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mayhem-neverending · 1 year

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What Should Have Been Expected

Tobirama Senju x Petite!f!Reader

Note: This is a completely self indulgent fic. I am literally under five feet so the reader will be portrayed as such.The reader is artistic, loves singing, painting, crocheting, cooking and being generally joyful. She’s a foil to Tobirama, especially because she hates formalities and enjoys deep, meaningful relationships (not to say that he doesn’t, its just a different approach). I think this is going to turn into a series - at least I hope. Definitely more than one part though.

Edited.

Warnings: none

Summary: Arranged marriage AU (strangers). Exploration into how Tobirama would fall for a woman who had an opposite personality.

Part II

You had only met your husband the day before you were to be wed. The meetings between your father and Hashirama had decided the union of your clans would be enacted by marriage between you and Tobirama Senju, seeing as Hashirama had been recently married to strengthen their alliance with the Uzumaki clan.

In that single meeting with your future husband, all your nerves were amplified. You had known he was a straightforward, solitary, emotionless type of man from the descriptions your step-mother and father had given you, but you had expected him to at least be more pleasant; you would be together the rest of your lives, after all.

Your younger brothers, who were at the table with you when information concerning his personality was passed to you were outraged. They knew their loving sister well, you had practically raised them, after all. They had argued that you deserved more than some stuffy man, and that you didn’t need to marry for the clans to work together in peace.

Your father had only sighed at this, while your step-mother snapped at the three of them to hush. “Y/n is aware of her duties. That is final,”

Her words swam in your head after your meeting with Tobirama Senju. He had been mostly silent, and the only thing he had to say to you was that he was happy that your alliance could be solidified; that it was good for the newly established village. His shoulders had been tensed, his face impassive. It was like his person was in black and white, and that the only color he possessed was the blue of his armor. You contemplated how it would work between the two of you; you, who most often radiated vibrant color. It was a terribly uncomfortable twenty minutes and you were glad when it ended. You were not so glad to see him again at your wedding the next day.

The ceremony was beautiful, but quick. Only your immediate family and clan heads had attended. Tobirama had decided that they would forgo the reception so that he could show you your new home and he could return to his duties sooner, much to Hashirama’s dismay. You had not actually been aware of that decision either, and although you had wanted to socialize, you didn’t mind this decision much. You didn’t want to be paraded around by a stranger while people congratulated you on what you could only assume would be a loveless marriage.

His home was not far from the venue, so the two of you walked. It gave you some time to observe him and the village before you would be stuck inside his home with him. You could not deny that he was very handsome. The mid-morning sun accentuated his beauty, and you found yourself grateful that your parents had the decency to arrange your marriage to a handsome man. If nothing else, you would make beautiful children. Many of the women you knew were not so lucky.

You arrived in silence at a large home with a spacious garden and a pretty red stone walkway to the front porch. In front of the porch were rose bushes and the last couple of white tulips of the spring. The scene gave rise to hope that this man had more color to him than you originally thought. He led you up the steps to the door and opened it for you politely, his hand hovering behind your shoulder. Not once had he touched you yet.

The house opened to a wide open area, with a front room followed by a kitchen and living room. It was all colored in white and very dark wood, with the only character coming from the earthy fireplace at the far end of the living room next to the large windows. Everything was spotless, the books on a matching dark wooded shelf at the left wall of the living room were even organized with precision. While it was nice to see a man who could keep things clean, it was also disappointing. There was a distinct lack of life in your new home, and you doubted he would be open to many changes from your few interactions thus far.

“This will be our home,” He stated plainly and shut the heavy door behind the two of you.

You walked to your new kitchen and spent some time surveying the contents of the cabinets without a word. It seemed fairly empty food-wise, but the dishware was of good quality and most of the tools you would need were there.

Tobirama’s eyes followed you curiously the whole time. He stood next to the island with his arms crossed in what you could already tell was his usual manner. You glanced up at him from your spot crouched down to look at the contents under the sink.

“How would you like to delegate the household tasks?”

Tobirama studied your tiny form crouched in your dress robes before answering slowly. “What is it that you would prefer?”

You stood up, surprised. However, if he was going to ask rather than demand like most men, you wouldn’t stop him. “I’ll do the cooking, it’s something that brings me joy.” You purposefully surveyed your surroundings. “I would appreciate it if you cleaned afterwards. You seem to have a certain way you like things, and I am not sure how long, or if ever, I could catch up to your standards... I will take on the duty if you are too busy, however.”

Tobirama nodded, appreciative of your observation. “That seems reasonable. I am often absorbed in my work, as I have an unending, hefty load. If you could take care of the daily chores for the most part, I will send clones to help you clean.”

“Clones?”

He uncrossed his arms and made a hand sign in. In a puff of smoke, an exact replica of him appeared. It looked at you with the same intense eyes your husband had. You gasped aloud and the right corner of his mouth lifted just barely.

“I invented this jutsu. While it was created for battle, I find them to be useful for other tasks as well.” The clone disappeared again and you both stood in silence.

You eyed him warily as your surprise wore away. “So, you’ll be absent for the most part,”

Tobirama frowned at this, though he couldn’t argue otherwise. He only nodded and you sighed, out of relief or disappointment he couldn’t tell. A part of him hoped it was the latter, though he pushed that feeling aside.

“Your things arrived early this morning. I took the liberty of moving them to the bedroom.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway across from the kitchen. You followed behind him as he pointed out which room was which. The first door on the left was his office, the next a guest bedroom, and opposite it was a bathroom. At the end of the hall on the right was the door to your bedroom, and a linen closet took up the very back wall of the hall.

“This,” he pointed to a door across from the bedroom, “is yours. I was made aware of your affinity for crafts.”

Oh.

“Thank you,” You genuinely smiled at him for the first time since you met. A certain giddiness mixed with relief bubbled in your chest. Maybe your husband would be more tolerable after all.

He had already been looking at you from the corner of his eye to gauge your reaction, and the hint of a smile played at his lips at your thanks.

You stepped to your right into your very plain shared bedroom. White drapes, white sheets, and again with the dark wood furniture. There was nothing to suggest it was used - it lacked anything personal as far as you could see. You would have pegged it for the guest bedroom if not for the room’s large size and your bags and trunk at the end of the bed.

“That is your dresser.” He pointed to one of the matching dressers. “And I have already moved my things to one side of the closet. I have to resume my work now, so I will leave you to unpack,”

You blinked. You turned to look at him but he was already leaving the room. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding when you heard the click of his office door closing behind him.

You began unpacking your clothes and organized them in piles to put away and hang up. You also decided to change out of your dress-robes while you had everything out. Once you were done with that task, you went and inspected the en-suite bathroom. It was large, with a tub and separate standing shower. It also had a nice double vanity with a lovely granite top.

You put your things under the sink and added your toothbrush to the porcelain cup. It had been over an hour and you hadn’t heard a peep from Tobirama’s office. You were done unpacking and getting hungry.

