused and a little degrading - exactly the type of one-liner you’d ordinarily find in porn - but he gives you no time to call him out for it. As soon as he’s done talking, he wags his tongue out and drags it across the red lace, and the repeated up and down motions quickly dampen your panties.

You notice with great frustration that he takes care to avoid your clit, focusing instead on licking broad stripes over slit and, to your surprise, around your rim. He doesn’t stop until your underwear drips with the accumulation of your essence and his saliva. The soaked lace rubs against you, the rough texture adding pressure to your most sensitive zones, until you can’t tell if the extra sensation is a blessing or a curse. Your hips jerk forward every so often, unsure if you’d rather lean into or escape his torturous games. Because as amazing as Hoseok’s tongue feels, you know your body well enough to be able to tell that this particular tempo won’t bring you to your peak.

An appetizer, he had called it. That’s exactly what the teasing ministrations feel like - a small sampling before the main course. It’s satisfying and maddening in its own way. Good, but not enough to satisfy your ravenous appetite.

He unearths himself from your dripping core, chin shiny with your juices.

“Keep focus,” he instructs as he slots two fingers inside of you. You’re wet enough that they slide in without too much difficulty, the stretch making your stomach clench. “I thought you said you knew how to cook pasta.”

Against your will, you force yourself to focus on the bubbling water in front of you. As much as you want to push your hips back and ride his fingers until you’re pushed over the edge, you can’t take the humiliation of messing up pasta - even if it is for the sake of a porn scenario.

It’s fucking pasta! You have to be seriously inept to mess up such a simple dish...

But what should have been an effortless task becomes more challenging than expected. Hoseok refuses to go easy on you. If anything, your stubborn silence is all the motivation he needs to thrust his fingers inside of you harder, curving them at an angle that makes your knees wobble. You struggle to keep any incriminating noises at bay but despite your best efforts, several muffled moans slip out one after the other.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the logical side of you points out how dangerous all of this is. What if, during your impending orgasm, your body seizes up and knocks the boiling water everywhere during the process? You quickly switch off the gas stove at the thought. Better be safe than sorry.

Just then, Hoseok adds his tongue to the mix, his fingers relentless in their pursuit of your pleasure. You bite back a curse as the wooden spoon slips from your hold and clatters to the floor.

“Ah fu - Oh God,” you stutter, hands holding on to the edge of the counter for dear life.

You’ve been eaten out God knows how many times in your life, but not many have instinctively known what really gets you going. Hoseok laps at your core, tongue collecting the moisture that seeps through the fabric of your ruined panties, while his fingers scissor you open for his cock.

Your stomach clenches as you imagine how well he’d fill you up. Who the hell would ever want pasta for dinner when Hoseok could feed you his cock instead? Definitely not you, that’s for sure.

It’s easy to picture it. All he’d need to do is stand up, unzip his pants and spear you open with a practiced roll of his hips. Maybe he’d make you toss a salad while he fucks you from behind, slapping your ass whenever you forget to keep stirring the ingredients together. Or perhaps he’d let you ride his dick on the kitchen floor, too impatient to make it to a more comfortable surface.

Your imagination knows no bounds. Once you start, you can’t stop thinking of more lascivious scenarios, each one more daring and debauched than the last. The heat between your legs becomes unbearable and still, you ache for more.

Hoseok pulls away from the apex of your thighs and snorts, the sound pulling you out of your depraved thoughts. The pace of his thrusting slows down without stopping completely, his fingers still pressed deep within you. Your arms tremble as they try to keep you upright, knuckles white from the strength of your grip around the counter’s edge. You exhale shakily.

A whine works its way into your voice. “Why - why’d you stop?”

Ignoring your protests, he pops his fingers out of you and indulges in one last lick of your swollen pussy, before gathering to his feet. He rolls down your dress back over your bum and peers over your shoulder, acting as nothing had ever happened.

“Thought you said you’d take care of dinner, hm?” Hoseok has the gall to hum in disappointment.

Your mouth opens in outrage. “You!”

Hoseok pouts. “I thought we said you wouldn’t blame me for any soggy pasta.”

“You’re impossible,” you say without any real heat to your words.

“But you love me that way.”

He smiles as he leans in to kiss you, lips sticky and warm. You follow the pace he sets as best you can, unaccustomed to the way he takes his time - like you’re a delicacy that demands to be savored and not gulped down. On-screen kisses are usually rushed, messy, with too much tongue. They’re a scripted affair, more for show than out of real affection. When men tuck back your hair behind your ear or palm your cheek, it’s only to better angle your face for the camera.

There is something intimate about the way he holds you, the way he looks at you. Inwardly, you can't help but admire his acting skills. There’s something tender about the way he handles you that’s distinctly different from any of your previous onscreen partners. Sure, you’ve shot vanilla sex scenes before, but never of this variety. None of the male actors’ performances have made you wish, even fleetingly, foolishly, that the scene was real.

Hoseok pulls up for air before your mind can wander off completely, his panting mouth a hairsbreadth away. Lips touching but not quite.

Blearily, you blink your eyes open. You’re close enough that your noses brush against one another, your breaths mingling together. Hoseok’s eyes remain closed throughout, like he doesn’t want the moment to end. He looks so content that you can’t bring yourself to do anything else but melt further into his embrace, gaze drinking in the minute details of his face - like the tiny moles dotting his cheekbone and upper lip and the pretty curve of his eyes.

“And cut!”

You both jump away from each other, startled. For a second there, the storyline you’d been instructed to follow had slipped from your mind. You’re unsure if the lapse in judgement is good or bad but you don’t let the question linger in your thoughts. You’ll have plenty of time to dissect your performance at a later time.

“Good, good. That wasn’t what I was expecting but I don’t think anyone has any objections?” Director Ryu claps his hands. “Fifteen minute break sound good everyone? Then we’ll relocate to the bedroom to shoot the next part.”

There’s a general hum of agreement from the crew members. Chairs and various other equipment scrape the floor as the personnel prepare to migrate to the other room for filming. Jimin’s gaze meets yours briefly but all he can do is smile weakly in your direction before he’s ordered to help push some of the equipment down the hall.

Someone comes up to you with a bottle of water while another steps closer to blot the beads of sweat near your hairline and reapply a layer of lipstick. The make-up artist knits her brows in concentration until she’s satisfied with the touch-ups. She then moves on to Hoseok, make-up palette and brush at the ready, and grumbles loudly about the sticky residue covering his face. You hear Hoseok bellow a laugh, the sound so infectious that even the make-up artist joins in.

You sip your water through a straw, careful not to smudge your freshly applied lipstick, and check your phone for any missed messages.

“Was all of that okay?”

“Hm?” You look up and are surprised to see Hoseok stare at you expectantly. “I, uh, know some girls aren’t into ass play. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked before jumping the gun but I figured - since you said there wasn’t anything major you were adverse to filming...”

His voice trails off.

“I liked it.” The admission is an easy one. “It did take me by surprise, but - I don’t have any complaints.”

“Ah, really?” Hoseok’s mouth corners upturn in relief. “That’s good to know. I was thinking - for the next scene - what if - I mean, are you okay with calling me Daddy?”

You tilt your head as you mull over the proposition.

“Daddy?”

“It’s not - you don’t have to. But listening to Director Ryu go on earlier made me think of something we could do. I think it fits well with the general idea. What do you think?”

“I’m fine with it.” Using the title doesn’t make you squeamish so you shrug in compliance. It’s not the first you’ve had to incorporate a daddy kink into the scene and it likely won’t be the last. You don’t see why you wouldn’t or shouldn’t do it with Hoseok. “I’ll follow your lead like I’ve been doing.”

It’s only as you’re following him towards the bedroom that you recall that you’ve yet to get to the crux of the scene - the damned impregnation kink. Even though you’re considerably less nervous than you’d been an hour or two ago, the thought of begging someone you barely know for something so intimate makes your stomach flip-flop. You don’t even have unprotected sex with Jimin and he’s your boyfriend.

Speaking of Jimin, you try to sneak in a peck or two before filming but Director Ryu intercepts you before you can make a beeline to where Jimin’s stationed behind a camera.

“How are you feeling?” The overhead light reflects off his round glasses and makes it impossible to hold eye contact unless you want to become semi-permanently blind.

“Good---”

“Wonderful. Well, we’ve positioned cameras here, here, and over there. There’ll be another camera man who’ll film with a handheld camera for closeups. Just keep that in mind. I know we’re giving you free-range to do what you feel is best and most natural but I’d hate to ask you to re-shoot because the camera couldn’t capture the both of you properly.”

You nod and he continues, “Also - please remember that you’re acting as a horny young married couple. I remember at that age I was up for anything, you get what I’m saying? People think just because you put a ring on your finger the sex automatically becomes stale. Fuck that. Show people married couples are freaks in the sheet.”

“Uh... Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He claps a hand over your shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

Freaks in the sheet? What did he expect you to do? Try out all the sex positions in the Kama Sutra?

“What did he want now?” Hoseok leans over to whisper once you’re seated comfortably on the bed. You’re hoping the mics don’t pick up the conversation but would rather not take the risk of being overheard bad-mouthing the director.

Shrugging, you say, “Just that this scene should be spicier.”

Hoseok raises his brow, lips quirking into a smirk. “That so?”

The same cockiness you’d caught a glimpse of during your escapade in the kitchen is back and the memory you associate it with makes the back of your neck prickle with heat. You clear your throat and avert your eyes.

Thankfully Director Ryu interrupts before Hoseok has the chance to fluster you further. You follow each of the director’s voiced directives until you’re comfortably seated on Hoseok’s lap, dress hitched around your waist because of how far your knees are spread on either side of Hoseok’s thighs. There’s a quick, last minute adjustment as Director Ryu ensures that the camera in the left corner picks up on everything it’s supposed to.

Satisfied, he lets you take the reins from there, then gives the cameras the signal to begin rolling.

You don’t waste a moment, taking his earlier commentary to heart. It’s your turn to pepper kisses all over Hoseok’s golden skin, leaving faint traces of rouge behind like an artist signing their own painting. You stop a few times to admire your work. Lip prints and lavender bite marks color his skin and the sight awakens a possessive streak you didn’t know you had.

Your enthusiasm to mark him up gets a little out of hand.

"Mhm." Hoseok grunts when you lick over a sensitive spot under his jaw. "Slow down, princess. There's no rush. We have all night."

He cups his chin between his hands so you have no choice but to relent and direct your gaze up at him. You’re pleased to see that he’s not completely indifferent to your touch; despite his instructions to take it slow, the smoldering look in his eyes tell a different story.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, the pink flesh no doubt swollen. You take the digit in your mouth, unprompted, and run your tongue against its underside, wishing that his cock could fill your mouth instead.

Hoseok makes a noise low in his throat, not quite a growl but close.

"And I intend to take my time with you." The look he levels you with promises a night full of mind-numbing pleasure. Ribbons of heat curl around the base of your spine. "Want to make you feel good."

"You do," you agree, words muffled around the thumb you refuse to let go of.

You take a hold of his wrist and free your mouth, only to quickly replace it with his forefinger and middle finger. The stretch of two digits makes you moan lewdly.

Hoseok’s eyes darken. He lets you play for a few more seconds before he takes back control, his fingers pushing deeper into your mouth until they hit the back of your throat. You swallow down a gag, but his fingers don’t let you rest for long. He drags them over the flat of your tongue, watching as spit dribbles down past the sides of your mouth, and repeats the motion, pumping into your mouth steadily like he would a cock.

As nice as it feels to be filled with his fingers, whether in your cunt or mouth, you’re ready for more. Subconsciously, your hips grind down in his lap, shifting this way and that until you’re perfectly seated over his hardened length.

Drool is pushed out of your mouth as Hoseok squeezes a third fingers in with the other two. You suck harder, hoping that all your efforts will spur Hoseok into finally fucking you. The knowledge that he has to, at one point or another, keeps you from whining and begging pathetically for his cock. You can exercise patience if you put your mind to it; you’re sure of it.

Your on-screen husband decides to test that resolve.

His other hand starts to wander south, his fingers toying with the short hem of your dress that’s been rucked up even higher with all your rocking and grinding. The movement of your hips slow, your brain unable to keep up with the stimuli coming in all directions.

A crack resounds in the room, the sharp sound startling you more than the sting that accompanies it. Hoseok’s palm rubs over the heated area, only inflaming it further.

“And who told you you could stop?”

The second slap is notably harsher than the first, and your hips automatically lurch forward hoping perhaps to lessen the impact of the sting.

You know he doesn’t expect a verbal answer; his second hand keeps your mouth plugged up, making any attempt at talking unintelligible. It doesn’t stop you from trying, only because you know the muffled protest are greatly appreciated amongst viewers. And if the way Hoseok’s digs his fingers into your smarting ass cheek is any indicator, you’re confident that he also enjoys your squirming and messy display.

“Keep moving, princess. I need both your holes nice and wet.”

The way his voice dips an octave makes your stomach twist in arousal. You long to tell him that you’re sufficiently wet enough for him to slide his cock inside right away but all you manage are pitiful garbled words.

He raises an eyebrow at your delayed response and your hips move before he can smack the globes of your ass for a third time. You have an inkling he’ll only hit harder with the intention of leaving marks of his own all over your skin.

It’s a careful balancing act, but you figure it out as you go. Bounce too fast and the fingers in your mouth will make you gag. Move too slowly for his liking and he won’t hesitate to add to the collection of handprints on your ass.

You lose track of how long he makes you play this game. Your mind focuses on sucking while keeping your jaw slack enough to accomadate the width of three digits. Drool pools down your chin, and you’re certain whatever the make-up artist had done to your lips is now ruined. Worse off are your panties. At the stage they’re at now, you’ll have no choice but to throw them out. Hoseok’s pants might need be as unsalveagable as your thong, you think inwardly, judging by the large, dark wet spot you’re currently sitting on.

“Mmh, good girl.”

He gently slides his fingers out, strings of saliva attached. He hums in satisfaction at the lewd sight and rubs his fingers across your swollen lips and shiny chin, spreading the fluids and what’s left of your lipstick over your mouth. You swallow, mouth sore from being used roughly for so long.

“This hole is sufficiently wet, I think,” he appraises, eyelashes fluttering before he casts a long look down your body until it reaches where you’re seated on his clothed erection. “Let’s check this one too.”

The way he smirks at you but makes no move to check himself lets you know that he expects you to do the work.

You let your hands trail down your body slowly, cupping your breasts as you do, enjoying his hooded gaze and the way his cock twitches beneath you a bit too much. When you reach the hem of your dress, you lift your hips up to pull the fabric up to your navel giving an unobstructed view of your lace-covered pussy.

Hoseok stare intensifies but you don’t feel any embarrassment from the scrutiny. “Well you certainly look ripe.”

His fingers toy with the delicate string of lace around your hips. He lets the material snap against your skin a few times before he grows bored or impatient with his own game and gives the lace a harsh yank. It tears easily and the leftover scraps fall into his lap.

“... But just to be sure -” His hands grip your waist and manhandle you onto your hands and knees. Your head spins from how suddenly he’s moved you around to his liking that your arms give out and you fall face first into the clean smelling bed sheets. “Gotta give my favorite hole of yours a better look.”

His hands hoist your hips at a higher angle so that your soaked center is visible for the cameras to pan onto. Hoseok slides in two fingers easily, then a third. Loud, obscene noises echo in the otherwise quiet room, noises that are quickly joined by your unabashed moans of pleasure.

Your core is on fire. Hoseok’s fingers are just as good as you remember them to be. No, better. The three fingers pump into you in measured strokes, the drag slow enough to keep you dangling over the edge without pushing you over.

Hoseok spanks your ass, hissing between his teeth as you clench around his fingers, no doubt imagining your inner walls hugging his cock instead.

“Christ. You’re always such a soft, wet little thing down here,” he croons in dulcet tones. “I could play with you all day.”

You thrust your hips back, shameless.

“Please! Please Daddy, I’ll be so good, I just - please - I nuh, need it. Need your cock fucking me full. I’ll take it so good, you know I will. Want you to - please! Daddy, I need your cum.”

“Shit.”

He fumbles in his haste to flip you onto your back. He crawls over your body, and you watch fascinated as he dives down to kiss you like a man starved. He looks almost feral, pupils so dilated the brown of his eyes is almost gone.

Heat blooms in your stomach as he kisses you deeply. The press of his lips against yours renders you a little less coherent as time ticks on, every brush of his tongue making you a little more dizzy with want.

Everything about him burns. It feels like being kissed by the sun itself. Every caress, every lick and nip leaves you feverish all over, like your drunk off his touch.

"Let me," he says, pinching the zipper of your dress between his thumb and index finger.

You wrap your hand around his and guide his movements. His gaze never leaves yours and it makes shivers run down your back. Even though you're the one controlling his movements for the time being, the look in his eyes makes it abundantly clear that the control you wield is only temporary.

When your dress finally falls open, you try not to preen too much under the reverent look that falls over Hoseok’s face. Your back arches a little off the bed, pert breasts thrust towards him - an appealing offer he doesn’t dare refuse.

Hoseok circles a thumb around your nipple, rubbing and flicking until it hardens into a stiff peak.

You wonder, distantly, how this looks like from the outside looking in. The man in front of you is a stranger in all senses of the word. Yet the way he touches you - like there are years of built-up affection behind every gesture - makes you second guess everything you know.

"Fuckin' love your tits.” He sighs, awe reflected in the dark of his eyes. "Love playing with them. Love how wet it gets you, how hungry your little pussy gets."

"Please,” you mewl, his words igniting a new wave of heat. It rolls over your body, leaving no extremity untouched. You burn from the inside out with raw desire.

You squeeze your own breasts in a bid to get him to touch you more. Hoseok merely chuckles, finding your desperation entertaining. One of his hands reach down between you to play with the wetness that clings to your core like a second skin and it takes everything inside of you not to rub yourself against him like a bitch in heat.

"What is it, princess?" His lips quirk into a smirk like he already knows the answer. "You're looking quite needy. How did you manage to hold it in all this time?"

“Stop teasing,” you growl, the lack of friction making you irritable. "I need your cock. And why - why do you have so many fucking clothes on?”

He chuckles, chest vibrating in amusement.

“Take them off,” you insist. Then, you grudgingly tack on a “Please” for good measure.

As hot as Hoseok looks like in his “work clothes”, he looks infinitely better naked, you decide as he chucks off his button-down shirt and gets started on his leather belt. With each new piece of clothing that gets discarded, the anticipation building inside of you skyrockets.

You take a moment to soak in his lithe figure, not bothering to hide how affected you are by the view. He’s nicely sculpted; you can tell right away that he takes care of himself. Swimming or dancing maybe? You hesitate between the two. His muscles are lean, nothing like the bulging biceps and thick forearms typical of the stereotypical gym rat.

Hoseok’s dick is, unsurprisingly, as pretty as the rest of him. It’s long and curved, a prominent vein running along its underside. The thatch of pubic hair that rests above his dick is neatly trimmed, the dark hair contrasting with the tan skin of his abdomen and the rosy hue of his erect length. Your eyes swoop down his thighs, licking your lips unwittingly at the alluring sight presented to you.

“Daddy,” you say, the whine in your voice unmistakable. “Want your cock.”

For a brief moment you’re tricked into believing he’s given in to your demand, but find yourself disappointed when he contents himself with rubbing his hardened member between your thighs, the glide slippery thanks to the copious amount of your essence that’s pooled there.

“Like this?” Hoseok asks, tone too sweet to be anything but mocking. The head of his cock bumps into your swollen bundle of nerves one, two, three times. You keen, your hips canting upwards in a bid to get more friction. “Want to rut against me until you get nice and creamy?”

He uses his right hand to spread your slick lower lips so that he can nestle his cock snuggly between them. He rolls his hips, the undulations fluid and dirty, and smirks at how you moan brokenly beneath him.

Your stomach clenches. “Need it in me."

"You'll get it," he promises after kissing you sloppily, lips sucking on your tongue. His breath is ragged but his voice steady, firm. "I'll give you everything you need. Make you cum so many times you know who owns this sweet pussy."

He speaks so surely, carries himself with so much confidence, that in the moment you can't help but believe him. The line between staged and reality blurs and you find yourself nodding eagerly, begging him as best you can to give you what you want.

The first tentative push of his dick wipes you clean of coherency. He slowly eases himself into you, reaching forward to lace his fingers with yours. It’s - more intimate than you expected. He squeezes your hand tightly in his when he finally manages to bury his entire length inside of you.

“Perfect.” He kisses the side of your temple before drawing back, his hard cock dragging deliciously against you. With a fluid hip thrust, he slides back in and you feel the stretch moreso this time around. The curvature of his cock has him pressing up against your walls in a way that robs you of breath.

"Daddy! Hh - ah, oh God. You're too b-big."

"Mhm, that's right. Daddy's fat cock is splitting you open. I'll plug you up with it later so none of my cum will leak out."

Every time he pulls back, your pussy clamps down tightly around him, unwilling to be empty even for a second.

Hoseok’s nostrils flare in arousal. He grabs your left tit and squeezes, using it as a hold to better fuck into you. With his body hovering above yours, his hand staking claim of your breast, and his cock drilling into you, you have nowhere to go. Pinned to the bed and unable to do anything but take everything he delivers, you wrap your legs around his waist and moan.

"Daddy's gonna fuck some babies into you,” he rasps, his eyes dark pools of lust. "Gonna breed your sweet pussy over and over. You'll be so full of my cum that you'll be pregnant with my babies for sure."

“Oh fuck. Yes, yes - oh my nhhg.” You sob as Hoseok drives his cock into you with more force. While the piston of his hips isn’t rushed, he pulls out to the tip only to slam back in to the hilt every time. The stretch burns in a good way and the sound of your moans are rivaled only by the wet, obscene sounds from your coupling.

"Fuck. Your cunt just - shit." He cracks down a hand against your ass and you shriek, not expecting it. "You're so tight, holy shit."

"Want it. Want you to fuck me good."

"I will," he says lowly, the promise reverberating deep in his chest. "I'll fuck you until you're begging me to stop. Fill you up so much, you'll be bloated with it."

And it should freak you out, the imagery he paints with his words, but the thought of laying there and him fucking you so well that you won't be able to feel your legs has you gushing out more wetness.

"Mmmh.” Maybe he can feel how soaked you are because he comments, “This is my favorite hole of yours, princess. Always so fuckin' drenched. I bet we’ll have to throw out the sheets again." He chuckles. "You must be hungry for it, right? I made you wait so long. No wonder your pussy is clenching like that. It needs a big, fat cock to milk dry."

“I missed it,” you cry, body skidding a little higher up the duvet each time he fucks into you. Your eyelashes flutter, lids heavy. It’s hard to concentrate, let alone form words, when your brain feels like complete mush. “I - I need your cum. Daddy, please.”

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I've got you. Daddy will feed your cute pussy his cock."

"Th-thank you, Daddy."

"Love you," he murmurs. It’s a quiet confession, lost somewhere in between the mattress creaks, the loud slaps of Hoseok’s hips slamming against yours, and the string of whimpers and groans pulled from your throat. It’s quiet but you hear it.

One of your hands reach up to pull him down by the neck so that your lips meet. He kisses you open-mouthed. It’s a filthy kiss, one that makes you moan into his mouth. You’re certain that if you had been standing your knees would have wobbled.

When you let up for air, Hoseok’s staring you down, his red-bitten lips plump and shiny.

"Love this pussy. So sweet and wet for me. Always for fucking swollen, like it's waiting to get a pounding. Love that. Love how eager you are to be bred by my thick cock."

The impregnation kink is - a bit much. You've never really imagined having kids, at least not anytime soon. You can’t even keep your plants alive for fuck’s sake.

But the way he suggests it is nothing like what you had imagined. His suggestions are - vulgar and primal. Like the urge to fuck you full of his cum is biological and he can’t smother it.

For a moment, you let yourself entertain the thought of being his breeding bitch - of laying on your back and letting him fuck load after load of cum inside you until your pussy physically can't accommodate any more. Of not having any other worries or thoughts but take his cock every moment of the day.

"You just got tighter.” He curses under his breath, voice thick with arousal. "Such a warm little hole. Taking everything I give it. You'd take anything if it meant getting bred by me, right?"

“Yes, yes,” you chant, pleasure coiling inside of you. “Give me more! I need it."

"Shit. You can't handle more, princess," he tries to reason. "Daddy needs to be gentle with you. Your hole is so small, it'll hurt if I go harder."

"Daddy promised to fuck me.” You whine, uncaring if you sound too bratty and demanding. "B- Breed my hole. It's yours. Puh-please use me."

"God." Hoseok groans, his features twisting in what looks to be pain or pleasure. With tremendous effort he pulls himself out of you and your eyes widen in panic.

“What? Daddy why? I thought—”

He shushes you, reaching somewhere overhead to grab a fluffy pillow. "Just wait a sec, okay? There you go.”

The pillow is placed underneath your hips, keeping them elevated. When Hoseok takes his glistening cock in hand and directs it back in, you both moan in unison.

"Oh fuck, I’m gonna, ah,” you gasp as your mind goes blank with pleasure. The new angle is heaven on earth. It’s almost too much, too quick, but Hoseok’s firm grip on your hips prevents you from alleviating the pressure.

"Take it." He grunts, brows knit together. Every powerful snap of his hips makes your breasts bounce, your breath hitch. Without his hands keeping you pinned down, your head would have collided with the headboard by now. "Be a good princess and take your fucking."

He gains momentum, the new angle facilitating the slide of his cock. He drags the flat of his palm down your thigh and takes a hold of your knee before hoisting it up over your shoulder. The stretch burns the back of your calves but you’re so fucked out, you can’t even find the words to complain.

When you glance up, it’s to fall upon the sight of Hoseok brushing his sweaty fringe out of his face. His cheeks are flushed pink, his skin dewy from the film of perspiration wrapped around his body. Beads of sweat trickle down his heaving chest but he chooses to forgo a quick break. On the contrary, he pushes in deeper like he’s determined to carve out a permanent space for his cock.

"Just gonna keep you here,” he huffs, his eyes the shade of cloudless night sky. “Everyday I'll fuck my cum back inside of you so that you'll always stay full. Want to fuck you forever. Don't want this to end."

"Want it too," you sob, orgasm hovering just on the periphery. "Want you to keep me full forever. Ugh - oh fuck! Hoseok- I'm—"

"You gonna cum around my cock, princess?" He angles his hips downwards, relishing in the wanton cry it elicits. "Gonna give me everything?"

"I'm yours," you profess, jaw slack with pleasure.

It doesn’t take much more for the orgasm to crash over you, Hoseok fucks you through it, groaning as your inner walls spasm around him. He breathes out curses, lip drawn tight between his lips, and doesn’t wait for the last waves of your orgasm to abate to chase after his own end.

In the throes of your pleasure, it doesn’t register then that Hoseok has been holding back all this time. If you thought he had been fucking you hard before, it’s nothing compared to now. He growls and bends forward, forcing your leg to stretch even more, and pushes in and out of you at a pace that makes you scream.

You don’t even have time to come down from your first high that you’re already thrown towards your second. Hoseok plugs your mouth up using two digits, his fingers a firm pressure against your tongue. Your eyes roll back, too overwhelmed from the feeling of being stuffed on both ends.

“God, I could fuck your holes all fucking day.” His rhythm begins to falter as the pressure inside of him grows, his movements frantic and less controlled than they’ve ever been. “How about that? I’ll fuck my princess’ mouth properly next time, stretch it out nicely. Then you’ll let me have your ass, hm?”

Shit, shit, you whimper around his fingers, spit bubbling down the sides on your mouth. It’s scary knowing you have no way to stop the oncoming destruction.

“Yeah, I can tell you love that. You’re gonna cream my dick again, aren’t you?” You can’t tell if the sound he makes is a laugh or a grunt. All you know is that you feel like you’re about to burst. “C’mon, be a good girl and milk my cum out. You better get every last drop.”

There’s an underlying threat in his command. You do your best to obey his words, not wanting to disappoint.

Hoseok pushes his cock in as deep as it can go and grinds his hips into yours. His cock reaches so deep that you swear he might hit your cervix. And considering the nature of the scene you’re portraying, maybe that’s what he intends.

He swipes his fingers through the mess of your cunt, zeroing in on your sensitive clit. He swirls some of your fluids over it before giving it a sharp pinch that makes you cry out. Your hips fly off the pillow but Hoseok is quick to pin you back down. The never-ending drag of his cock along your walls paired with the rough ministrations to your clit is all you need for the pressure inside you to snap.

Above you, Hoseok moans, low and throaty, as he finally dumps rope after rope of warm cum inside of you. He throws his head back, exposing the collar of purplish bruises you sucked onto his skin earlier. Something about the view satisfies you immensely - not that you’d dare voice these thoughts out loud.

Hoseok’s strength gives out and he sags onto your body, his breath warm against your skin. He feels hot, like a furnace, but strangely it’s not uncomfortable. It’s almost like having a personal heating pad; the soreness of your muscles melts away with each passing moment.

Much to your displeasure, your post-coital bliss doesn’t last forever. He's given the signal to pull out and obeys, careful to keep your hips propped up so that his load of cum won’t slosh out. He’s still got a role to play, after all, and the end goal is to get you pregnant.

A cameraman walks forward to zoom in on your swollen and used pussy - physical proof of your exploits. The haze lifts. You become more aware of the people standing on the outskirts of your vision, lighting or sound equipment in hand.

“And that’s a wrap!” Director Ryu calls, his cheeks stretched to accommodate the width of his grin. “Good job everybody!”

You breathe out a sigh, glad your day is finally over. Seokjin walks up to you with a robe for you to throw on and you nod in thanks, slipping the satin gown over your sweaty body.

Around you, the staff start milling about, putting the equipment away and gathering their belongings. You pay them no heed, your attention focused on getting changing into showering and changing into comfortable clothes. You’re in the middle of taming your messy hair when your stomach erupts into growls, reminding you of your hungry state. What you’d do for a big slice of piz—

You remember your date with Jimin and speed up, not wanting to make him wait around for you any longer. It’s not hard to spot him - he’s waiting outside of your dressing room, can of coke in hand.

Something about his smile feels off.

Maybe it’s the way his eye corners don’t crease or the slight strain the curve of his mouth that betray him.

Your expression falls. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing - it’s nothing, don’t worry,” he says after a short, tense moment of silence. The look on your face must have reflected your feelings of doubt because he proceeds by reaching out and pulling you tight against him. Pressed up against his shirt, you can smell the faintest trace of the fabric softener he uses and its scent, familiar and sweet, mollifies you somewhat. “You did amazing today, baby. As usual.”

The compliment you’ve been waiting for makes the sides of your lips rise automatically. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Almost too well.” He hums, one of his hands stroking the back of your head.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit, “ you admit. “The results wouldn’t have been half as good if Hoseok hadn’t been my partner. He’s new in the game but he doesn’t act like it, does he?”

“He doesn’t, no.” Jimin agrees. “He’s... he’s something, alright.”