You quietly went to stand in front of his door, unsure whether to knock or not. You needed to go to the market, and you figured you should at least let him know.

The door opened before you could knock. Your husband stood on the other side, his piercing gaze locking on to yours. “What is it?”

“I, uh..” You couldn’t think for a moment under his stare. His reddish brown eyes were incredibly intense. “I- the market. I need to get food,”

He nodded and stepped into the hallway with you, closing the door behind himself and locking it. It was easier to speak with his back turned. “You don’t have to come if you’re busy, I just wanted to let you know,”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye as you began walking beside each other toward the front door. “I am your husband now. It is my duty to pay for what you need and ensure your safety.”

You huffed at that, it sounded somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated noise. How traditional of him.

With your shoes on and your coin purse tucked safely in your pocket, you headed out the door. Once you were down the steps you couldn’t help the smirk that formed on your face.

“Your home is barren, Tobirama. I hope you’re prepared to completely stock your kitchen,”

“Our home,” he corrected.

You wondered if he was trying to push the idea of ‘our’, if he would be easier to live with than you had originally assumed.

You walked with a foot of space between each other for the few blocks it took to make it to the market district. Besides a glance when you had arrived, this was your first time being there. It was a pleasure to see the bustling street and hear the chatter, along with the yells of children playing between the parents shopping. You watched a mother pull her child to her side, but as soon as she had turned back the vendor, the child ran to the other side of the street to the little girl she had been playing with. You laughed as the mother visibly huffed in frustration.

Tobirama looked at you clearly for the first time since you had set out. The impassive expression eased away. Although he didn’t smile with his mouth, it was clear in his eyes, along with a glitter of curiousity. He watched you laugh and the tinkling sound of it secretly delighted him.

“What is it?”

You were still smiling when you answered him. “The children’s antics and the mothers frustration - it reminds me of my little brothers,”

He raised a brow at you before leading you to the stalls from behind you. “I thought your brothers were shinobi?”

You let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “They’re children, first.”

You turned and craned your neck to look up at him. Your face was level with his chest and he was closer to you than he had been since your meeting. His eyes were on yours as he looked at you with a hint of confusion.

You knew little of his past, but he was a child of the warring era that was slowly coming to an end, thanks to the efforts of Hashirama, Madara, and him. The years had been difficult for everyone, but especially for the child soldiers, which you knew he had been.

“Children will be children, shinobi or not. I hope you remember that when we start having babies.” You narrowed your eyes at him; a warning.

He choked, his eyebrows shooting up and his composure waning for a moment. He had not expected you to be so forthright, and in public no less. You gave him no time to respond. You stopped at the first stall and picked out a couple of beautifully ripe tomatoes.

“How large is you-our back yard?” You took the paper sack the vendor gave you and gave a small bow of thanks.

Recovered, he responded flatly. “About an acre, why?”

You nodded in appreciation. “We’ll be getting seeds while we’re here. There’s still plenty of time to start a garden,”

Tobirama didn’t mind the idea of a small garden. “I would not be opposed to a small flower garden, if you so wish,”

You giggled mischievously and he wondered what he had said, although he appreciated the sound more than anything.“Yes, I could certainly put a small flower garden next to my large vegetable garden... Yes, that is a very good idea, husband. Oh, and you use water jutsu, how about that? You can water it all for me,”

He nearly balked at your words. Of all things, he had not expected your sly smirk; you were pushing him, trying to find the line. He just stared at you blankly. What had he gotten himself into?

#Tobirama #Tobirama Senju #x reader #Tobirama x reader #Tobirama Senju x reader #naruto #founders #x y/n

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raving-raven-writing · 8 months

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Spider Sees Ghosts AU

So, this idea has been in my drafts for a while, and it wasn't until @lovermyme mentioned the lack of this AU that I went back into and started writing some of it. I honestly had such a difficult time writing some of this because for some of it Spider is a young child and I don't write from the POV of children often. Anyhow, this AU, Spider starts to see spirits from a young age. It isn't until after Paz dies when he is about four that he starts telling people about being able to see these spirits, but not many people believe him. He is cast out as that weird kid by peers. But eventually, those around him start to believe him when he tells them things about them, their family, their history---things that he shouldn't know. This work will be a multi chapter, and it will connect to another story idea I got in mind that is focused on the backstories of the Recoms. Anyway, here are a couple of snippets I got. Enjoy.

MJ clutched the stuffed monkey to his chest, silent as he examined the apartment. Johnny did his best to give the boy a smile, although it was sad to see how quiet and withdrawn the boy had gotten ever since Paz had died. “Well, you make yourself comfy, okay MJ. I got a pullout bed on the sofa, so you can sleep there tonight.” He placed the boy’s backpack down next to the sofa and headed into the kitchen. “Have you eaten dinner yet?” MJ shook his head, the stuffed monkey still clutched tightly in his grip. “Okay, well, is there something particular you wanted to eat?” Most kids would jump at the chance to ask for or something else that was overtly “appropriate” dinner food. But MJ just shrugged. “Whatever you got is fine.” ________________________________________________________ “Who’s that you’re drawing?” “A lady.” “Does the lady have a name?” MJ paused what he was drawing and glanced off to a spot to his right, just in front of the coffee table he sat at. After a moment, he resumed his coloring. “Her name is Henrietta.” Johnny froze, his heart jumping up into his throat. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. The only person he’d ever known with the name Henrietta was his grandma, and she had passed many years ago, when he was about fifteen. He glanced over in the direction of where MJ had been looking a moment before and then lowered himself onto the floor next to the boy. He peeked down at the drawing, noting that MJ had drawn other people, ones he didn’t recognize. But, even with it being a drawing by six year old, he could clearly see the features of the woman he'd drawn and it matched to what his grandma looked like. The square framed glasses, with the beaded chain she hung them on. Her ever present floral sweater that she wore no matter the weather, her hair up in a bun--elderly women often envied how much hair his grandmother had had at her age. “How old is Henrietta, MJ?” MJ glanced again over to the right of the coffee table before he looked back down at his drawing. In black crayon, he wrote R.I.P. over top of the picture of Henrietta. “She’s been gone a long time.” _______________________________________________________

“...Can you tell me a story?” He seemed hesitant in asking the question, as though he was expecting to be rejected. He owned a good amount of books, although there were only two or three books he’d kept from his childhood. One of them being a gift that his grandmother had given him when he was about four. She had read it numerous times to him, and he never got tired of the story or the illustrations. He showed the book to MJ. “Where the Wild Things Are. This one okay?”, MJ nodded and Ja took a seat next to the boy, got comfortable, and opened up the book. Before he could start reading though, quietly the kid thanked him and leaned into Johnny’s side so that he could see the pictures better. Johnny was pleased to see that his narrating skills drew a small smile from the boy and after finishing reading the book, he was surprised of the feeling he had in his chest. One of pure contentment. He glanced down at the cover. “You know, when I was a kid, this was-” “Your favorite,” MJ said, cutting him off. “Uh, yeah…how did you guess?” MJ had moved to rest his head back on the pillow, the blankets now pulled up around his chin. “She stayed to make sure you are okay…” he muttered sleepily. With eyes half open, clouded with sleep, he glanced up at Johnny. “Are you okay, uncle Ja?” He tucked the boy's stuffed monkey in with him as he fought to breath past the sudden lump in his throat. He cleared his throat, determined not to cry. "Yeah, I'm okay, kid."

#atwow fanfiction #avatar fanficton #spidersocorro #miles quartich #lyle wainfleet #recom mansk #recom ja #recom lopez #recom zdog #recom prager #au fanfiction #fanfiction #ability to see ghosts #fanfic snippets #modern au

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drdemonprince · 11 months

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Is there actually a way to stop fawning, especially when you're not a white cis person? All I hear everyone say is to "be more assertive" but I feel like there's no way I can comfortably be assertive when because of my identity I feel at risk 90% of the time, and at the same time bending over backwards to avoid conflict with anyone is costing me my mental and physical health. I feel like it would be important to unmask, but at the same time the world doesn't make it easy. Is there a way out?

What I have seen tend to work for unmasking POC is more of a "go girl give us nothing" kind of solid reservedness rather than outright assertiveness. Think the main character of Nope. It's clear when he disagrees with something or believes someone has a bad idea, but he also doesn't trouble himself with convincing those that might not hear.

Another strat that works for more extroverted types is to learn how to use diplomatic language or a kind of teacher-y filled with wonder voice to impart hard truths but smooth over some of the tension.

A Black female colleague of mine is the master of carefully asking clarifying questions that lead the answerer to acknowledge problems, rather than ever having to air them directly herself. She hedges and shrugs and thinks carefully as she brings this stuff up. And once somebody else voices a concern, she sidles in with some solutions, which she always frames as the work of other people -- management researchers, other department chairs, conventional norms, whatever. So she never ever ever comes across as pushing for any agenda, she just guides and offers resources. It's a master class in managing her own manager, which sadly she has to do.

Tactics like these all requires learning and systematizing many social rules, and deploying intentional masking rather than reflexive masking -- and using masking to achieve your goals and uphold your values, rather than masking to make people like you, which is an altogether different experience.

I do not feel good passing on this advice. It's a fucking sham you have to worry about tone policing or being seen as hostile or even being arrested or fired for simply being assertively yourself. The additional cognitive load of code switching and strategically masking means that you are more contextually disabled than your white cis peers who generally don't have such worries.

And I'm also a white person read as nonthreatening, so be skeptical of me and my advice. I worry about being an imposing man or a condescending dick quite often, and calibrate my social performance accordingly -- indeed I always have, even prior to transition. and I care about this stuff so I listen to trans femmes, Black trans mascs, butch lesbians, trans women of color, fat people, tall people, and others who get misread in these ways. But noticing and synthesizing trends can only take me so far.

If youre a trans person of color who unmasks, please drop your tips in the notes and feel free to tell me these ideas are not it.

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femmesandhoney · 10 months

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is killing affirmative action that bad? black people deserve the same chance at good education, but should that not be taking place earlier on? middle school and specifically high school?

letting unqualified people into colleges and universities and passing them on far lower standards is harmful to both the students being let in solely on race but to the people who worked hard and now lost their chance just because they happen to be white or asian.

wouldn’t it be more helpful to help get black students into good high schools so that they can get qualified enough instead of deciding whether their worthy or not on the color of their skin?

why is your argument "affirmative action is helping college students and not k-12 students so its bad and we should be okay w it being dismantled despite seeing negative results for minority students in the states that have tried ending it" like what? you can demand better resources for majority-minority schools and support affirmative action programs. AA exists because it acknowledges how systemic the racism is in american society. fun fact, affirmative action has also benefitted a good majority of white women as well since affirmative action programs are both sex and race related. let's jot that down, no white women are really being discriminated against based on race for college apps 🙄

secondly its insulting to call these minority students "unqualified" like are you the college administrators? how would you know that fully? like truly. you sound like the girl who accused me of stealing a spot from someone else by applying to a top college to see if i could get in just because. it doesn't work like that, admins still consider many factors when judging students. if you didn't get in, well frankily you probably wouldn't have gotten in with or without AA programs in place and i do think its embarrassing when people get rejected and point fingers at AA programs. AA exists to help minority students get a higher education and make sure a campus isn't a homogeneous blob of elite white people. either way schools will need to find ways to support minority students who often lack resources and recruitment opportunities, so race will be considered no matter what, now just in roundabout ways.

anyways you can read some of these articles on the topic, most important to note is that AA bans will mostly impact the minority of highly selective colleges, aka the more elite colleges. it was never that huge of a problem for average american college students in the first place, but now we'll likely see less minority students in those selective campuses and eventually will be reflected in the workforce/academic spaces of those areas.

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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 2 years

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BFCD Reviews By Nesha || The Purge Franchise

Welcome, Welcome, Welcome to my experience with my Purge marathon this month, for October purposes. We could glide by the first one, since there is literally one Black woman in it and she’s there for like, a few minutes, or whatever. BUT. Since there were prominent Black female characters elsewhere in the franchise, I decided to just put all of my thoughts into one long post. (Only covered the movies 1-3, because that’s all I watched)

This essentially started whenever I saw this post that asked for POC thoughts on the representation in The Purge. I was already considering reviewing it, but that pretty much was like my little push. Then, I was in the comments or whatever, and just don’t think that I had the time at the moment to really state my thoughts in a comments section, particularly while I was only two movies in. Basically, long story short, if there is ever a story about POC, especially in stories where injustice is a major plot point - if there are characters of color, there need to be writers of color. If there are characters of color and no writers of color... Just know that them white people fucked it up. Sometimes it’s okay, because sometimes, they got a friend of color or something and have watched a few documentaries. Lol. Idk if this man who wrote this franchise know any Black people outside of work. 🤷🏾‍♀️

And the usual disclaimer, since we back OUTSIDE! You say you outside but you ain’t that outside. I’m outside of my fandoms in this department, and these things tend to bring the fandoms to me because I stepped foot in their things. Disclaimer for somebody who stumbled across this post because of the fandom tags - I am an independent partaker of this content, not “part of the fandom,” and my audience in particular is NOT for everybody. SO: If you may have been criticized in the past for casual racism, tone deafness to Black women’s concerns or accused of misogynoir or antiblackness, leave now. If you don’t like cussing, AAVE, general ratchetness and mean lesbian energy, you too might wanna go. A bitch can be eloquent, but I type like I talk, at times, so it is what it is and I don’t curate for kids, dudes, or nonblacks. That’s just what that is.