Your grin widens. All your worrying had been for nothing, in the end. The shoot had gone without a hitch, all of the set members coming up to you with praises of a job well done. You can’t recall the last time any of your performances had elicited such a response post-filming. Even Director Ryu looks particularly pleased, a permanent grin etched onto his features as he reviews the tapes. The knowledge that you’ve done well fills you with a pleasant giddiness that warms your insides and makes your cheeks hurt from how wide your smile stretches.

“Oh good, you’re still here.” Hoseok beams. A damp towel hangs around his neck and the ends of his hair are wet like he’s just gone and doused his head under the bathroom faucet. “I was worried you had left. I just - thanks for earlier. I had a lot of fun! If the chance presents itself, I hope we can work together again.”

“Thank you.” You want to praise him too, know that his performance deserves it, but your next words are cut off before they have the chance to form. Jimin steps closer to you, his grip on your hip tightening suddenly.

When you glance up to check on your boyfriend, he’s sporting a serious expression that you’ve rarely seen before. He doesn’t look angry, but it’s clear as day that he isn’t too pleased with the present situation. His face is closed off, cold, unwelcoming - so drastically different from the usual cherubic sweetness you’re accustomed to seeing.

You’re at a loss for words, unsure of who to address first. What’s going on?

Hoseok senses the sudden change in atmosphere and chooses to tactfully retreat.

“Good work, man.” He nods at Jimin and then shoots you a wave. “See you around sometime, ______ !”

Your eyes follow his exit before you turn to face Jimin again, hoping the smile on your face masks the worry you feel bubbling on the inside.

“Jimin what - I mean, are you sure you're okay?”

Jimin returns a strained smile of his own. “I’m fine.”

Your gaze lands on his right hand that’s still squeezing your waist. It borders on uncomfortable but you try not to let it show. You must not do a very good job at schooling your features because Jimin quickly apologizes for his behavior.

“Sorry.” Jimin lets you go once he notices your discomfort. “I just - I don’t know. You’re right, I’m not acting like myself. I think...seeing you say that stuff and act that way just - I’m not sure why, I guess - Since usually the sex isn’t like that, it caught me off guard.”

“You didn’t like that I acted like I was in love with him.”

“Would anyone?” he shoots back, smile sardonic. “It just looked so convincing in the moment. I guess it got me worked up.”

Sure, Hoseok is hot. If you had to work with him again, you would in a heartbeat. It’s not often you land a colleague you’re so sexually compatible with, who also happens to be so well-mannered and good-looking. It’s like hitting the jackpot, really.

But - just because you’d fuck him again for professional reasons, doesn’t mean that you’re interested in him beyond that.

“Jimin. I don’t want to be with anybody else but you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” The muscles in his face relax. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

It’s not until later, as he fucks you uncharacteristically hard in the backseat of his car parked in the back lot of the film studio, that you begin to wonder if things really are as idyllic as you believe them to be.

#wow so this took a decade and a half to finish but it's finally here !#final part should be up by the end of the month : )#bts smut #hoseok smut #hoseok #also warning i didn't proofread the smut scene yet so rip if there are any mistakes

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kryptsune · 3 years

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Souly Damned Saturdays!~

🌼Welcome to Souly Damned Saturdays! I am your host Kit! Today I am going to be taking a break to talk about one of my main characters! I mentioned her a few posts ago but her name is Evelyn Rogers. I am also going to explain how covens work. Let’s get started!

Character Profile:

Name: Evelyn Rogers Species: Human (witch)/ Celestial? Soul Flower Type: Lily Color Type: Vibrant violet

Human Appearance Description: Hair Color: Black Hair Style: (image provided) with a braid on the left side Skin Tone: Pale Height: 5′6″ Other Details: -Thin ribbon tying back braid - Black ribbon chocker with pendant - Ruby studded silver earrings

Infernal Appearance Description: Name: Lilith Soul Flower Type: Lily Color Type: vibrant violet (middle) that pales with ice along it’s petals Infernal Title: Infernal Princess Eye Color: Icy blue when looses herself Hair Color: White Hair Style: (image provided) with a braid on the left side Skin Tone: Pale Contract symbol mark placement: Shoulder blades Extras: 2 sets of white wings that have a gradient of icy blue. Other Details: - Slender fingers with black painted nails (sharp tips) - Black horns that swoop backward - Pointed ears (more below the cut)

Special Abilities or Powers: - Can read minds - Dream walking - Can pull out deepest desires - Forces those under her power to tell the truth - Truth touch (will gain the trust of those touched) - Mental suggestion - Lust touch - Levitation - Blip (Teleportation) - Dark ice/fire element - Calming touch (Weapon: Those she has a specific bond with ie: Beast and Costello give her their abilities when it comes to weapons but she does not have a specific weapon herself.)

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Eve’s Contract:

Eve’s soul is unique as it appears to be linked to the past ancestry of humans linked by the Vinculum Infernalis. Due to this her soul is far more powerful and can utilize more of their own abilities. The first contract she ends up bound to is Cubans. In exchange for her life as well as their own protection she works at the club as their little songbird. She becomes an undercover agent to infiltrate the boys enemies or rivals since the human soul has the ability to mask demonic presence. She ends up with a second contract to Costello for other reasons (spoilers). In addition to being able to use the abilities of the boys, the contractee is also able to wield their specific weapons. Each one corresponds to a specific Prince and the higher level the more powerful.

Unbeknownst to Eve her father is none other than one of the three most powerful beings in existence. As such she does not know her true lineage. Her father, Kalthiel, watches her from afar and aids when he is able but she does not know of his involvement. Her conception was a byproduct of her mother’s deal with the Broker. Unfortunately her ancestral blood caused her to be baden and in desperation she made a deal to have a child. A child that would one day be a tri-brid. One of mortal, Celestial, and Infernal blood.

Fusion:

Fusion is an interesting scenario since Eve is contracted to not one but two princes of Hell. She gains many abilities and one of those is being able to fuse her bound soul with that of her demonic counterpart(s) creating a fusion of herself and their own hellish forms. The soul however can only stand so much and if that goes beyond its limit the human soul could be damaged permanently. This form is dangerous for anyone and a last resort at best.

Eve’s Ancestry /The Vinculum Infernalis:

Humans in this universe do not believe in the existence of monsters very much like our own world. They are nothing but stories and myths. Demons are the exact same. There is a story that may allude to the fact that demons were created with monsters as punishment for humanity's evil. That is neither confirmed or denied. What is known is that demons used to walk the surface regularly a long time ago.

Humans in their lust for power (a very debatable comment) made contracts with these creatures in exchange for their souls, something that demons covet to gain more power themselves. Those that made these contracts became witches/ warlocks, having Infernal blood and magic infused within their very being. As every demon is unique so were the souls. The first covens were formed after 12 survivors managed to break their contracts leaving the magic within their souls present. As they began to have children that magic too was passed down. Humans with any type of magic are extraordinarily rare and one mage soul can rival over 1000 regular human souls. Eve appears to have a connection or blood relation to one of these surviving lines.

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Other Classifications:

The Legend of Lilith (Lillum): It is unclear if this history happened or not because the Princes refuse to discuss it. (That can’t be good) The truth of this prophecy, or for most harbinger, is that a generation will be born with power equal to that of their fathers. Since the Princes can not have offspring it takes a very specific mix for this to be possible. Such things are up to fate. All that is known is that it will rival the Celestials if it comes to pass as one of Celestial, Infernal, and mortal blood has to be the one...or there could be more. Legends and prophecy tend to be incredibly vague.

The Covens and their Patrons: After the formation of the Vinculum Infernalis the Princes decide that instead of regarding the mortals with disdain as they did during their Celestial reign they become patrons instead. In total there are 7 covens with a hierarchy of who is the most powerful. They are as follows:

Coven Names in Prestige Order (greatest to least): 1. Lust - Circle of the Siren (Costello/ Valentine)

2. Pride - Requiem of the Hallowed (Carthus/ Dusk)

3. Envy - Elysium (Sanneth)

4. Wrath - The Acolytes of Flame and Forge (Boss/ Azrin)

5. Greed - Coven of the Blood Moon (Crimson/ Grimm)

6. Sloth - The Desolate Forgotten (Gin)

7. Gluttony - Circle of the Ancients (Ouro)

Those of the first blood line under the Vinculum Infernalis are the most powerful of their coven and seated at a special rank due to their rarity. Unlike those of the first line the members of the coven are not Infernal/Celestial blooded.

The First Grimoire: Just because their bond and Infernal blood comes from their ancestral line does not mean that they are as powerful as they once were. In fact there is a Grimoire for each specific coven that only a direct descendant from the line can utilize and open. It is incredibly rare and the first bloodline (the ones that first made the deal) are thought to be dead so the books reside in the highest ranks of the 7 covens until such a time comes that they can be opened. There are Grimoire for every acolyte (the book chooses you type deal) but not anywhere close to those labeled the first Grimoire. These tomes are written entirely in High Infernal Script. These are incredibly deadly and powerful Infernal artifacts and each comes with a specific name:

Lust- Willbinder, Memoire of Blackfire

Pride- Featherfall, Legacy of Pride

Envy- Ash, Oath of Lasting Night

Wrath- Flameward, Boon of Slaughter

Greed- Sapience, Soul of Desecration

Sloth- Draughtbane, Tome of apathy

Gluttony- Apostle, Ledger of the Devourer

Coven Organization (Hierarchy): Each coven is organized by the will of the Prince that is its patron. They can recruit neophytes with no prior ties if they deem them worthy enough to be inducted into the coven. There is still a process and ceremony that needs to be followed. Once the initiation is complete they are tutored by generally a well learned acolyte (think of them as TAs) while Dominus and Magus are the instructors. If they prove their worth then they will be given a grimoire that chooses them to become an Acolyte. They are then placed under a bond similar to the Vinculum Infernalis but not nearly as strong and there is quite a lot of fine print.

*The First Bloods- A specific rank for those that are of the first bloodline. They actually have Infernal/Celestial blood within their veins which makes them some of the most powerful of the witches/warlocks. Their souls are also marked if they are a part of their first bloodline.

1. Mortiferum Magistrum- The heads of the covens and the most skilled practitioners. They run more of the direct communication between the Infernal Realm (their patrons) and those under their coven. Some have spoken directly to their Patron but for the most part they are dealing with dukes or lords. There is only one of this rank in each coven.

2. Dominus- The recruiters with approval from the Mortiferum Magistrum. Their job is to maintain the order within the lower levels of the coven. They are also teachers along with the Magus.

3. Magus- A magus’ job is to teach their acolytes higher level abilities and possibly prepare them for Magus status as well. In each coven there can be an unlimited number of Magus but only 2 or 3 Dominus.

4. Acolyte- Servants of the coven and the second lowest tier these are the students.

5. Neophyte- Those that possibly have potential but have not yet proven themselves to the rest of the coven. You have to start as a Neophyte first. The only exception to this are the First Bloods.

The Cult of the Fallen One (THE LITERAL DEVIL):

Hedge Witches/Warlocks: The Hedges probably nicknamed as such due to the phrase “hedging one's bets” are dangerous and rebellious. They are mortals with a craving for power and magic that were neither chosen or of the First Bloods. These are the types of mortals that will make contracts with Imps and Changelings in order to reach a certain end. Sometimes that is wealth, power, magic it just depends. They are not Infernal blooded. These are the souls that end up in the Kingdom of Envy under Sanneth. He does not take kindly to greedy and foolish mortals. The Hedges are the ones that originally proclaimed witchcraft pointing to the covens effectively thinning their once steadily rising numbers.

They are reckless and generally only care for their own ends. They are the ones that give witches and warlocks a bad name. Unlike those of the coven they gain no such immunity from the Infernal Pit. It is easy for lesser demons to trick these mortals into freeing them to cause chaos in the mortal realm. This includes cracking open Purgatory for some unsavory Infernal Blooded Hybrids to slip through.

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#demons #Souly Damned #SD Saturdays #worldbuilding #info #askbox open #original content #Celestials #Evelyn Rogers #Lilith

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infinite-xerath · 3 years

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Runeterra Retcons 4: Varus

Unlike the other Champions I’ve covered, Varus’s history is surprisingly straightforward. He was released all the way back in 2012 and, as far as I can recall, was the first Champion to ever receive any sort of major promotional material in the form of a short comic. He’s very straight-forward in both concept and design: a man willing to sell his soul, his very humanity, for revenge on the people who took everything from him. Given that this was before Kalista was added to the game, Varus had little choice but take matters into his own hands by bargaining with a vaguely-defined Eldritch being who would give him the power he needed in exchanged for taking over his body.

Original lore here

Varus’s lore is a very traditional revenge story, albeit with a slightly interesting twist in that he is the maker of his own tragedy. Varus opted to place his duty over the well-being of family and, in the process, was unable to even TRY to protect them while his village was being reduced to burning rubble. Out of grief and rage Varus turned to bargaining with the very entity he fought so hard to keep confined now that he no longer has anything to lose.

I and many others liked Varus’s story, and to be honest, Riot could have honestly just kept him more-or-less the same when they updated him post-retcon. Just remove the mention of the League and maybe better-define what the black flames were, and you’d be good. In fact, Riot technically did the former, as his second lore is basically identical save for removing any mention of the League of Legends.

Now, it’s at this point that things start to get a little more complicated. Now, if you want a more comprehensive breakdown of the Darkin and their history, I advise you go check out the part centered around Aatrox and his long and convoluted history, but tldr: the Darkin were a race of beings of whom only five remained, and it was later confirmed with Rhaast that they’re specifically a race of living weapons with the ability to possess whoever wields them. Now, while Varus was specifically possessed by an ominous black flame called Pallas, many drew parallels between him and the other Darkin characters, especially since Varus’s also seemed to be alive.

Given that the flames were never really elaborated on or given a proper origin story, Riot decided that it would probably be best to just go ahead and retcon Varus into being a Darkin as well, and nobody had any real qualms with this. It was a common fan theory for years, so why not? Just change the story a bit so that the flames were actually just a Darkin bow all along and boom, you’ve pretty-much done all you needed to properly fit Varus into the new post-reboot Runeterra.

Well, apparently Riot did not feel this way, as it was with Varus’s 2017 retcon that they decided to finally give fans a proper origin story for who and what the Darkin were. That origin story goes a little something like this.

Alright, so Varus is now an alien. They decided to make Varus himself the Darkin, rather than the man who would later claim the bow. OK, that’s fine. I mean, the whole alien thing is kinda weird and still very vaguely explained, but again, my full thoughts on the history of the Darkin as a whole can be seen in the Aatrox analysis. What I think is most important here is that Riot made an attempt, however sloppy, to explain who and what the Darkin were and finally give context to why Aatrox and Rhaast are such big threats to the world.

Now, it’s the next change that got a lot of controversy around it. Rather than just change the name of the Ionian guard who let Varus possess him, the guy who lost his family to the Noxian invasion, Riot decided to replace him with a pair of entirely new characters: Valmar and Kai, a duo of gay Ionian hunters.

Now, I’m just gonna get this out of the way: I’ve got no real qualms about gay relationships in media. Hell, we have a few LGBT Champions in the game already, and even some in the broader expanse of the world. My main gripe comes from the introduction of Valmar and Kai themselves, and how they’re just sort of these… Nothing characters. I mean, in the first lore, we knew who Varus was. We may not have known him well, but we could at least get a general sense of his character: he was proud of his skill, committed to the duty given to him even at the risk of his family, but ultimately succumbed to grief and rage when his decision caused him to lose everything he held dear. Varus was a good man warped by the loss of his home and loved ones, and that made him a fairly compelling character.