The Purge

I initially watched this movie whenever it first was out (more like whenever it was out of the theaters, so not at the very beginning of it’s existence, but pretty dang close). I watched it at my older sister’s house. I wasn’t interested in it. Whenever I heard the premise, I thought it sounded pretty dope, but then I saw Ethan Hawke, and so I was willing to pass. One thing I’ma do is pass on an Ethan Hawke movie without a second thought. So. I didn’t plan on watching it, but my sister put it on at her home one night and that’s her TV, so I wound up seeing the thing.

Wasn’t impressed with the movie, overall. It came out at a time where I was very invested and involved in Black activism and the movie read like someone who had read a few white liberal articles on politics and then made a lil’ movie about the horrors. It felt extremely tone deaf in some areas, and like the point it was trying to make was not being properly communicated.

BUT THEN, I noted that many of the white people I knew personally felt very into it and I decided, “Oh, okay. It was meant for them. It was to communicate things that we already know to these people who have often always been able to live without having to know or think about these things. I’m including this interaction with someone in the fandom, on the post linked above, to clarify:

So. To me, this family read as conservative. They could be moderates. I definitely could see it. They put their flowers out to show that they support the purge, but then whenever it comes down to it, they don’t actually have it in them to support it in full. But. I feel like there are so many conservatives like this as well.

I’m from Texas. Southeast Texas, to be exact. Right by the Gulf of Mexico, right by Louisiana. I have hella conservatives surrounding me who were “nice” people. They love their families, however that looked, and didn’t actually go out to klan rallies or anything, but they support law enforcement and make excuses for these “great institutions” in our nation, and in Texas. Now... They wouldn’t be likely to actually shoot me down dead without a second thought like the police would, but they would support the police force, despite them doing such things. This is how the main family reads, to me.

The writer though? Felt like someone on the other side. The ones who will gladly raise awareness to help the less fortunate, but if they had to do even a step more than that, they would not have the energy. The story read like a person - who puts BLM in their profile, but doesn’t really even know any Black people, much less help them - telling a story about how maybe, under the right (or very wrong) circumstances, their white counterparts could see the light about humanity.

I was glad to see that brotha survive, but beyond that, this was not a movie for me or mine. It isn’t a movie that outside of this marathon I will watch again either. Now, the second one, to me, was more empathetic. It was like if the writer heard feedback and decided to clarify and expound on what message the story was giving, and opened up a doorway to a broader audience.

The Purge: Anarchy

We followed characters around who knew what was up and were just trying to do their best. Instead of following people who were part of the problem like we did in the first movie, we followed people who were more likely to be affected by those in power who were the problem. They even went so far as to cast leads who are biracial Black women as part of the ensemble that we take this journey with.

Yes, like the first one, they’re still shown as targets of the problem, but they also are shown as survivors too, and while there is still an undertone of white saviorism, as there also was in the first movie, it isn’t a cut and dry white savior story. It is a group of people who need help through an impossible life in an unfair world, and how each of them does their best, not only to live, but to look out for their loved ones, and eventually each other. It is really the type of story that I would have wanted from a world like this, and I would have wanted evidence that there were people who could somehow make the best of it all.

Nobody don’t do that like Black people. One of our main identifiers is how we make lemonade out of lemons, so there was good visuals in who they selected to follow through this story and I thought the end was BEAUTIFUL. To see the brotha done not only survived last time, but he done started working to give power to the powerless? Loved that for him. Loved that Our Good Sis nem made sure to have the man’s back who had theirs in the beginning. It was a well told story for such a horrifying state of things.

The Purge: Election Year

I don’t know what happened here...

This movie was not good. At the end of the day, I think that they needed Black people, preferably ones who know about community work, politics, and such to assist them in trying to write these characters.

They gave you more POC in this story... They gave you more access to the ones standing up to the corrupt power system. But, then they sort of sullied it with this idea that to rise up is to be as bad as those who LITERALLY use their power to eradicate you and have the means and malice to do it.

White liberal knucka strikes again with a heavy hand in false equivalencies of an organization that had to be created in order to help and protect the most vulnerable people in these disgusting times with actual white supremacists. The white supremacists were a seen, real, force trying to eliminate the one person who wanted to make changes, from a place of power.

Enter the White Savior Trope that they were flirting with last movie, and amplify that bitch. This movie was so damn annoying with the thought of this white woman being the only hope that the people had, when the brotha had been tearing through the Purge purists’ shit for years. (He finally got him a name this movie too). But, my point is. There is no better way for you to get me to roll my eyes and smack my teeth than to try to paint some white as the only hope, and in THIS particular story, it’s especially heinous, because there was already some hope in the niggas evening the field a little bit by exterminating some of the high profile people and hitting their fancy events.

What this movie did was that, and even worse, they shoved down my THROAT that these negros with guns were just as bad, and somebody in there had the audacity to have the main negro say at one point, “Now, I love Black people, but I’m not letting you shoot these good white folks. These our white folks” while those people were in the process of trying to thwart an operation that could eliminate one of the worst of the purge pushers who had ALREADY tried to kill them PERSONALLY! WHY??? WHO BUT SOME HONKEY OR SOME COON WOULD WRITE THAT AND BE SERIOUS???????????

HUGE. STEP. DOWN. From the trust that they built with me as a Black viewer in the previous movie. I thought perhaps that there might be another increase in awareness and quality, like there was between the first and second movies. There was not. Not for my Black ass. I didn’t even watch it in one sitting, and was ready to end my trek through the franchise. I was that irritated by the complete and utter audacity, in a universe like this, in a situation like this for THAT. What SHOULD have happened, if it wasn’t some white nonsense, was everybody shoulda told that white lady what the brotha was tryna tell her and get the white people to sit down and shut up and get out the way, because come 7:00, THEY were gonna fucking be safe again! EVEN IF this white bitch is the only fucking hope in this universe, what she was gon’ do? Wave a wand and make it so?

These people were supposed to just wait for you to have the right pieces in order to possibly help them, when they KNOW FOR SURE, one of they problems can end, right now today, by blowing this dude brains out? GOOFY. This is goofy. This was the height of too white for me to personally enjoy. Especially because people who tend to say shit like, “Then, you’re no better than them” usually haven’t gone through nothing. This hoe went through the purge. Shit killed her whole family. She was almost assassinated TONIGHT, multiple times, and the minute. THE VERY MINUTE she realized that these people who HELPED HER were going after her opponent, her main focus was how SHE couldn’t win like that. BITCH, THIS IS THESE PEOPLE’S LIVES. FUCK YOUR WIN.

AND, WHO THE FUCK PUT THIS LADY IN CHARGE??? They already have an entire operation that they had to do with not one spec of help from the great white hope, and they have been doing there best and helping people. They have been about it, while she has spoken about it. And then suddenly, folk all gather to crowd and protect her and why is everybody in this movie priority to protect her? This is not my ministry. Hated it, for all of that. Some other POC might have liked it, oh no baby, not my Black ass. I was cussing all they asses out through them shenanigans. Fuckin’ up the church’s money.

“This is no longer an assassination. It’s a rescue mission.” IT COULD BE BOTH! UGH. HATE THIS GODDAMN BULLSHIT. “We can’t be like them.” YOUR LIFE LITERALLY IS NOT GOING TO BE SHIT TOMORROW, LADY, FUCK YOU! And she’s like... getting in his way as they’re tryna move out, talking through him through the door when he has this decision to make. Quite frankly, I think she’s a piece of shit specifically for getting in the way of this group killing that man. She’s just the “lesser of two evils,” who STILL does not have these people’s best interests at heart, and it is not clear if the writer knew this or actually believed in her policies. Judging from the way this story has always read as white liberal bullshit, I think it’s a writer issue, and not that her character is this way on purpose.

AND THEY KILL MY NIGGA! They gave us the optics of the main Black character getting gunned down by Nazis. And the one white hero whose entire mission this movie is to save the white woman is the one we get to see defeat the main Nazi. Who, as I said, had just killed the longest running Black character in the franchise, who only even got a name THIS movie, even though it’s his third appearance in the franchise. The other main negro jump in front of the white woman to give us the Sacrificial Negro Trope that I had a sneaky suspicion would occur in this movie. I just didn’t know which one they was gon’ do it too. But I knew. I felt it in my spirit that this was the type of writer who would employ that representation. Girl, fuck this movie. No lol.

The first hour and a quarter are tolerable, then it just shits itself. I actually went to try to see if there was some shuckin’ & jivin’ ass nigga behind the scenes that for whatever made them think this was okay, but nope - white people were responsible, and it SHOWS. Powered through the last half hour on principle. Don’t know if I wanna continue. There are so many horrific things that I can watch that I will probably love out there.

Not only was this the worst movie in the franchise, but this is one of the worst movies that I have seen recently. I’d advise the Black people with interests similar to mine not to waste your time. I would punch this man in his face for writing this movie, if I could. Whew. Well, niggas and friends... idk if Auntie Nesha will be finishing this franchise, but even if I do, at MOST, I’d do a “Nesha Watches” and liveblog it. This shit got my equilibrium fucked up.

#BFCD Reviews by Nesha #The Purge #Nesha Watches The Purge Franchise #Nesha Watches The Purge #Nesha Watches #The Purge Franchise #Eva Sanchez #Carmen Ejogo #Cali Sanchez #Zoe Soul #Laney Rucker #Betty Gabriel #Freak Bride #Brittany Mirabile #long post #reviews #BFCD Spooky Season #Queuetober

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unknownjpegs · 3 months

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sire

She pauses in front of the diner because the thing parked horizontally across two spaces — an asshole thing to do, were it not two in the morning — catches her eye.

And then, the person sitting alone at a table within snatches her attention entirely.

There’s a little bell that jingles as pushes the door open and glides in. Her chunky heeled boots clack arrhythmic on the tile — one of them is hollowed on the bottom.

“Not interested,” he says, sparing not even a passing glance over his mug. “Keep on.”

“That is rude.” Ina slides into the booth across from him, fisting her long fingers together and ignoring the sticky tabletop beneath them. She kicks both feet up, two different color sneakers, to either side of his knees.

“I like your ride.” She says it like, I want it. Give me the key. Give me the key, or I’ll find it myself. I’ll take it.

The man looks at her now, eyes darker than the disgusting looking slop in that mug. No cream, Ina notes. No sugar.

“Why’s it gotta be mine?” He lifts a shoulder. “Could be anybody’s.”

Ina’s mouth curls at the word. Anybody. She glances around at the near-empty diner, eyebrows arched condescendingly. The kitchen door swings — the waitress with the sun-leathered skin and crinkled lines framing her mouth has retreated. Perhaps, if she’s intelligent, at the sight of Ina.

“Hers?”

He shrugs again.

“His?”

Now he turns in the seat, which Ina thinks is… funny. Maybe a little naive — or, maybe, it’s naive of her to assume that of him. Anyway, he turns. It puts her in his peripheral, and her eyes fall to his neck. Dark brown skin, unmarred, smooth. She’s not particularly thirsty; old, grungy trucker had bought her big give me a ride, hitchhiker’s eyes not a moment ago. Hadn’t been smart enough, or lacked the proper low-light vision, to see the crimson of her irises.

There’s another trucker tucked into the far corner of the diner, arms crossed over a barrel chest and beer gut. He’s got a Gone Fishin’ hat pulled over his eyes. He’s either, Ina thinks, asleep or dead or too drunk to have any semblance of awareness the former states might offer.

“Fuck no,” the man across from her says with an amused scoff. “‘Sides, dickhead looks like he’d prefer to drive a Harley — ” He snorts. “Right through the front of a Cabela’s, hey?”

Ina’s mouth curls in a slow, delighted grin. “You are far from home.”

He turns back to her. His stare’s lingering amusement has dampened slightly by a new, careful assessment. “So are you.”

“I’m longer from home than you think.”

“Longer?” His lips twitch now too. “Not farther. You look young.”

“Would you believe I still get carded?” Ina tilts her head, smile widening. “And you? Where’s your home?

He slides a hand from his jacket pocket. A wooden stake, hand-carved, is placed in the center of the table.

“Not here, that’s for fuckin’ sure. I’m on my way to see a friend.”

Ina rumbles a low, chilling laugh.

He says it like a warning and a promise. Says it as young women often do, when they fear someone knows they are alone and will be for some time. There’s someone waiting on me. Someone that loves me. Someone that is expecting me, so if you hurt me or if you kill me, I won’t just disappear. If you hurt me, you won’t ever get rid of me fully. I’ll make your life worse, even in death, because if I can’t escape, you won’t either. They’ll know, and they’ll come looking for you.

“Will it work, do you think?” She points at the stake.

“Been known to, on occasion.” He volleys back. “You’d be surprised at the problems a little piece of wood can sort out.” He spins it with one finger, eyes on her. “Figure if you try anything, I might as well try anything too.”

“Is that where you’re traveling? To find a herd to cull?”

He sits up slightly in the booth when she shifts. She hasn’t moved — hasn’t twitched or fidgeted or breathed since placing herself across from him.

“Still think it’s mine, then?”

Leather jacket, black t-shirt, several chains of varying weights around his neck, a holster or a harness of some sort crossing his broad chest. Ina’s smile widens. She tosses herself to the side, inky hair spilling over the shiny, squeaky red seat. It catches on a tear in the cheap upholstering as she glances under the table — dotted with decades worth of unscraped gum.

There is a scrape on the toe of his boot where the leather has worn down. Mark that is specific to a pair of shoes that knocks between the starter, the brake, and the gear shift.