Valmar and Kai are… Two gay hunters. That’s it. That’s literally all we know about them from the bio alone. I mean, yes, Riot released a comic to further expand on these characters, but if your answer to the questions raised in your story are “go and read this extra supplementary material for context,” that’s… A problem.

On the topic of supplementary material, Riot also released a music video about Varus. It’s… OK. I personally don’t care much for the song but the visuals alone are really well-done. It’s supposed to detail the conflict between Valmar, Kai and Varus, but most of the context behind it is explained in the comic and short story.

Honestly, Varus’s retcon is kind of baffling. I mean, he didn’t receive a visual rework, his kit remained pretty-much the same as it’s always been, and he doesn’t even have any new voice lines in-game to indicate that he’s three different guys all stuck in one body. In fact, people who play him in-game without reading the lore probably wouldn’t ever be able to guess as much. Riot went to so much effort promoting Varus’s lore update with a music video, a new bio, a new color story, and a three-part comic, but they really haven’t changed anything about him in the game itself. They put more effort into him than they do for most ACTUAL Champion VGU’s. So… Why?

Admittedly, this is where I’m going to delve a bit into conspiracy theory territory, but I genuinely believe this is a case of Riot trying to push League’s first openly queer relationship. Seriously, Valmar and Kai are the first time a character in League has been confirmed gay IN THE LORE ITSELF and not just through a random tweet. Now, the word “pandering” gets thrown around a lot these days, and I don’t really like to use it, but it really does feel like Valmar and Kai were added JUST to have a confirmed gay couple in the lore.

The fact that they’re not even acknowledged IN THE GAME ITSELF really makes the whole thing feel like an attempt to just appeal to the LGBT crowd, though I’ve seen plenty of people in that community react… Less than positively to the portrayal. I mean, two gay guys are literally trying to hold back a corruptive, even influence with the power of love. I don’t wanna delve too much into the political side of things here, but that’s honestly about as cliché and stereotypical as you can get. Fans in general were extremely displeased that the man they knew as Varus, this genuinely tragic figure from the original lore, was replaced by two guys who’s only defining character trait is how much they apparently love each other.

Apparently, these complaints came through loud and clear, as Riot would update Varus one final time after deciding to retcon the whole alien plotline. So, let’s have a look at how his current, canon bio handles him.

Alright, well… Riot heard the complaints, but whether or not they fixed him is another matter. It seems like they tried to give Varus back his original origin story, basically making the archer we new from his first bio Shuriman. The problem is that there’s significantly less context for him now; we don’t know anything about his family, we don’t know why the temple he’s guarding is so important, and the story never even explicitly states that his family died!

I guess it’s implied because the Ascended acknowledged his “sacrifice,” though him being rewarded by becoming a demigod doesn’t quite have the same impact as exchanging his life and soul for a shot at revenge. On top of that, Varus seems pretty quick to give up on the whole “sacred duty” thing, despite the story claiming that being the thing he “he held above all else.” It all feels like a botched effort to mix his original bio with the new Ascended lore that Riot tied in with the Darkin.

Then, of course, there’s Valmar and Kai, who are… Still just gay hunters. They haven’t been expanded on at all. They helped drive the Noxians off from their home, Kai was apparently wounded, and Valmar decides that dipping his lover in an ominous pool of evil to save his life is a bad idea. Seriously, the bio states that they “inadvertently” freed Varus, but there was nothing accidental about it! There was no bargain, they weren’t tricked, it was literally just one guy making a stupid decision that got him fused with his lover and an ancient evil being.

Also, can we address the fact that Varus still wants to avenge the destruction of his race? Who does he want to avenge? The other Ascended? The Ascended who literally warred with each other for centuries? The same Ascended that HE FOUGHT AGAINST during the civil war for control of Shurima? Did Riot just… Forget that he’s not an alien anymore in that brief paragraph? They stated earlier that he was a cruel, merciless killer who just went to slaughter whoever he was told to slaughter, so for some reason I don’t feel like he’d care all that much about his “race” being felled. Oh, and there’s also still the unnamed warrior queen, who I THINK is meant to be a precious Aspect of the Sun? It’s never really stated in the bio itself.

Alright, enough ranting. Varus’s current lore suffers from one major fault: it is trying way too hard to tell several stories all at once. It tells the story of Varus as a human, Varus as an Ascended, Varus as a Darkin, the “story” of Valmar and Kai, and how they got fused with Varus. The writers tried way too hard to cram everything into a single bio and, as a result, nothing is elaborated on. Nothing is really explained, we don’t get to know the characters who are involved in the gestalt entities now known as Varus, and reason for his current existence AS a gestalt entity are just kinda silly, if we’re being honest.

So, how can we fix this? I admit: this was a tough one. There were a lot of different directions I could go when rewriting Varus’s lore, but I decided to take the Kayn approach, where the human host in the focus of the bio. Originally, I did have a whole bio written out for Varus and how he became an Ascendant, but I ultimately realized that I was going to run into the same issue Riot did: trying to cram way too much into a single character overview. So, instead, I chose to focus in more on the story of Valmar and Kai, and how the Darkin Bow was freed after ages of confinement. Without any further ado, please enjoy.

For years, the Darkin Bow has remained confined within the Ionian city of Pallas. The bow’s true nature has long been lost to time, though legends say it holds the spirit of an ancient god from a vast desert land. Others claim that the bow itself is something much older and viler than history itself dares to remember. Whatever the truth may be, the people have Pallas have guarded the bow for generations, choosing only their most skilled warriors from the task. Among them, none seemed better-suited for the task than Kai and Valmar.

Kai and Valmar were inseparable since they were children. Kai, a prodigy marksman, was known for his sense of humor and fierce resolve. Though infamous for his pranks, Kai would never hesitate to step in and defend someone in need, no matter how poorly the odds stood in his favor. By contrast, Valmar had trained in the ways of swordsmanship since he was old enough to grip a blade. Diligent and studious, Valmar was what many considered a model samurai in the making, yet he was also unendingly curious about the world and the many wonders it held.

At a glance, Kai and Valmar seemed near-total opposites, yet the two formed an unbreakable bond from the day they met. Kai would often accompany Valmar to explore the surrounding wilderness, only for Valmar to shelter Kai whenever one of his pranks went awry. As each boy matured, mastering the bow and blade respectively, their bond became something deeper than simple friendship. Valmar was a part of Kai, and Kai a part of Valmar. Neither was complete without the other, and so it came as little surprise that when Valmar was chosen to guard the Temple of the Bow, Kai soon followed.

Together, Valmar and Kai drove off many would-be thieves seeking to claim the cursed weapon’s power as their own. The two fought as one, each arrow from Kai’s bow in perfect sync with every swing of Valmar’s blade. Eventually, they came to be known as the Locust and Mantis, for the whirring of Kai’s arrows and the elegance of Valmar’s blade. It was believed that none could stand up to their combined might… Until the Noxians came.

From their post at the temple, Valmar and Kai watched in horror as the invaders stormed their home, setting fires and killing anyone who dared to stand in their way. For the first time, two warriors found themselves at odds; Kai wished to help defend the people of Pallas, but Valmar insisted on protecting the temple. In the end, neither had much choice in the matter, for the Noxians soon had them cornered on the temple steps.

Valmar and Kai fought for hours, their combined might slowly waning against the invaders’ onslaught. Kai’s strength was the first to give out, yet before death could reach him, Valmar stepped in the way to shield his partner from the blow of a Noxian axe. Kai watched in horror as Valmar fell to the ground, lifeless. Enraged, Kai fired all the arrows he had left before taking up Valmar’s sword, slaying the Noxian forces assaulting the temple. Even still, he knew it would not be long before more came, seeking to claim the forbidden bow.

In that moment, Kai heard a voice calling to him from within the temple. It promised him vengeance and the strength to fight back. Driven by rage and grief, the wounded archer let the voice guide him inside, just as more Noxian invaders began their ascent up the temple’s stairs. It was there, in the darkness, that Kai at last set eyes upon the cursed weapon he and Valmar spent years protecting: a bow thrumming with unearthly power. Kai hesitated for only a moment before grasping the bow, letting its power wash over him.

Kai’s mind was filled with images and thoughts not his own: a vast desert empire, a man made a god, betrayal, war, and finally, imprisonment. These were the memories of Varus, an Ascended being who devoted his life to serving Shurima, only to be abandoned in his time of need. His bitterness and hatred had summoned the Darkin Bow, granting Varus the opportunity to seek revenge on those who had wronged him. In the end, Varus was sealed within the bow, becoming one with it… And now, he would become one with Kai as well.

As Varus’s memories filled Kai’s mind, the Darkin’s power corrupted his body. Varus prepared to usurp Kai’s form entirely, but to his surprise, the Ionian’s drive for vengeance matched his own. Kai was prepared to give anything to avenge Valmar, his fallen half, yet he would do so with his own hands rather than entrust the task to a fallen god.

Even as their minds fought, the archers’ new, fused body moved on pure instinct. One by one, the Noxian forces in Pallas were felled by crimson arrows born of pure malice. Seeing the corpses of his kinsmen and the ruins of his home only fueled Kai’s rage, which in-turn empowered the Darkin in his grasp. Finally, the two archers came to an agreement as the Noxians fled: Varus would lend Kai his strength, in exchange for the Ionian’s body once Kai’s vengeance was complete.

Now on borrowed time, Kai has but one objective: to find and kill everyone he holds responsible for the destruction of his home and the death of his partner. To Varus, however, the destruction of Noxus is but the first step toward a much larger goal: revenge against the gods who betrayed him, and the world that sealed him away…

So, that’s my take on Varus’s lore. Now, the first thing you’ll probably notice is that I only have one of the lovers being possessed. Frankly, I felt that this was probably the best direction to go with; Riot still hasn’t updated Varus in any meaningful way to include Valmar and Kai in any of his voice lines, and something tells me that, being owned by a certain Chinese company, they probably never will. Given the circumstances, I figured it was probably best to give him a backstory more befitting of his in-game voice lines, which still portray Varus as a man on borrowed time who’s giving what little he has left in pursuit of vengeance.

Even so, I decided to try my hand at fleshing out Valmar and Kai. The first thing I did was change them from random hunters to trained soldiers tasked with guarding the temple. This not only harkens back to Varus’s original lore, but it also gives them more of a reason to stand their ground against the Noxian invaders. I also wanted to flesh out their personalities a little more, because I’ll be completely honest: I legitimately couldn’t remember which one was which even after skimming back through the comic. I forgot that Kai was the one who was injured in the original story, not Valmar, but quite frankly it matters so little given how poorly their characters are fleshed out.

Now, as for Varus himself… Well, like I said: I did have a whole bio written out for him that ties into the new Darkin lore I introduced in my Aatrox analysis, but I decided to focus the story more on Valmar and Kai and only have that backstory briefly alluded to. A tad disappointing, I know, but hey, it’s still more than what we learned about Rhaast from Kayn’s bio.

So, that was Varus, the Arrow of Retribution, otherwise known as Riot’s botched attempt at LGBT representation. He’s a far cry from what he started out as, and yet, hilariously, he’s really not on account of them still not updating anything about him in-game. In that respect, the Varus you play as in League isn’t really even the same character(s) presented in the lore. While I still firmly believe that his backstory never needed to be changed so drastically in the first place, I least wanted to present the potential that this direction held, and how badly the opportunity was squandered.

Oh well. At least the music video still looks nice.

#Runeterra Retcons #Varus #League of Legends

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fizzingwizard · 4 years

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Episode 13! I don’t have all that much to say about it. But there were three things in particular I really liked!

Sorato moments! It may be small (I mean, they’re kids and they’ve known each other for like a day), but no one will be able to say Sora and Yamato didn’t have any development in this season!

Sora Getting Shit Done! She’s as cool as Yamato. Scratch that, she’s cooler than Yamato. She’s honest and compassionate. She’s brave like Taichi, values her friends as much as Yamato, AND she can get along with both of them. Bahahaha.

SO MANY adorable Jou&Gomamon moments this episode. Like seriously. SO MANY.

I’ll just tack some here:

More below!

So our two groups are still separated! Jumping ahead, but next week we’ll see MegaKabuterimon, and that rounds out two episodes for each group. But that still leaves Zudomon’s appearance. Just a hunch, but my guess is we’ll see him the episode after which will be the reunion episode too. If not, I suppose the groups are gonna stay separated longer, but this is my guess.

So, once again, our kids have been in this world for Not Very Long At All. It doesn’t seem like they’ve had to stop and sleep so far, though they’ve eaten a bit. Probably it’s still the same day in digital world time o.o It’s completely plausible that they’ve been sleeping and we’re just not being told about it though. This is a kids show, next week Koushirou could be like “we’ve been walking for a week!” and we’ll just have to roll with it lol. But until that happens, I’m going with it’s been about a day and almost everyone’s easily got two evolutions under their belt. Evolving is much easier in this season - Taichi and Yamato even got a Jogress already - so it’s definitely past time to throw out old concepts of how evolving work. The kids clearly have Crests, but they don’t know what they are, which means that’s a thing we’ll be seeing in the future. In spite of that, they can evolve to higher levels. So, maybe something else is in store for them when the Crests become important. Very interesting.

We are back with the trio who’s got their shit slightly more together. Except for Jou’s stomach. Was really amused by Yamato using binoculars. I assume Sora brought them. I’m so used to Taichi’s telescope, but it only makes sense that each group should have some working gear!

Also par for the course, Yamato looking at what’s ahead while Jou’s being sick and Sora’s in between helping them both :P

They find this thing. The hive of brainwashed mecha soldier bees. The person who wrote this episode has definitely had a bad run in with suzumebachi.

As they try to escape, Jou immediately falls off Birdramon.

Me: “Oh no! Someone go help him!”

Gomamon:

Me: “NO NOT YOU”

Like I know they’re partners... but Gomamon doesn’t even have hands. xD All he can do (and all he does do!) is fall together. They’re partners so it’s not surprising, but still... Wheeeeeee!

Honestly though it is just so adorable to me how useless Jou is and how hard Gomamon tries for him... even though Gomamon has a lot more excuse for being useless. I mean, he’s made for a water habitat.

Gabumon: “Jou’s with Gomamon, so he should be okay...”

-___- You know nothing, Jon Snowmon. You know nothing about how much trouble Jou can get himself in

See!?!?!?!??!?! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THEY’RE OKAY TO YOU, GABUMON??? EAT YOUR WORDS!!!

This is what happens when you try to too hard to make a bee cute. So overdesigned xP It’s like hitting me on the head saying “I’M CUTE, LOOK AT ME!! I’M CUTE!!!” like chill dude, it’s ok. just chill

I guess it works on Sora though, she’s as concerned for this cutie pie as she is for Jou... maybe more.

We make a quick switch to group number 2 who are finally living up to my expectations for how nuts they are. Koushirou’s connection is turbulent, to use the lingo Tumblr always pisses me off with!

Mimi offers to help. “My grandpa can get you a better one!” She... she tries.

Taichi offers to help too. “Times like this you just gotta whack it!” Koushirou looks appropriately terrorized.

I’m so relieved to know Taichi and Mimi are both still batshit.

Yamato and Sora hatch a plan to save Jou by getting themselves captured too. Honestly the show doesn’t spend enough time on the cool stuff like hatching this plan! It just happens! It def got me thinking how brave and cooperative Sora is. Like, we already know Yamato is cool, and he has more experience in the digital world than the others. But Sora just rolls with it. She’s not freaking out, she’s thinking things through, and she can help strategize. 99 Adventure was like “Girls don’t need to do things like pedal swan boats or take watch at night!” This ones like “Girls can definitely do those things! As long as they are pink when they do them!”