Ina slow lifts up, peering at him from the edge of the table with one glittering red eye. It’s set behind thin, crimson-tinted glasses shaped like flames.

“Not for long.”

It is a battle, and a fucking fierce one at that. Perhaps one of the most wild she can remember as of recent — and that memory stretches centuries. There is a spark there, held tight in his chest and zipping through veins like the red water of life. He puts that spark in his fist and swings it, incensed by the light and heat.

But it is, after all, a fight that can only end in one way. Ina is Ina; he is young and alone, passion and fury aside. At the end, she feels no anger even though she has been hurt. It only makes her prideful. She chose right. Chose well. Yes, she’s torn raggedly by the end, flayed and burned and missing bits — but eventually, quickly, it will all heal into smooth and unmarred flesh. She’ll be made whole again, as she was. As she always has been.

He is not so fortunate. He will be whole soon, because he’s proven himself, and Ina will let him heal.

“It may be,” Ina whispers as she withdraws from his throat, wiping the back of her hand delicately over her mouth. “Thou shalt be as we.”

“Fuck — off.”

Her other hand softens from its cruel wrench of his head backwards, petting instead over this cheek to cup it.

“Thank you,” Ina says, because thirst quenched is a gift given. She wipes her palm over the punctures and its sluicing blood, offering him a bit of dignity in cleanliness as his arteries pump it to the ground. Although she’s sated, now overfull, Ina licks it from between her fingers. Disrespectful to waste.

He glares up at her, fading and fight long gone; yet, remnants of that fury uglying his face in a callous, bitter sneer. For now, he hates her.

You’re supposed to say, ‘and ye?’, she thinks as she parts the thin skin of her palm with a fang. It bisects that tattooed moon, rends the image of it into a waning gibbous. There is nothing he can do as she lifts the wound to his mouth, which is mottled wetly red from an injury of his own. There is nothing he can do while she squeezes it onto his tongue.

“Do you know that one, know how it ends? Cain says, and ye? and Lucifer responds: Are everlasting.” She shakes her head, grin sly. “You have got to hand it to them. That’s good stuff, ah? They get some things right. Everlasting… so I give you this, a bagong buhay.”

“Quoting — Byron…and you — “ he gulps wetly, air retreating from lungs that compress for the final time, alveoli that pink with blood for the final time, and bronchi that draw breath out of necessity for the final time. “Call — me — stereotypical? Fuck — you.”

They are the last words that leave his mouth in this life. Ina shrugs and watches closely as it slips from him.

Not all fledglings survive the next part. Physically, of course, none of them do. But Ina has lived long enough to know that most breathing things can survive bodily. There is a certain, rare strength for one to mentally endure. To resist horror. To embrace what comes after. There would be no drink, no eat, no breathe without the mind beckoning the body to do so.

Some don’t have that strength. For as many as Ina has created she has ended perhaps double. She could weep at the number, because she tries to remember each. Some she bestows this gift upon are maddened by the transition. So unmade by the making that it’s a merciful kindness to themselves and others to feed them to a tall, tall fire.

Anyway, the nature of gifts is not to be received - but to be offered in the first place.

So, having offered and honored, Ina watches.

He goes limp. His mouth slackens. When it does, she shuts it gently with fingers beneath his chin. The flesh is cooling, already. It will soon become warm again — not with life, but the burn. His eyes flutter next, then fix cloudily distant to a point over her shoulder. Finding, somewhere, that thing that Ina herself has only seen once before.

She maintains her gentle touch as she drags that broad, limp body upright. Maneuvers him to her back with her jacket as a swaddle, its sleeves tied tight around her waist.

Ina carries him like she thinks she might have once been carried as a child. She encircles his arms around her shoulders, legs crossed and tucked to her hips. She’s sleight, more than half his weight, but it makes no difference to her strength.

She begins walking. Begins their journey.

Halfway through, his breathing slows to a rate that would kill him if he were not already going. Already gone. Ina knows this metamorphosis intimately, as she might know a centuries-old lover. The change requires days to take. First this black-void fever, then death without rot. They have time for her to pace and enjoy the scenery as it passes.

Alone and yet companioned, with time to spare, Ina ruminates:

What a sweet thing it is, what a mercy, to taste the end. To continue, even after you’ve been shown your end, cauterized, and allowed to wet the frayed edge and weave more.

Blood is a life, a life, a life, continued. That is love — that is what Ina gives. A new beginning is not a curse, but a blessing. Go again, and keep on.

Keep on.

He understands. He’d said that to her in that diner. How could those words have been anything less than a sign? She would drink from anyone, but she would be, as the foolish ones said, damned if she shared this with just anyone.

Because, circumstances and bureaucratic requirements of this turning aside, she would likely find him worthy to be made new regardless. She saw it in the pulse of veins and thrum of a heartbeat, the unwavering tenacity and instinct in their fight.

He would not be a simple number on paper, nor a diagonal tally upon the wall, nor a body among the rank and file, nor someone’s substitute or plaything or surrogate. She would not allow it.

You, she sneers, are not a replacement. A stand-in. That bitter, wretched thing did not deserve blood in the first place. Monster. Monsters.

Their destination is a grand old manor, hidden in the countryside. This land, although ravaged with a familiarity that aches in her chest, still has such places. Veiled, secret, ancient ones. Where the inhabitants are fickle, but welcome her nonetheless.

The first words from his new mouth, same mouth, in this new life, same life:

“What have you fucking done?”

She expects the cold, embittered edge. Would be disappointed if she didn’t hear it tucked within the words, because even in life he’d held that iciness in him up to top of his skull. Overfull with it, as she had been overall with the sweet metallic warmth of blood, of platelets, of cells. Life received, life given in turn.

Buried deep, below the unforgivingly gruff exterior, is a sense of justice that she respects. Kindness. Most importantly, a mean streak. She likes that best.

“What else could I have done?” She says. “What more? I gave you eternity.”

Gave herself, gave life, gave power. She explains this from her seat at the end of the grand canopied bed. This room is Ina’s — Jacqueline and her partner keep it empty for her visits and visitors alone.

She gestures vaguely to the bedside table, where she has stacked a variety of books. Not just Byron, because that’s funny, but more. Rarer. Better. The entire room is full of them, full of knowledge that he will not find elsewhere.

“To pass the time, when you find there’s too much of it.”

“I’ll off myself.” He promises, and then firmly shakes his head. “I’ll kill you. Then I’ll off myself.”

“Ah,” Ina sighs. “Yes, there’s some Kafka in the stack too. I think a first edition!”

He glares at her with such intensity that a distant pull in her chest beckons her backwards, slightly. But he doesn’t move forward — he falls to the mattress. Weak, unconscious; the brief flash of strength pulled from him to fuel the anger gone. Tears streak down his cheeks and Ina wipes them away.

Benji dies at twenty-five. He wakes three weeks later, at twenty-six.

It’s hard to tell how long she tends to him. The days muddy together in a painful, confusing stretch of hours and thirst and aches. Rebirth is not fucking pretty, as it turns out.

There’s anger, beneath the cloud of it all, and resentment. Each time she makes a sympathetic noise, shares a story that barely makes it through his hunger and the shivery fever, he snarls. Tries to bite at her sometimes, if she comes too close — and even manages to draw blood a few times.

And still she helps. Still, she presses a comforting hand to his cheek and speaks in an unfamiliar language when the pain is unbearable. Urges him to endure. Accept the adaption.

She sits there and sometimes she sits there and talks and sometimes Benji responds. It’s loneliness, he assures himself. It’s not her sharp wit, or their easy rapport. The strange compulsion he feels to crack her odd, even demeanor into a laugh or flash of anger is nothing more than that — a compulsion. Whatever disgusting magic exists between a sire and their spawn.

Ew, she sneers at him, when once he tosses that word at her with bitter condescension. You’re my equal, you freak. And I’m not your mother.

Then what do I call you? He hisses back, eyes slit. Gonna let me come up with somethin’ worse?

Her wide, plush mouth spreads in a charming smile. Ina. You?

…Benji.

He plays nice as the new, confused, agreeable fledgling. When Ina disappears one evening (and doesn’t return) he discovers that escape might be difficult. Worse, as he comes into contact with the others, he finds that by the day, leaving is less a necessity and more of a maybe.

Begrudgingly over the first few months of his new life, he grows attached to the cloistered bunch. Benji’d not call them lonely, or solitary. They have each other, even if they are all a bit unsocial. But they accept him as one of Ina’s. None of them say it with any sort of malice or, and he’s gotta laugh, dehumanization. Not like he belongs to her, but that he is of her. Accepted alongside.

Well. Mostly accepted.

Dr. Sullivan isn’t kind, per se, but they let him borrow books. Offer to teach him a language, how to hunt in the city, the countryside. Jacqueline, their spouse, is a French vampire who claims to have drunk from Joan of Arc and found the holy taste bitter. She requests he call her Jack, and she shares with him stories of science and ingenuity that span centuries. And she encourages him to get to know the other manor residents: a trio of flighty, spoiled dhampir.

Benji likes the youngeset the best. Matilda is sarcastic and wild, but sentimental. Sweet, if you catch her at the right time. Isaac is quiet and shy, but the least volatile — he teaches Benji signs for hello and my name is and what’s a vampire’s favorite fruit? Blood orange. Leo, the eldest, Benji thinks might be more mental than even Ina. He latches desperately onto a ghoulish, eerily impenetrable perfection. Grits his jaw, tears too violently into a meal in a way that makes it seem like he’s not hungry for the blood, but the rip. Even still, Benji kisses him three, maybe four times in the decrepit statue garden on the grounds.

And admittedly, he learns a lot — more than he never wished to know. About this life, about being a vampire and not just how to kill them.

He also learns how to read ancient languages from Dr. Sullivan. How to fight with a rapier, with honor, from Jack. How to fight with dishonor from Matilda, how to make protective trinkets from Isaac, and Leo…how to use his newfound strength.

“Good throw,” the blond says, shaking himself of ancient drywall and cobwebs. He glances back at the hole in the study wall with a wry grin. “Maybe one day soon you’ll win against me for real.”

“Tosser,” Benji scoffs, and fists hands in Leo’s tattered Black Sabbath shirt to pull him down for a biting, bloody kiss.

Much later, after his escape from that manor and its occupants, he finds his way back to a small two-bedroom flat. The second he steps foot in the door, clarity washes over him with a chill icier than his death. His lungs burn, but not for air — from the protective sigils Maran had carefully carved into the door-frame.

This is home — was home. He used to call it home, at least, because Maran was there. He doesn’t know if he ever can call it that, again. Doesn’t know, as he stands there in the shadows, if Maran will let him. And Benji has flitted between so many of them in his short span of years that he can’t place a favored one. His mum’s, couches at various exes, this flat, the manor. Now, nowhere. He thinks, with no small amount of anger, he’s been condemned to seek home for eternity.

Everlasting.

“Fuck’s sake,” Maran says, jolting from a deep slumber. “Benji?”

He hasn’t made a sound. The idea that his presence is so palpable, so familiar, that just him standing in that darkened corner is enough to pull his best friend from sleep is — well. It makes him cry once more.

“Maran,” he says, wetly laughing through the tears that slip down his cold cheeks, “We ‘ave got a problem, mate.”

Maran sits up and rubs his eyes, reaching for the bedside light and turning it on.

“Oh shit,” Maran hisses. His brown eyes are wide, but not scared, as they meet Benji’s newly crimson ones. “Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ say.”

#writing #ua #bp #it #vampire au

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oworiio · 3 years

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overstimulating takemitchy leaving him all ruffled up panting for air 💗

cw: not proofread. mentions of prostitution and obvious sex work, handjobs and the word mistress. also fem reader, sorry..

Something that Takemichi noticed when he was maturing was the way women were so compelling. Jerking off right after his shitty part-time convenient DVD store job is something that occurs way too often. But it's not like he can't get pussy, buying a prostitute to furrow his cock into for a quick 5 minute fuck is an easy option, but is it an option that would make him feel good?

No.

What's pussy without the emotional value behind it?

Or that's what he used to think. Fuck all of that stupid, corny bullshit people say, fuck all of that and it's mother. Because when a pretty girl like you comes crashing like a train passing it's speed limit, Takemichi seemingly forgets any type of self-respect or morals he used to have for sex.

And with a few strokes in, you could tell this man has been desperately neglected in the hands and eyes of others.

It shows when the way your thumb swipes a thick load of beading precum of the slit of his tip makes his legs quiver in a way that makes him look like he's cumming, and hard.

His voice erupts and cracks with every syllable that slips out of his mouth as if he was in the midst of breaking down and crying. "Shit— fuck, that feels so good." His eyes have more whine and desperation than his own voice does, eyeing into your soul and begging for more.

"Please—please Mistress, do that again?" It's more of a question than a request, but you're more than happy to oblige for him.

The second time your whole palm strokes across the head, massaging the tip rather than rubbing it; his dick squelches by how much pre-cum he produces. It leaves you confused on if he's came or not, but your suspicions change as you repeat the motion once more, making every muscle in his body quake.

The color of his skin turns more flushed than before, everything is clenched and seizing as Takemichi writhes under your hand, jackhammering into an awfully harsh release. You're watching in awe, as the client starts to cry and curse every possible thing he could.

You've never met such a desperate man in brothel before, the usual unfaithful business man is such a bore, having some fun wouldn't kill anybody, would it?

As the man beings to come down from his peak, your hand comes back to attack him with the thick white residue of his ejaculation still on your palms. It's so sopping and gross, it makes you cringe a bit as you jerk the semen onto the tip and over the shaft of his cock, attentively watching your clients reactions.