Jou and Gomamon arrive in the hive where they are immediately separated... and Jou is thrown out with the trash. BAHAHAHA. GEEZ this show will not ease up on Jou!!

by the way... Gabumon... ARE YOU EATING YOUR WORDS YET!?!?

Sora and Yamato make it inside and hitch a ride on Garurumon...

... They both jump like this when they need to get off so Garurumon can evolve. With jumping style like that, Sorato is a ship made n heaven.

Fuck everything I said about Gomamon working best in his water habitat, IT WAS ALL A LIE. First swimming through sand, now this. Jou has LITERALLY NO EXCUSE for being as useless as he is anymore

also Wolverfish is back, I am some day going to make one of those old geocities shrine sites just for Wolverfish

They are surrounded on all sides though, so what should we do? “Go down.” Yamato, DID YOU FORGET WE ARE IN THE AIR.

Once again Sora is A-OK with all of this! Jou’s the only one having a normal human reaction to A HOLE OPENING IN THE FLOOR OF AN AIRBORNE VESSEL

Gomamon T____T Jou would be mince meat without you

It turns out that Yamato’s shitty plan wasn’t so shitty after all, because either he and Sora talked about what they’d have to do if the couldn’t stay inside the hive, or Sora is psychic. Or just that good at cleaning up after hot-headed men. Anyway yeah Birdramon to the rescue.

For a hot second there it looked like Yamato was going to be like “We don’t have time to save those Digimon” again. Which, I thought we worked through last time, so I was confused. BUT it turns out he only wanted Sora to know he’s got her number. He’s figured out she’s not the type who can turn her back when someone needs help, even if she’s got her own priorities to think about. Sora’s selfless. Yamato clues into that. AND HE TOTALLY SUPPORTS HER <3

Urrrk can Yamato do anything that isn’t Cool

I just love the way he holds them.

Sora faces off with the hive... who’s blast causes a volcanic eruption or something!

Birdramon fights back!

It’s not very effective!!!

Now as much as this is supposedly a Sora episode... she’s had some cool moments but it doesn’t feel like Her Episode as much as last week felt like Mimi’s ep, or the weeks before felt like they belonged to Taichi and Yamato. So actually, that makes it strike number two for Sora, although this episode is definitely better than episode four. It’s not fair. I’m just glad we got some new stuff for her this time, but the writers seem so determined to make her the “good girl” that they forgot character development needs to involve some stakes. So, in place of that, they just do another montage.

First Sora reflects on how useless Jou is.

Then she reflects on how hot Yamato looks when he’s totally helpless.

Then she thinks about how the two of them remind her of pitiful baby bees.

The result... Garudamon!!! Always my favorite Ultimate evolution.

It’s a laaaaaaaser battle!!!!

Yamato’s like “Holy crap I’ve got to get with this girl”

We then set up the intro for next week’s episode, with Koushirou’s computer starting to work again, though not completely. I want it to not work at ALL so Koushirou can be like “i’m no longer useful to my friends, woe is me!” and his friends can be all “Koushirou you’re my best pal no matter what!” and then he saves the day using his noggin. If it was good enough for Mimi’s grandpa it’s good enough for you.

I’m also amused to learn that in spite of apparently selling computers, Mimi’s grandpa too is an advocate of hitting them to make them work.

Agumon mimicking every adorable thing Taichi does is adorableness overload.

Taichi once again offers to smack the computer, like the Taichi of my childhood. However, he claims he’s joking. He’s a 21st century kid after all.

Agumon tells him hitting the computer will hurt his hand, so he should let Agumon do it instead T___T omg that’s the cutest thing EVER I’d give this episode ten stars for this moment alone

but ignoring adorable Taichi/Agumon and Jou/Gomamon moments, I’ll give this episode a 6.5/10. It was almost there! It really needed more Sora though! You know, the spotlight character of the week??

I just don’t feel her as convincingly as the others... which is in part intentional, I think, because that’s Sora. She doesn’t talk about her own feelings so much, she’s private, but she cares very deeply about those around her. I absolutely am with that, but I think that’s really challenging to write, and it wouldn’t bother me so much if we were getting more development in small ways for all the kids all the time. Instead the primary way is these spotlight episodes. We had them in 99 Adventure too, but there was more dialogue between the kids. Watching this episode, I had a thought like “This reminds me of a formulaic Pokemon episode.” As in, there’s someone to rescue, we rescue them, it has little to no consequence for us on a personal level and next week we won’t even mention it happened. At least this episode, they did mention Neemon’s group, to show how this is a pattern for Sora. I’m gonna cross my fingers that means Sora’s going to come out big in the future, we just gotta believe in her and wait. That being said, I’m not trying to be negative, I am also happy that we got these bits for her at all, and especially that we got it confirmed that Yamato sees through her as much as she sees through him!

Next week’s preview...

Kabuterimon: koushirou, you are helpless without your computer, never forget that!

... x’D not

Totally stoked for a Koushirou episode. I hope it kicks butt. Even if it doesn’t, we still get a good helping of my boy Koushirou. <3

#fizz watches digimon 2020 #digimon adventure 2020 #digimon adventure reboot #digimon adventure:#digi spoilers #digimon

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impressivepress · 3 years

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MATISSE AND RUSSIAN ICONS: The Metaphysics of Pictorial Space

"He paints 'images'" and in these "images endeavors to reproduce the divine. To attain this end he requires as a staffing point nothing but the object to be painted (human being or whatever it may be) and then the methods that belong to painting alone, color and form." ---- Wassily Kandinsky, writing about Henri Matisse [1]

Matisse’s Introduction to Russian Icons

There is a remarkable convergence between the work of Henri Matisse and that of the Russian icon painters. Our topic in this essay is precisely this convergence, and not the influence which icons may have had on Matisse. In the case of an artist of Matisse's caliber, influences -- although present and not without interest -- are superficial compared to that which gives quality to the art; because at a deeper level, every great artist is original, in the sense that the art draws its strength from direct contact with nature - and in Matisse's case, with nature at her deepest level, where one drinks from the very wellspring of being, of existence. That is why Matisse said that to be an artist one must rid oneself of prejudicial habits of vision and learn to look at life with the eyes of a child, and draw one's strength from the existence of objects. [2]

Matisse was already moving in a certain direction before he went to Russia, and the icons he saw there made a strong impression on him because he was ready to see them, because he was travelling on a path that converged with them. As Matisse himself put it, "You surrender yourself that much better when you see your efforts confirmed by such an ancient tradition. It helps you jump over the ditch."[3] It is not wrong to say that the icons influenced Matisse; but it is truer, and more to the point, to say that they confirmed his originality.

A certain kinship can be noted between ancient icons and Matisse's paintings even before the artist visited Russia. The Painter's Family was finished just before Matisse left for Moscow in October, 1911; yet the brilliant reds and black-and white checkerboard patterning are already reminiscent of icons. Matisse had very likely seen icons in 1906 in the exhibition organized by Sergei Diaghilev as part of the Salon d'Automne, and was probably familiar with more examples of iconography through reproductions. Interest in icons was "in the air" at that time. The 1911 Salon des Independants included works by several contemporary Russian artists working in a neo-Byzantine or archaic style; Guillame Apollinaire said they seemed to have "fooled the centuries."[4] Painters and patrons of contemporary art in Russia at this time, like Riabushinskii and Oustrukhov, collected icons.

The Conversation was another picture painted before the trip to Moscow. Shchukin, writing to Matisse on August 22, 1912, said of this picture: "I often think of your blue painting (with two figures)... It reminds me of a Byzantine enamel, its colors are so rich and deep."[5] Matisse's first exposure to Byzantine art may have come through Signac. When the divisionist travelled to Venice and saw the Byzantine mosaics in San Marco, he decided to change his dots to squares. He brought back a number of postcards which he doubtless showed his disciple in St. Tropez. The impression of Byzantine mosaics seems to have stayed with Matisse. After his death, several photographs of the interior of Hagia Sophia were found pinned to the wall of his apartment in Nice.

Matisse arrived in Moscow on October 23, 1911. The next day, he visited Ilya Ostroukhov, painter and collector and "patron" of the Tretiakov Gallery, whom he had met in Paris, and asked to be shown his collection of Russian Icons. A day later Oustroukhov recounted the incident:

"Yesterday evening he visited us. And you should have seen his delight at the icons. Literally the whole evening he wouldn't leave them alone, relishing and delighting in each one. And with what finesse! ... At length he declared that for the icons alone it would have been worth his while coming from a city even further away than Paris, that the icons were now nobler for him than Fra Beato... Today Shchukin phoned me to say that Matisse literally could not sleep the whole night because of the acuity of his impression."[6]

"From that moment on, "writes Pierre Schneider, "Matisse spent all his time going around to visit churches, convents, and collections of sacred images, his excitement at the first encounter not having diminished one iota. He shared it with all who came to interview him during his stay in Moscow." [7]

On Oct. 31, Ilya Ostroukhov wrote to D.J. Tolstoy, the curator of the Hermitage Museum: "Matisse is here. He is deeply affected by the art of the icons. He seems overwhelmed and is spending his days with me frantically visiting monasteries, churches and private collections." [8]

"They are really great art," Matisse excitedly told an interviewer. "I am in love with their moving simplicity which, to me, is closer and dearer than Fra Angelico. In these icons the soul of the artist who painted them opens out like a mystical flower. And from them we ought to learn how to understand art." [9] What is one to make of this expression of heartfelt admiration for the old Russian icons? From these icons "we ought to learn how to understand art." This is a very strong statement. It sounds exaggerated. Yet, Matisse was habitually reserved and cautious in his statements, not prone to exaggeration. Our endeavor in these pages may be defined as an investigation of the meaning and validity of this assertion.

"From them we ought to learn how to understand art." Not one particular kind of art, but art in itself. The icons offered Matisse a revelation of what art is. This goes deeper than stylistic "influence." To speak of Matisse imitating or being influenced by icons is to miss the point. His relationship with them is on a deeper level. In them he has recognized, in an especially pure form, the essence of art. Art is, for Matisse, essentially a manifestation of the life in which both nature and the artist participate. Throughout his career Matisse was a truly original artist. This does not mean that one cannot find in his work what are commonly called "influences" of other artists, in this case the Russian iconographers. It means that Matisse's art is directly rooted in the place where art originates, in the wellspring of being which we mentioned at the beginning. Precisely because he strives to be true to nature, Matisse converges with the icon painters.

We know that before and after his trip to Moscow, Matisse responded enthusiastically to other forms of what were known as "primitive arts" – Persian miniatures, Japanese prints and African sculptures. But the icons held a special importance for two reasons.

The first was articulated by Matisse in several interviews in Moscow. On Oct. 27, he praised the monumentality and majesty of the Kremlin churches, and the reporter added: "The pure, rich colors of the old icons, their sincerity and immediacy, seemed a genuine discovery to him." Then he quotes Matisse: "This is primitive art. This is authentic popular art. Here is the primary source of all artistic endeavor. The modern artist should derive his inspiration from these primitives." [10] Matisse confided to another interviewer: "The icons are a supremely interesting example of primitive painting. Such a wealth of pure color, such spontaneity of expression I have never seen anywhere else. This is Moscow's finest heritage. People should come here to study, for one should seek inspiration from the primitives. An understanding of color, simplicity -- it's all in the primitives. It is the best thing Moscow has to offer. One should come here to learn because one should seek inspiration from the primitives."[11]

Matisse links the "primitive" quality of the icons with their authentic popularity. That is to say, this art was still in use and understood popularly. It worked. In Matisse's view, art is not to isolate itself in museums, but to "participate in our life."[12] Decades later, in a letter to Sister Jacques-Marie regarding the Chapelle du Rosaire at Vence, Matisse wrote: "I would like it to be useful. Do you think it could be useful?"[13] What does Matisse mean when he speaks of art "working" or being "useful"? This question brings us to one of the key connections between Matisse and the iconographers. In his conception and theirs, the role of art is therapeutic. It seeks to "relieve," to "alleviate," to "heal." How it does this we will see a little further on, but for now let us just say that the instrument of this "healing" is light."[14] "Light," says Schopenhauer, "is the most delightful of all things; it is the symbol of everything that is good, everything that heals. In all the religions of the world it symbolizes eternal salvation."[15] (Let us remember that, etymologically and theologically, salvation means healing.) The icons held a special importance for Matisse because they are an art whose specific function is to heal whoever contemplates them, by means of light; and this use is truly popular, understood by all the faithful who approach them. Presently we shall look into the nature of pictorial light, color and space, and then we shall see what this light has to do with healing.

Before we get to that, however, we can surmise a second reason for the special importance which the icons held for Matisse. Whereas Persian miniatures and Japanese prints were foreign to the West, icons were part of the heritage of western Europe until the late middle ages, in Romanesque and early Gothic painting and sculpture. The whole of western medieval art developed in direct or indirect dependency on Byzantium, and there was a rich exchange of formal ideas between East and West throughout the Middle Ages. Furthermore, the art of the great Venetians -- Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto -- has roots in Byzantine iconographic art, the influence coming by way of Crete. The Venetian legacy, with its Byzantine formal roots, was in turn widespread in western Europe, coming to Matisse via Chardin, Courbet and Cezanne. Thus while the icons were, like other eastern painting, impressively and revealingly different from "the art of the museums," they were nevertheless a significant part of the family tree of western art. This peculiar balance must have been especially stirring to the sensibilities of the young painter who had spent so much time studying western masterworks in the Louvre.

Space in Russian Icons and in Matisse: preliminary considerations

It is often said that icons and Matisse's late paintings and cutouts, and for that matter Japanese prints and Persian miniatures as well, are "flat." Such a statement can be either ambiguous or mistaken, depending on the understanding and intention of the speaker. The intended meaning of the word "flat" may simply be "unmodelled." Indeed, the modelling or shading of volumes in these works is usually slight, and is sometimes suppressed altogether. They are executed largely in line and flat tone. But that does not at all diminish the plenitude of the volumes! Volume is expressed in better ways. As Matisse explained to a visitor in his studio, who remarked on the volumetric quality of the Barnes Mural, "Yes, but in reality the painting is made in flat tones, without any gradation ... It is the drawing, and the harmony and contrast of the colors, that form the volume, just as in music a number of notes form a harmony more or less rich and profound according to the talent of the musician who has assembled them."[16] So let us not say that these pictures are flat, even if we only mean to refer to the flatness of the tones; the paintings are emphatically not flat.

Sometimes Matisse's pictures and the icons are said to be "flat" because they lack Albertian perspective -- as if space were dependent upon such perspective. This, too, is an error, as will be made clear by our investigation of the nature of pictorial space. This investigation will begin in the following paragraphs, and will be taken up again and deepened later in this essay.

Our experience of space in the world is largely kinesthetic, dependent upon the sensation of our bodies' movement, our feeling of the forces of gravity and equilibrium, and the ever-varying correlation between optical stimuli and eye movements -- including binocular convergence, accommodation to focal distance and parallax.[17] This elementary fact is forgotten by those who think that space is achieved in painting by optical verisimilitude, with its shading of volumes and its atmospheric and linear perspective approaching the effect of photography. An arbitrary "snapshot," the epitome of a purely optical impression, gives us a jumble of variously shaped tones removed from their spatial context. From being accustomed to viewing such flat images, whether in photographs or in academic "realist" paintings, we develop a "space blindness." The eye seizes upon recognizable details and, by a conventional sort of "leap of credulity" accepts the flat image as referring to things one has experienced in the world. The difference between flatness and space collapses.

The opposite happens in great paintings. There our experience of space is heightened. In a masterpiece of Matisse -- or of Rembrandt or Raphael, Giotto or Picasso or Mondrian, for example -- a feeling of depth is created by the pushing and pulling of shapes and colors. All the lines and tones are organized, at once musically and architectonically, in such a way as to give the viewer movement into and out of depth; and this depth is made palpable by the tension between it and the flatness of the pictorial surface. The real experience of space in a painting is not quantitative, dependent upon the suggestion of deep vistas; rather, it is qualitative, dependent upon the resonance of the tension between the flat plane and all the pushing and pulling planes of color. The difference between flatness and space is not collapsed in painting; it is amplified.

Two Views of Matter

The belief, so rampant in the academic art of the nineteenth century and still widespread today, that a painter can "copy" appearances -- as also the trust we put in the camera, a machine, to reproduce the way things look - betrays a tendency to reduce the material world to mere materiality, something which can be considered apart from spirit. When the churches of the West split from the Christians of the East at the end of the first millennium, they set off on a road of increasing rationalism, gradually losing the mystical vision of the world which the Orthodox in the East retained. Descartes' dualistic philosophy is a significant milestone in the western trend, although the direction was evident centuries earlier, notably in the medieval scholastics. Descartes held that matter is mere extension and that spirit is only found in our own minds or in heaven. To the extent that painting was influenced by this notion, it had to deal with the world, its light and its space, externally, mechanistically. To be sure, there was never any lack of allegory, or poetic or religious subject matter; but things were ontologically impoverished, rendered inert.

The Orthodox tradition knows no separation between nature and grace such as prevails in western thought in the wake of scholasticism. In the eastern view, as expressed from ancient times by Gregory of Nyssa, Maximus the Confessor and a host of others, matter is thoroughly and dynamically irradiated by the divine energies, apart from which matter would not exist. These energies are uncreated; they are God Himself. By the "luminous force"[18] of His logoi or "thought-wills" God creates and orders, sustains and governs all things in an intimate, dynamic relationship with each creature, operating within the creature. This inner life of nature blazes forth as what Saint Isaac of Syria calls "the flame of things." St. Maximus says: "The unspeakable and prodigious fire hidden in the essence of things, as in the bush, is the fire of divine love and the dazzling brilliance of His beauty inside every thing."[19] Icons are above all concerned with this inner life, this luminous force, this fire within creation.

Matisse similarly insists on the necessity for artists to be in touch with the inner lift of things. "The time spent at school should be replaced by a free stay in the Zoological Gardens. The pupils would gain knowledge there in constant observation of embryonic life and its vibrations. They would gradually acquire that ‘fluid’ which great artists come to possess." Matisse, like the icon painters, recognizes the need for a certain asceticism, a purification of the power of vision, in order that one may see the light and life within nature. Raymond Escholier describes how, relaxing in his garden in Nice, Matisse smiled at the crystal-clear light: "Everything is new," he said, "everything is fresh, as if the world had just been born. A flower, a leaf, a pebble, they all shine, they all glisten, lustrous, varnished, you can't imagine how beautiful it is! I sometimes think we desecrate life; from seeing things so much, we don't look at them any more. Our senses are wooly. We feel nothing. We are spoiled. I think that to really enjoy things, it would be wise to deprive ourselves of them. It is good to begin by renouncing, force oneself from time to time to take a cure of abstention."

The artistic process

Matisse describes the work of a painter as an inner process, culminating in the rhythmic and life-filled expression of an internal vision:

The first step toward creation is to see everything as it really is [dans sa verite], and that demands a constant effort... A work of art is the climax of long work of preparation. The artist takes from his surroundings everything that can nourish his internal vision... He enriches himself internally with all the forms he has mastered and which he will one day set to a new rhythm. It is in the expression of this rhythm that the artist's work becomes really creative. To achieve it, he will have to sift rather than accumulate details, selecting for example, from all possible combinations, the line that expresses most and gives life to the drawing; he will have to seek the equivalent terms by which the facts of nature are transposed into art.... That is the sense, so it seems to me, in which art may be said to imitate nature, namely, by the life that the creative worker infuses into the work of art. The work will then appear as fertile and as possessed of the same power to thrill, the same resplendent beauty as we find in works of nature. Great love is needed to achieve this effect, a love capable of inspiring and sustaining that patient striving towards truth, that glowing warmth and that analytic profundity [depouillement profond] that accompany the birth of any work of art. But is not love the origin of all creation? [20]

This love, which is necessary for artistic creation, has a divine aspect:

Nothing is more gentle than love, nothing stronger, nothing higher, nothing larger, nothing more pleasant, nothing more complete, nothing better in heaven or on earth -- because love is born of God and cannot rest other than in God, above all living beings.[21]

The rhythmic quality of lines, tones and shapes, which Matisse insists on, is necessary for experiencing the vital energy at the heart of existence. The rhythms are perceived in nature by the artist who has purified his vision so as to be able to "look at life as he did when he was a child."[22] The artist must interiorize these rhythms, "until the object of his drawing has become like a part of his being, until he has it within him and can project it onto the canvas as his own creation."[23] In this sense the object is set forth in the work of art according to a new rhythm. There is a life that fills all creation, a life which is the manifestation of a great love. An artist can make a beautiful work of art, a work which manifests the splendor, the love-impelled vitality of nature, only to the extent that he reverently attends to reality "with the eyes of a child."

Matisse's approach is similar to that of the icon painters. They likewise expose themselves at length to that which they want to portray, until they can draw its traits not from the outside world but from deep within themselves. The Orthodox tradition holds that one can only see the uncreated light of divinity by being oneself transformed into light. Hence the iconographers must be ascetics, must purify their vision and become themselves filled with light. Then they will see all things as filled with light; they will walk in a divine space, the space of the kingdom of heaven which is within them. The space and the light are one; and all things are light, as an iron held in fire becomes fire. The icon painter expresses all this from within, expresses a space which is identical with light-energy and which does not recede from us, but rather opens out toward us. The saints who inhabit this space are, in the words of St. Macarius of Egypt, "all face and all light."

Let us look at an icon of Saint Nicholas. One of the most pronounced elements in the design is the relation among the crosses on the saint's omophorion [part of the outer liturgical vestment of a bishop]. They move counterclockwise around his shoulders. The symmetrical placement of light and dark shapes immediately to the right and left sides, respectively, of the saint's neck, ensures the movement of space around his head and the return of this movement on the left side, where the cross moves downward and toward the right to complete the spatial circle. The opposition between the downward and rightward movement of the left cross and the upward and rightward movement of the right cross is mediated by the strict parallelism of their constitutive parts, while the abrupt change in direction from the former to the latter is explained (and caused) by the abrupt collision of the omophorion with the forcefully rectangular shape of dark robe at the center of the icon. The vector of the left cross ricochets off the upper edge of this dark rectangle to become the vector of the right cross. The exceedingly great power of this dark rectangular shape, which is able to stand firm beneath these crosses (themselves strong and violent in their contrasts) is felt to issue forth from the blessing hand which extends into this shape, and thus to be an amplification, a visual proclamation, of the power emanating from the peaceful gesture. Thus the icon shows us simultaneously both the gentleness and the power of the blessing. At the same time, the Gospel book bounds forward from the dark rectangle, repeating its shape while being pushed forward by the visual action of the white omophorion. The color of the book relates it directly to the blessing hand, as well as to the head. The book pulls gently to the right, assisting the overall counterclockwise rotation of the space in the icon. This movement of space (and concomitantly of volume, since neither exists apart from the other in painting) is seen also in the subtle asymmetry of the head (characteristic of icons) -- in the placement of its features and the modeling of its volumes. It is hardly necessary to point out that all the lines and shapes in this icon, all the highlights in the dark robe and even the subtlest nuances of the modeling in the hand and face, as well as all the chromatic and tonal intervals, are rhythmically and harmonically interrelated.

In a testimonial of 1951, Matisse tells of how, in the Chapel at Vence, he wanted to do the same thing he had always done in his canvases: "In a very restricted space- the width is five meters --I wanted to inscribe a spiritual space as I had done so far in paintings of fifty centimeters or one meter; that is, a space whose dimensions are not limited even by the existence of the objects represented."[24]

This spiritual space is a kind of plenitude that is plastic, i.e. truly felt. It does not imitate some externally perceived space. And it is achieved through color -- color which, laid on in flat planes, provokes light "as one uses harmonies in music."[25] "Color helps to express light, not the physical phenomenon, but the only light that really exists, that in the artist's brain."[26] "Most painters require direct contact with objects in order to feel that they exist, and they can only reproduce them under strictly physical conditions. They look for an exterior light to illuminate them internally. Whereas the artist or the poet possesses an interior light which transforms objects to make a new world of them -- sensitive, organized, a living world which is in itself an infallible sign of divinity, a reflection of divinity."[27] Because the light-filled space that the artist finds within himself reflects the divine, it brings with it a communion with nature, and gives birth to art which is true to nature. "Awakened and supported by the divine, all elements will find themselves in nature."[28]

Our investigation thus far enables us to see the profound truth of Kandinsky's words about Matisse, quoted at the head of this essay: "He paints ‘images’" and in these "images endeavors to reproduce the divine. To attain this end he requires as a starting point nothing but the object to be painted (human being or whatever it may be) and then the methods that belong to painting alone, color and form."[29]

For Kandinsky, the freeing of art from the imitating of appearances allowed it to revert to its essence of line and pure tone. Matisse, committed to this most universal mode of painting, whose revival in France had been pioneered by Gaugin and Van Gogh, said to Teriade in 1936: "When the means of expression have become so refined, so attenuated that their power of expression wears thin, it is necessary to return to the essential principles that made human language. These are, after all, the principles that ‘go back,’ that restore life, that give us life. Pictures that have become refinements, subtle degradations, dissolutions without energy, call for beautiful blues, beautiful reds, beautiful yellows -- materials to stir the sensual depths in men. This is the starting point of fauvism: the courage to return to the purity of the means."[30] In a postcard to Manguin, sent from Moscow in 1911, Matisse had compared the icons to fauvist painting.[31] Later in life, reminiscing about his reaction to divisionist theories and rules, Matisse said he had to find a way to compose with the drawing in such a way as to enter directly into the arabesque with the color.[32] He stated that in the fauvist reaction against the diffusion of local tone in light, "Light is not suppressed, but is expressed by a harmony of intensely colored surfaces."[33]

In a letter to Charles Camoin in 1914, Matisse writes of his enthusiasm for a Seurat, intensely colored, with a band of blue dotted with violet at the top and the bottom, functioning like the repoussoir of the old masters. He has the Seurat on his wall alongside a photograph of Delacroix's "Jacob Wrestling with the Angel," which his daughter prefers because of its overall life. Comparing the two, Matisse notes that the Seurat remains grand, but "Delacroix's composition is more entirely created, while that of Seurat employs matter organized scientifically, reproducing, presenting to our eyes objects constructed by scientific means rather than by signs coming from feeling. As a result there is in his works a positivism, a slightly inert stability coming from his composition, which is not the result of a creation of the mind but of a juxtaposition of objects. It is necessary to cross this barrier to re-feel light, colored and soft, and pure, the noblest pleasure." The Delacroix, with its vital arabesque, is ultimately more significant to Matisse.[34]

In Matisse's Red Interior (Note: illustration 2 will be added), every line, every shape, every tone -- each of the pictorial elements -- is rhythmically related to all the other elements. The blue oval of the table top, pushing in front of the field of warm reds and yellows, jostles the lower left corner of the rectangle and pops the red shapes of the tomatoes to the fore. The contours of the table swing counterclockwise, descending on the left and ascending on the right to push the vase over to the left, flattening the right contour of the vase while the left contour bulges in response. The oval table is echoed above by the medallion enclosing a woman's profile, while the yellow medallion in turn is answered by the vertical yellow rectangle of the door standing ajar. This yellow door pulls strongly to the right, all the way to the edge of the canvas, yet resists conformity to the straight edge; the upper part of the door leans to the left, back toward the yellow medallion, and thus initiates a large counterclockwise rotation of the whole space of the painting, from the door to the mirror and then back down to the table, an amplification of the rotation of this very table. Balancing this rotation, however, is the movement of the great plane of red with its black zig-zags, from lower left to upper right, followed by the action of the yellow flowers outside, whose shape, a more active variation of that of the flowers in the vase, provides a counterpoint to the inclination of the yellow door.

Note that the light in the painting is a radiant encounter of fields of color, ceaselessly enriched by the ebb and flow of all the powerful and subtle exchanges that go on among the pictorial elements. There is not even any suggestion of incident illumination. Nor does the ample space of the painting make any allusion to perspective. The painting indeed manifests that "interior light which transforms objects to make a new world of them - sensitive, organized, a living world which is in itself an infallible sign of divinity, a reflection of divinity."[35]

The painting unfolds rhythmically as an organic whole in space and in time. Or rather, the space and time are born from the same unfolding. The painting is alive and active, manifesting the energy, the love, which creates and sustains nature, and with it space and time. The organic unfolding of all the elements within the painting is continuous with an unfolding of the painting toward the viewer -- the painting's splendor, clarity or radiance. The plenitude of being which the work manifests expands and radiates to illumine a beholder standing at even a distance of fifty or a hundred feet.[36] The painting is not limited by the dimensions of its frame. This expansiveness is a function of the mysterious reality- which painters call the picture plane: when all the lines, shapes and colors are interrelated in a dynamic and harmonic space/time equilibrium, the painting exercises a luminous presence which faces the viewer. The painting is "all light and face." We see here the true coincidence, the coinherence, of space, light and the picture plane. They are one reality, and that reality is an event, an event of transformation which, for Matisse as for the icon painters, manifests the divine.

Let us examine further this mysterious event which we call the picture plane. In painting, the picture plane cannot be taken for granted. It is not something one starts with, and which can be "preserved" or not, but something which must be achieved. Its achievement is simultaneous with the creation of pictorial space and light, because together they are constituent aspects of a single spiritual event. Matisse's colleague, Andre Derain, stated that color in painting does not come from the prism, but is a spiritual matter of inner life manifested by rhythm. Derain further observed that light in painting is not a principle of imitation, like illumination. Its purpose is not to illuminate objects, but to set the painting within its frame -- that is, to generate the picture plane. In a living painting, the rhythmic relation of lines, angles, shapes and colors results in what Derain described as a "paroxysm." The paroxysm is simultaneously the opening up of space and the breaking forth of radiance, of spiritual light, of real pictorial color. This paroxysm is thus tantamount to the event which is the picture plane. We see now that the picture plane is transcendent in its very essence. That is why it is so mysterious and hard to grasp. It only exists in an act by which it transcends itself. An infinity of pictorial space and light exists when, and only when, the picture plane exists. That is why in great painting the difference between flatness and space is not collapsed, but rather amplified -- and reconciled. It is also why when the picture plane is achieved, the surface on which the picture is painted feels right, and breathes the air of infinity, rather than feeling like a constriction or a limitation.

The joy of Matisse's knowledge of nature is the joy of a unitive knowledge which in its depth may be compared to conjugal knowledge. This joy lives on in the event of the picture plane, the paroxysm, ceaselessly renewed by the painting's rhythms. In this connection let us observe that the joyful light and space of the Orthodox icon are likewise that of a nuptial feast the feast of the eighth day of creation which is the fulfillment of God's espousal of his creation, now healed and transformed.

We can now see why icons are considered to be agents of inner, spiritual healing, why their light, their space, are therapeutic -- and why Matisse desired to create paintings that would have a therapeutic effect. The communion with nature, the participation in the divine, which is implicit in pictorial light and space, cannot but have a healing action. The event of the painting, the act of transcendence which constitutes the picture plane, the opening out of inner life and light, is itself the beginning of a process of spiritual transformation.

~ Endnotes:

1. W. Kandinsky, Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Intr. and tr. M.T.H. Sadler (New York: Dover Pub., 1977) p 17.

2. Jack Ham, ed., Matisse on Art. (Berkeley end Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995) pp. 213, 218.

3. Ibid., p. 178.

4. Guillaume Apollinaire, "Les Russes," Gil Blas, April 22, 1911.

5. Cited in French in Alfred Barr, Matisse, his Art and his Public. (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1951), p.555.

6. "Matiss v Rossii osenju 1911 Goda," Trudy Gosudarstvennogo ermitaza, vol. 14 (1973), pp. 167-84. Quoted in Pierre Schneider, Henri Matisse. (New York: Rizzoli) 1984, p. 303.

7. Schneider, pp. 303-304.

8. Ibid., p. 14

9. Jack Flam, Matisse: the Man and His Art. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), p. 323.

10. "Matisse in Moscow," Utro Rossi, Oct. 27, 1911, in Y.A. Rusakov, op. cit., p. 288.

11. Quoted in Matisse on Art, p. 296.

12. quoted by Pierre Schneider in the catalogue: H. Matisse. Exposition du Centenaire. (Paris, 1970), p. 13.

13. quoted in French in R. Escholier, Matisse from the Life. (London: Faber, 1960), p. 203.

14. Pierre Schneider, Henri Matisse. (New York: Rizzoli,1984), p. 10.

15. statement recorded in C. Zervos, Cahiers d'art, 5-6, 1931.

16. Matisse on Art, p. 110.

17. A clear and extensive treatment of this can be found in the book by the nineteenth century sculptor, Adolf Hildebrand, The Problem of Form.

18. St. Gregory of Nyssa, "In Hexaemeron," P.G., XLIV, pp. 72-3.

19. Amb., P.G. 91, 1148c.

20. Jack D. Flam, Matisse on Art. (New York, 1978), pp. 148-149. The quotation is from an interview conducted by Regine Pernoud and published in Le Courier de l'U.N.E.S.C.O., vol. VI, no. October, 1953. The translation given here is Flam’s, but I have inserted some of the words of the original French in brackets where I feel this is required by the subtlety of Matisse's expression.

21. Henri Matisse, Jazz. (Paris, 1947), quoted in Flam, Matisse on Art, p. 113.

22. loc. cit.

23. Ibid.

24. Matisse on Art, p. 207.

25. Ibid., p. 178.

26. Ibid., p. 156.

27. Ibid., p. 89.

28. Ibid., p. 156.

29. W. Kandinsky, Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Intr. and tr. M.T.H. Sadler. (New York: Dover Pub., 1977), p. 17.

30. Matisse on Art, pp. 122-123

31. Schneider, 1984, p. 309.

32. Dominique Fourcade, ed., Henri Matisse: Ecrits et propos sur l’art. (Paris: Hermann, 1972), footnote, p. 93.

33. Matisse on Art, p. 58.

34. Fourcade, ed. op cit., footnote, pp. 93-94. Translation of part of the letter given in Matisse on Art, p. 275.

35. Matisse on Art, p. 89.

36. Pierre Bonnard advised painters to take their canvases outside from time to time and view them from at least thirty feet away in order to judge them properly. The ability of a good painting to carry over distance is to a surprising degree independent of the size of the canvas--- surprising, that is, until one understands the reason.

~ Lazarus James Reid

#matisse #art article #painting #Sergei Shchukin #Russia #jacob’s well #tretiakov gallery #Sergei Diaghilev #icons #the chapel of the rosary #matisse jazz

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senlinyu · 5 years

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If you're still taking prompts: Dramione, "Tabula rasa"

Warning: sad.

Tabula rasa. Those are the terms.

Get out of Azkaban, work at her insipid house-elf charity for a year, and pretend they’ve never met before.

It’s weird but anything is better than sitting in Azkaban for a second year.

It’s like a fresh start.

The concept is tantalising.

He refrains from rolling his eyes as he agrees to the terms. “I’d love to act like I’ve never seen her before.”

“The terms will be magically binding. Violate them and you will return to fill the additional year of your sentence,” the weevil-faced lawyer says.

Draco glances at his mother who sits eagerly beside him and is nodding encouragingly.

“Fine. I’m legally bound act like I don’t know her. Sounds ideal. Where do I sign?”

He doesn’t know why the clause even exists in the agreement. Three weeks on the job and he hasn’t even laid eyes on her.

The day he arrived, he’s shuffled off into a cramped office in the basement and, after they try giving him a variety of different tasks, he ends up being assigned to write thank you letters.

It’s his entire job.

Excellent penmanship is apparently the only usable skill that he possesses.

He assumes at first that it will be easy. He’ll come in late, leave early, and spend a matter of minutes charming a couple dozen notes tops.

“Dear Bootlicker, Thank you terribly much for your generous donation if 500 galleons. I’m thrilled there was literally nothing else you could conceive of to do with your money. It will assuredly be used by yours truly to improve the lives of the sentient abominations called house-elves. Sincerely, love and kisses, the Wizarding world’s favourite buck-toothed harridan, Hermione Granger.”

No. It’s not easy. Granger has elaborate requirements for all the thank you letters that she doesn’t even bother to personally write.

He has to go through the society papers and Granger’s detailed personal calendar to make references to the donor’s last meeting with her. He’s expected to ask about children and grandchildren by name, and discuss the inner-workings of the charity as well as to relate anecdotes about all the sad little elves the donor’s money saves.

Within a few weeks he’s maintaining a full-fledged correspondence between the most bizarre assortment of Wizarding folk, a centaur, two vampires, and an alleged forest troll. A correspondence that he is maintaining as Granger, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in years.

Supposedly she looks over all his letters before signing them and sending them off, but Draco doubts it. After weeks there, he still hasn’t so much as caught sight of her bushy head.

He torn between a sense of outrage and admiration over what a slick ship she runs. He doesn’t think she even shows up in her office most days. If she does, she never slips so much as a toe past the fourth floor, certainly not to any floors Draco’s allowed on.

Granger has a matronly personal assistant the size of a mountain named Charlotte. The woman is like the female version of Crabbe and Goyle simultaneously. Draco is convinced she must be at least a quarter troll. She glares at Draco whenever “passing on messages” and makes clear to Draco that she’d gladly snap his spine if Granger ever gave her the go-ahead.

Draco accepts his “job” with his head down. He just has to endure it a year and then he’s free. Maybe once he’s not at risk of returning to Azkaban, he can expose what a fraud Granger is.

He finally sees her after two months.

She’s walking by with her assistant when he’s standing in the hallway, taking a break from his cramped office’s inadequate air flow.

Granger catches sight of him all the way down the hallway and without hesitating, bolts up to him.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. You’ve been here for over a month and I haven’t said hi.” She’s beaming at him as she takes hold of his hand and shakes enthusiastically. Her assistant comes thundering down the hall after her. “I’ve been admiring your penmanship for weeks. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stared at her blankly while she pumps his hand up and down.

Tabula rasa.

Everyone at the charity knows who he is, even though they make a show of not. There are loud comments about the kinds of people who would become Death Eaters. The receptionist pretends to be unable to recall his name or that he has a job there. Draco is obliged to go through the full sign-in process every morning as though he’s a visitor.

However, Granger has no idea who he is. It’s not an act. There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she grins up at him.

He’s imagined their fake “meeting” a dozen different ways but this iteration isn’t one that occurred to him.

“Granger,” he says as she continues wringing his hand. Charlotte is ten feet away, her footsteps shaking the hall, and her eyes are threatening a slow and painful death. “It’s been a—pleasure.”

“Miss Granger, you have a meeting with Gibbling to review charity finances in five minutes,” Charlotte says as she reaches Granger, trying to tear her away from Draco.

“I do?” Granger’s hand slips out of Draco’s and she looks chastened, as though she’s been slapped. “I didn’t remember—“

“I apologise, ma’am,” the assistant says smoothly, inserting herself between Granger and Draco. “It slipped my mind, I only just remembered he sent a note this morning. I’m sure it will only take a few minutes.”

Granger is craning her neck to look back at Draco as she’s being herded away. She side-steps her assistant and cuts back.

“It was nice meeting you, Draco. I’m having a little party at my flat this Saturday with some of my friends. Would you want to come by? It’s the least I can do after being so rude.”

“I…” Draco glances back and forth between Granger’s hopeful face and the venomous expression of Charlotte behind her, who is shaking her head warningly. “—don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Draco watches Granger trot off with her assistant in tow feeling incredibly confused about what’s going on.

He feels like if anyone were going to tell him, they would have already done so. He’s legally bound to play along with whatever this ridiculous farce is.

His mother has to know, but her lips are apparently sealed on the matter.

“You’re out of Azkaban, darling. Focus on that and never mind anyone else.”

He wants to, but he can’t help but try to figure it out. Why doesn’t Granger remember him? It feels like he’s been personally and exclusively excised from her life and he hasn’t the foggiest idea why he was the only one singled out.

Granger clearly knows his mother. She’s an active participant post-war rebuilding and gives speeches from time to time about things like the Battle of Hogwarts.

Granger isn’t the type to fuck with her memory based on anything and everything Draco knows about her. If she were, he doesn’t know why she’d choose to forget him. And if she did choose to forget him, he doesn’t know why her weird melange of employees and friends would let her hire him.

It feels personal and he can’t bring himself to leave it alone. Is there anything else she doesn’t remember?

When he isn’t ghost-writing her correspondence, he starts going through the newspapers and her old calendars trying to pinpoint exactly when Granger may have forgotten his existence.

He thinks it happened about six months after he was imprisoned in Azkaban following the war. Granger’s exhaustively detailed calendars start immediately after that and her public appearances were sporadic and odd up until then.

He starts hanging around in hallways when he thinks he might run into her. Her assistant is always a few steps behind her, glaring at Draco as though she knows why he’s there and inventing meetings and events in order to get Granger away from him.

He’s been there four months and has barely spoken to her for more than ten minutes in the entire time.

He’s in the middle of writing a sarcastically cordial letter to Romanian vampire when his office door cracks open and Granger sneaks into his office.

He looks at her as she drops into the chair across from his desk and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

Draco eyes the door, waiting for Charlotte to burst in like a raging erumpant.

Granger notices where his gaze is directed. “Don’t worry. I sent Lotte on an errand. We have at least fifteen minutes before she comes looking for me.”

Draco looks back to Granger. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

This version of Granger is weirdly cheerful, like all her prickly defensiveness has been smoothed away. She still looks frightful, as though she suffers a phobia of hair potion, she’s still bizarre and obsessed with things like saving house-elves and everything else in the world. But he feels like she’s an entirely different person around him.

Maybe he’d just never known her without her claws out.

Granger shifts and looks slightly uncomfortable. “She’s very protective of me. I—I lose track of things sometimes.”

Draco just nods, not really sure how anyone who keeps records of their daily activities as exhaustively as Granger does could possibly be accused to losing track of things.

She glances around his office. “Why on earth did they put you in here? This room looks like a storage closet.”

Draco refrains from telling her that it literally is a storage closet and the absolute farthest room from her office. He measured one day, just to confirm it to himself.

“I’m not picky,” he lies. “It’s more comfortable than Azkaban.”

Her mouth purses. “That’s hardly a commendation. I’ll have you moved upstairs. I’m sure we still have a few extra offices. Somewhere with a window and plants! My friend, Neville, is a genius with plants, once we’ve moved you, I can get a few.”

She pokes around in his office for a few more minutes, interrogating him about how he likes his job and how his “co-workers” are treating him. Draco lies his way through her questioning until she stands up looking at him thoughtfully.

The next day, Charlotte appears looking enraged while he’s at the front desk filling out the visitor sheet for the hundredth time.

“Miss Granger wants your office moved to the fourth floor,” she says, looking as though someone has force-fed her a lemon.

Draco’s new office is two doors down from Granger’s. He has an entire wall of windows.

Granger pops in relentlessly, bringing him plants and a knitted tea-cosy, and “Lotte” looks more and more as though she wants to throttle him.

Granger takes to sneaking into his office whenever Lotte is out running errands. Which seems to occur suspiciously often.

Draco is certain that Granger’s aware that there is something odd going on. Her eyes are sly and calculating. She knows she’s being “handled” and that it involves endless attempts by all her employees to keep her as far away from Draco as possible, which makes her obstinately seek him out all the more.

At first Draco tries to ignore her, but she is his boss. He feels obligated to talk to her whenever she shows up.

Eventually they talk about all the letters he’s writing on her behalf. She looks down at her lap and spends several seconds straightening her skirt.

“You must think it’s odd that I don’t keep up with the donors personally,” she says looking up at him.

“Not at all,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s common for charities of this size. I’m happy my handwriting can be of some use.”

“I used to—“ she says, her voice somewhat halting. “But—“ her head jerks slightly, “my—my memory can be rather—that’s why I keep so many notes in my calendars, to keep track.”

Her expression is visibly strained, her beaming effusiveness gone.

“You’re a very busy person,” he says, eyeing her carefully.

She gives a stiff little nod and her eyebrows furrow. “I think—I used to remember things better. Now, if I don’t have someone to remind me about things”—her head jerks—“I forget details.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.

She has all the traditional symptoms of someone who’s been extensively and powerfully obliviated. Absent-mindedness. She’s chronically forgetful, Draco realises over time.

Charlotte does invent excuses to get Granger away from Draco, but many reminders are for real events that Hermione forgets she’s headed to. On several occasions Draco finds her standing alone in the hallway, trying to remember which door is her office.

She’s still smart. Still blisteringly smart, but it’s like watching a bird with its pinions clipped. It’s clear she’s intended to be airborne, but someone has hobbled her.

It’s painful to witness, and it’s made worse by the fact that she’s clearly aware of it.

The memory loss somehow seems to centre around Draco, which he cannot understand. If someone malicious were to go and wipe something from her memory, her best friend’s school rival is not the person Draco would pick.

Obliviation is self-protective. The mind will not consider the idea of tampering or let her realise her memories are incomplete. Whenever a conversation strays anywhere near their shared past, her attention abruptly, almost violently pivots to a different topic.

However, despite how obstinately her memory keeps her from suspecting any past acquaintance with Draco, she can’t seem to stay away from him. As though she can instinctively tell he’s a missing piece.

One day she tells him about a potion idea she has, and it’s almost brilliant except she’s clearly forgotten a brewing idiosyncrasy of a key ingredient. She realises she’s missed something and just comes to a rambling halt in the middle of her explanation, a drawn, embarrassed expression sweeping across her face.

“Never mind. I think—I should...maybe it will work out if I write it down—“ she looks down and her cheeks are stained scarlet.

“Sting slime needs to simmer for six hours uncovered,” he says. “Unless you want the potion to result in weightlessness.”

She stares at him for a moment and then her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Yes! Six hours of simmering. That’s when you leave it under the full moon and gather fresh asphodel.” She sighs with relief and presses a hand against her head. “That’s what I was missing. I thought—thank you, Draco. I thought—I thought maybe I’d gotten it all wrong again.”

Her exuberance causes Draco’s entire body to grow warm and a weird bubbling sensation in his stomach.

He avoids her eyes. “I haven’t brewed much since leaving prison, but everything else sounded correct. If you want to send it on to a potions journal, I can look it over if you ever write it all out.”

Her eyes are shining and she grins at him. “That would be so helpful. My friends didn’t really care much for potions class. I’m so glad I found you.”

She skips slightly as she leaves his office, which causes his entire face to twitch repeatedly as he witnesses it.

Granger spends increasing amounts of time in his office and Draco doesn’t—well, he doesn’t exactly mind.

She’s infinitely better company than dementors, he tells himself.

She incredibly interested in him, in a way that he has no idea how to handle. She wants to know what he’ll do once his contract with the charity is over, and he finds himself trying to come up with ideas to share with her that don’t don’t merely involve him indolently frittering away his time on his family’s properties.

It isn’t as though he’s not allowed to be friends with her. The terms of his contract simply require him to give no indication of any prior acquaintance with her.

They can be friends, he tells himself when she invites herself into his office to have lunch with him.

Good friends even, he reasons, when she invites him to her flat for dinner one evening.

Or more than friends...

Hermione is perched on the arm of his desk chair.

Their faces are getting slowly closer and closer until he can feel her nervous breathing. She has the most beautiful eyes. Her hair falls forward as his nose brushes against hers.

His hand ventures up until his fingertips trace along her cheek.

She smiles. Her smiles always start in her eyes and the corner of her mouth curves faintly up as she dips her head lower.

Their lips are almost touching when the door bursts open and Charlotte storms across the room.

“Miss Granger is supposed to be at a board meeting,” she says as she rushes Hermione away.

Draco has barely gotten his heart rate back down to a steady pace when Charlotte returns in a state of seething rage. She grips him by the robes and physically drags him from the building.

“You’re contagiously ill. Bed-ridden. I don’t want to see you set foot in this building for a month,” she says, glowering at him. “Stay away from her, you Death Eater bastard.”

Draco goes home sulkily. His mother is in France visiting a cousin and he has nothing to do but lie about indolently drinking.

The attempted separation goes as well as Draco expects. Charlotte may be obsessively loyal to Hermione, but she clearly didn’t think through what sending Draco home sick would result in.

Hermione shows up at Malfoy Manor through the floo after three days. Draco has to bolt through the manor and dives into bed mere seconds before she comes trotting into his bedroom, carrying a basket packed with soup and potions.

She fusses over him for several minutes while he lies and pretends to be languishing. Finally she sits down, looking endearingly awkward and starts updating him on the various going ons at the charity.

As the minutes tick by, Draco can’t help but develop a sense of unease. There’s something off about her.

Her eyes begin darting around. She speaks faster and faster. Her hand rises up and touches her throat before twitching up to her temple. Her head jerks.

It finally dawns on Draco why she doesn’t remember him.

She breaks off mid-sentence, her eyes darting around wildly.

“Draco—have I—have I—been here before?”

Draco sits up instantly and reaches for her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hermione. Hermione, look at me. Focus on me. You were telling me about the elves that came to you yesterday. Don’t look around. Focus on the elves. Let's get you back to the office. I’m feeling better. Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She glances up and catches sight of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A whimpering gasp escapes her and she falls backwards off her chair.

Draco lunges but she stumbles to her feet and skitters away from him.

Her head starts jerking violently.

“We didn’t! We didn’t—“

Her voice breaks off with a sob.

Her face is turning white and her eyes lock on his. Her voice drops into a ragged, pleading whisper that pulls up memories that Draco has tried to bury in depths of his mind. “Please… Malfoy... Malfoy…please—”

Her head jerks. “We didn’t! We found it—”

She starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

It’s one endless scream that vibrates and tears the air apart. Draco doesn’t know what to do. Hermione keeps screaming until her whole body starts shaking violently.

Her voice abruptly cuts off and she drops to the ground.

Draco has to leap to catch her.

He’s shaking with panic and seething with rage as he carries her downstairs and through the floo to St Mungo’s.

He nearly decks Potter when he and Weasley come bolting down the hallway into the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco wants to murder them both. “You couldn’t have bothered to explain that the reason she doesn’t remember me is because you obliviated her entire memory of Malfoy Manor?”

They just shove him out of the way as they rush into her room and leave him waiting outside.

Potter is the first one to re-emerge, more than an hour later. He stands staring at Draco for a minute. “She’ll—she should be fine,” he says in a dull voice. “The mind-healers will just have to reseal the memories.”

Draco glares at him. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking the entire time. “Why didn’t anyone just tell me why she didn’t remember me? And why the fuck did you obliviate her at all? Do know what you’ve done to her mind?”

Potter’s expression turns deadly. “Do I know what I’ve done to her? Why do you think it happened, Malfoy? Did it never cross your mind that there might be long term consequences for telling your insane aunt that Hermione was Muggle-Born.”

Potter’s face starts turning white with rage. “If you want to know whose fault this is—try looking in a fucking mirror.”

Draco stares at Potter in blank horror.

“Did you think people just get over torture? Since the war, St Mungo’s has discovered there’s an entire spectrum of brain damage that the cruciatus can cause, prior to reaching the point of insanity. Your aunt didn’t torture Hermione to insanity, but just—barely. We thought she was fine. The first couple months afterward—she seemed fine. She started having neurological issues a few months after the war. When she got them checked here at St Mungo’s, they found out the cruciatus had fried parts of her brain. That’s—apparently that’s how it works.”

Potter pulls off his glasses and wipes them. He refuses to look at Draco. “The only way they could contain it was by walling off the damage with magic, by using targeted obliviation. So—that’s what we did. It was just coincidental that she forgot entirely about you. I guess, for her, you were just as much a part of it as your Aunt.”

Draco stares at Potter and doesn’t know what emotions he’s experiencing. A lot. An entire maelstrom. More emotions than he knew he had. More than he ever wanted to feel.

“Why—Why did you let her hire me?” he finally forces himself to ask.

Potter’s face hardens. “That—was your mom’s meddling. Your release was conditional on your ability to secure a job. To the surprise of no one, nobody wanted to hire you.” He scoffs and looks down, his voice becomes mocking. “She’ll do anything to protect her son. She’d heard Hermione didn’t remember you, so she went to her with a whole sob story about her poor son who’d been forced to take the Dark Mark before he was an adult and now he was rotting in Azkaban because no one would give him a chance.”

Potter stares bitterly at him. “Hermione can never say no to a lost cause.” He gives an empty laugh. “We couldn’t explain to her why she shouldn’t without endangering her. We thought if you and your mother were both magically gagged, and Hermione was kept away from you, that it would be doable. But of course she noticed how lonely you were, and decided to take you under her wing.”

Potter exhales slowly and swallows. “Stay away from her, Malfoy.” His voice wobbles slightly. “The healers say you and your house are her main triggers. If you hang around her, she will inevitably relapse again. Every time they have to re-obliviate her it’s going to carve away a little more of her mind and memories. If there’s even a shred of anything decent about you, stay away from her.”

Draco manages to nod once before turning and walking unsteadily away.

When he’s home, he floo-calls his mother and yells at her until his throat gives out.

He packs a bag and gets a cheap room in Diagon Alley. It smells and there’s noise from the bar below, but it’s not screaming. There are no chandeliers.

He returns to “work” after a month and is informed that his office has been moved back into the basement. He doesn’t even blink at the news.

He resumes corresponding with Hermione’s growing donor list.

He doesn’t see her again.

Charlotte no longer bothers with passing on messages personally in order to communicate her utter loathing of him. She doesn’t ever leave Hermione’s side.

Draco only has to work at the charity for two more months. He puts up a calendar and X’s off each day.

He’s walking back from his lunch break two weeks later when he catches sight of Hermione’s bushy hair all the way down the hall. He ducks quickly into a nearby closet and waits until he’s certain she’s gone.

He nearly crashes into her as he steps back out.

Her eyes are bright and she’s slightly breathless from running. Charlotte is thundering down the hall after her.

Hermione beams up at him as she sticks out her hand. “Hi! Hi, I’m so so sorry. You’ve been here for months and I haven’t even said hello. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stares down at her.

There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

His throat’s so tight it’s as though he’s being strangled to death as he stands looking down at her.

A second year in Azkaban would have been infinitely less painful than this.

He sneers down at the proffered hand. “If you don’t mind, I just washed my hands. I don’t want filth like you sliming them up.”

#dramione #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #senlinyuwrites #asks #prompts #anthology collection

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bbq-hawks-wings · 4 years

Text

Chapter 263 Discussion

Hello, it is I back from my cave to finally get back into fandom discussion.

Sadly, I don't have too much to offer this time around except speculation, and most of it is dependent on assumptions and observations of the Heroes Rising movie, so if you haven't seen it this is unfortunately your stop, but when you do eventually see it go on ahead and send me an ask geeking out about it because almost everyone I've heard agrees if nothing else that it was hype and worth the price of admission!

All right, warning and disclaimer out of the way, let me lay the groundwork for how this post will go.

1. If you didn't know, the plot for Heroes Rising is a scrapped concept for the end of the series. Because it was scrapped it can't really be used to accurately predict how Horikoshi actually intends to end the story, but finding common plot lines and elements from what we're seeing now in the manga to the events in the movie might give us a clue to which lines he dropped and which he decided to keep. In the end it's a hunch, but it's a more informed guess than not having the clues.

2. I believe we're in the end stages of the story - or at least what is the beginning of the story in the same way Naruto was a precursor to Naruto Shippuden. Because of that, I don't feel like trying to predict things very far ahead and prefer to try to stick to interpretations of what's immediately going on since I feel we’ll get our answers fairly quickly anyway. I've made some lofty ideas of where the series is going before, but those are really better as overarching themes and end points for certain characters than necessarily an accurate prediction of events.

With that, let's jump into it.

The MLA/PLF is a front for the LOV

So to start, something I really wanted to address in the last chapter was the last page:

A lot of people are amazed Hawks seemed to go so deep into their ranks without ever raising suspicion, but I think this clarified, if not confirmed, a couple of points I've been hanging onto for a while.

The LOV never cared about these folks - that much has kind of been obvious from the get-go. They just threw themselves at Shiguraki as the second coming of Christ and offered him a free army. "...I mean, twist my arm, why don'tcha?" There were enough commonalities between the groups to seem like an obvious fit, but the League has always had different plans. Now, not only do they have a disposable army to fight the heroes and die for them but were a perfect opportunity to throw off the heroes to their main objective and draw out all the heroes at once in a fight to the death - all without practically lifting a finger. Shiguraki is a strategist, and a resource not utilized to the best of its potential is wasted even if using it well uses it up completely. These aren't their people, and they signed up for this fight to begin with. It would have made less sense to not effectively double-cross them like this.

I haven't been looking much for discussion regarding the movie, but a notable thing that immediately stood out to me when I saw it was the fact that Shiguraki was individually watching Hawks, and Hawks specifically - all alone and seemingly completely unprompted. A particularly overpowered aspect of Twice's quirk is the fact his doubles are SO close to the same thing they're in every way, down to the way they think and their core motivations, that they’re indistinguishable from the real thing, even to the original and doubles themselves. They really are perfect stand-ins for the actual people they copy. It's 100% possible that real Shiguraki could be powering up under the doctor's care, and - because he's not an idiot to leave himself completely vulnerable and out of control when he doesn't need to be - literally be running the show through a double, behind the scenes, in secret the entire time without the Heroes' or the MLA/PLF's knowledge. This also means that him personally spying on Hawks while he thinks Shiguraki has been out of commission is completely plausible as well.

These two frames have been circulating for good reason. While the army and organization honest-to-god have no idea what's going on, the OG League members seem to be taking it more like a stage cue - particularly with Dabi's obvious movement against the flow of the crowd rushing to battle. This very much feels like something they've planned for; but only them and their squad. They’re known to hold grudges against those that use them and abuse/hurt their core members, but none of that protective attitude has been directed towards this larger organization/movement.

"So what's got you so convinced about parallels to the movie? That's the only one you've brought up."

This was the first thing that stood out to me this chapter as I was reading through it fresh. In the climax of the movie each member of class 1-A had to strategically use their abilities to survive against Nine and his band. One of the abilities they had to counter was calling lightning down from the sky to which they used Kaminari as a lightning rod. Though it was played up for laughs a bit in the movie, it was still very much a life-saving tactic in the moment, and the concept clearly carried over into the final product.

A point of speculation we’ll be able to verify soon is a hunch I have that Tokoyami and Toga will clash one-on-one seeing as he’s also in the front-runner group. Slice very much felt like an easy stand-in for Toga, given the knowledge that those events are modified from the original ending concept, and it was thanks to Tokoyami losing control of Dark Shadow that he was able to beat her in the end. We’ll find out in a couple of weeks, and if it proves right I’ll be pulling more common threads to see if we can’t anticipate what’s going to happen next.

So, yup!

That's it!

Nothing left to see or talk about until next week!

*sigh........*

Ok.

Let's go over what we know for sure:

That’s clearly intent to kill in Hawks’ eyes: a lot of fans are aware of the practice of falconry, which is basically the same thing as a hunting dog but with a trained bird of prey instead; and it’s the image hammered into our heads about the way the Commission has treated Hawks and the way he personally deals with threats. Hawks considers Twice the single, greatest tool the League has in their belt - able to exponentially create duplicates and reinforcements which would turn a strategy-based battle into one of attrition, and the heroes would lose the latter easily. He clearly hasn’t killed Twice yet, and we don’t know why, but if he has to he’s prepared to do so without hesitation or remorse. This is a fight the Heroes CANNOT lose.

Hawks is done: This is more inference, but bear in mind he’s been on this case long before the Commission told him to infiltrate the League. He’s been at this in some capacity for almost a year and neck deep in recon as an undercover agent for months. He’s been walking on eggshells, keeping his eyes and ears open, relaying information, keeping up appearances on both sides, and watching the threat grow from a surprisingly capable group of guerrilla terrorists into an army capable of bringing all of Japan to its knees in a matter of days, tops. The stakes are too high, personally and otherwise, to not take this threat seriously.

This is Twice’s POV: Literally everything he thought he knew about this guy he considered his friend has been turned upside down. That whiteboard that was a catalyst for their friendship is thrown aside (symbolically along with all the memories and time they spent together), and here Jin is: knocked on his back, no longer looking into the friendly gaze of a great guy out to help a friend, but the murderous glare of a wild animal - a monster, even - having no idea how he got to this point and how fast it’s unraveling before his eyes. What we’re watching now could have happened in literally under two seconds. Hawks is that fast, and he’s been waiting for this to happen.

Considering the sudden tonal whiplash their relationship has just gone through - and the fact that it’s framed through Twice’s perspective, not Hawks’ - I don’t think we can make too many solid predictions about what’s going to happen right now. Hawks has been shown to be unpredictable to anyone but himself. When we’re not hearing his own internal monologue or seeing things directly from his point of view, everything we “learn” about him from a scene has to be taken with a grain of salt. He’s guarded, private, and keeps others at arms length so he can anticipate and respond to get the results he wants. It’s not just his fighting style, it’s his survival mechanism.

Twice himself is a grab bag of surprises, and being the heart of the League may yet find a way to appeal to his humanity, question his motives/actions, or any number of ways to bring him down to earth again; but there’s an equal opportunity that Hawks is beyond that at this point. His mission is almost done, and if he wavers now he could literally end up dead in a heartbeat. There are a lot of feathers trained on Twice, but not enough to bring his wings all the way down to stubs like we saw with High End. He’s set to fight not just Twice, but everyone in that compound.

In other words, this might be the point we finally see Hawks truly go apeshit, and I don’t think it’ll be a pretty sight to see. We’ll just have to wait and see where this leads from here.

#heroes rising spoilers #sp heroes rising #bnha movie spoilers #mha movie spoilers #chapter 263 spoilers

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