"What are you?— H-hey!" Takemichi's eyes roll back to his head. The overstimulating feeling that occurs pains him, so much that he ends up ejacualting again, and embarrassingly loud.

"'m Cumming! Sto—" The black haired male is unable to finish his sentence as he chokes on his own moans, tears clearly falling down his cheek as your hand is so relentless on his sensitive head.

It's almost sickening how much you're enjoying this, finally withdrawing your hands from his sex and immediately sitting up to clean your hands from his release.

"There's kleenex next to the bed, hun. That'll be 30,000 yen, you can pay in the front."

The unbearable beating coming from your cunt doesn't shy away as your ears take note of the way he's struggling to compose himself after that, panting and wheezing for a small breaths of air.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers thirsts #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader #takemichi x reader #takemichi smut #takemichi hanagaki x reader #takemichi hanagaki smut

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woos-lil-oreo · 3 years

Text

Love Scene

Pairing: Song Min Gi x Female! Reader

Word Count: approximately 3.1k words

Warnings: Slight Voyeurism???, Mentions of alcohol consumption, cursing/swearing, biting, spitting, Reader is a slight pillow princess, UNPROTECTED SEX (plastic wrap your peenie weenies), oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, slight use of pet names... I think that's it.

Author's Note: Most of this is a BIG self-indulgence XD and that Mingi gif always get me going... AnYwAyS, This fic is NSFW!!!! If you are uncomfy, do not read! If I miss anything, please tell me. If you wanna join the taglist, send me an ask and let me know. Don't steal... all that ✨ jazz ✨ music. Drink your water and enjoy my dirty lil harlots 😉

Taglist: @shusan @woowommy @ceopjy @joongsprincess @yunhofingers

Intro and Masterlist ✨

This is the happiest day of your life. You are dolled up in a beautiful snow-white dress decorated in speckled sequins and intricate rhinestone designs.

Your makeup is simple yet glamourous with a simple natural smoky eye with a shimmer in the inner corners. There is this aural glow of happiness around you, and you genuinely feel like a princess.

You are standing in front of your handsome fiancée with your hands holding each other, who is decked out in a simple black suit with a white dress shirt accented with a deep royal blue tie and shiny black Oxfords.

Hongjoong’s friend, Maddox, recites the point in the script where the vows would be repeated by you and your soon to be husband.

The vows. A spiritual binding of words that will connect the two of you until the end of eternity… or until you two get tired of each other, whichever comes first.

As you repeat after Maddox, Mingi’s eyes glisten with tears of joy. As much as he willed himself not to, one little miscreant of a tear dared to fall. You drop one of your hands to go wipe the tear stream off of his cheek.

The guests proceed to awe in adoration. Seonghwa fans his eyes to prevent his tears from falling, while Hongjoong is sporting a runny nose and a giant crocodile tear down his cheek, clinging to Seonghwa’s shoulder.

As you listen to Mingi recite his vows, tears start to well up in your eyes. You grip Mingi’s hand a little tighter to calm yourself because your makeup is beautifully done, and you’d be damned if you let a teardrop and a dried tear stain appear on your cheek. Jae-hee would have your ass. You got through the ceremony without tears!

“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.” Maddox proclaims. You turn to Mingi, who now has one of the brightest smiles ever on his face, and he leaves a nice, sweet, lingering peck on your lips, still holding your hands.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that!” Wooyoung screams out, earning himself a nice smack to the forehead from Yeosang. Wooyoung winces and rubs the spot while the guests laugh at their interaction and turn back to you when Mingi lets go of your hand and smirks.

Mingi pulls you to his chest, grabs you by the waist – pulling you close to him – and kisses you. As the kiss gets deeper, he places his hand on your cheek – steadying your head, and your hands work their way to the back of his head.

The crowd begins to root the two of you on, and Jae-hee screams out, “You guys are literally about to get a room!” You both pull away from each other and look at your husband. Mingi has a very thin layer of shimmer lip gloss on his mouth, and his cheeks and the tips of his ears are red.

A now very flustered and blushy boi Maddox quickly recollects himself from what he just witnessed and mutters, “They don’t pay me enough,” with a chuckle before he announces, loud and proud, “I-I now present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Song Min Gi!”

Everyone stands up from their seats and creates a round of applause as the newlywed couple leads the processional to the area where the wedding party, which is beautifully attired in soft peach pink dresses and deep royal sapphire blue accented suits, is to take pictures of one of the most important days you will never forget.

~25 minutes later~

The host has completed the introductions for the most chaotic wedding party that has ever existed, and everyone is getting to their seats in the venue.

The reception hall is absolutely stunning! The same colors of the wedding party are accented with gold. Diamonds are loosely scattered across the table, tealight candles alit floating in water vases, giving the room a soft glow in addition to the dimmed lighting.

The caterers are dressed in a clean white shirt, a black vest, and slacks. The guys have a royal blue sleeve garter, and the girls a soft peach one.

Once everyone has settled at their tables, Jae-hee and Yunho approach the front of the makeshift stage to make their toasts as Maid of Honor and Best Man.

Jae-hee grabs the microphone first, and she is already tearing up, and she is usually not one for emotion often. “Y/N, we have been friends for so long… we are practically sisters. I’ve watched you grow into a beautiful and confident woman… and even though I put you through some shit….” All of ATEEZ shakes their head and groan in agreement, and the rest of the guests laugh in response.

Jae-hee rolls her eyes and continues. “I’m so happy that you have found the love of your life and that I wasn’t the first to get married.” You roll your eyes and get up to hug her, and she meets you halfway. While in her embrace, she whispers, “I love you, baby girl,” and you respond with the same hushed tone, “I love you, too,” letting one measly tear run.

You two kiss each other’s cheek, and you return to your seat, and Jae-hee returns to the stage. She grabs Yunho’s handkerchief to dab away her tears before they fall through mascara. “Mingi, I officially welcome you into the messy integration that is our family.” Mingi chuckles and nods in response.

The mic is passed to Yunho. “Mingi, you have grown into an immaculate young man who is decorated with accomplishments and people who love you. I’m really proud of you, and I wish you two the best of luck. Y/N, I have watched you become each other’s yin and yang. You may be a bit of a handful,” you roll your eyes and chuckle. “… But we love you so much, and we welcome you into our quote – end quote ‘messy integration that is our family.’” Yunho walks over to give you a kiss on the cheek, and bro hugs Mingi.

“Cheers!” After an emotional toast from Hongjoong and Seonghwa, it was time for the party to begin, and I mean both aspects of the term. Which explains why you are now seated in a chair in the middle of the dance floor. Mingi is standing across from you with a slightly evil glint in his eye.

Hope You Do by Chris Brown blares through the speakers in the venue. You immediately cover your warm cheeks with your hands to conceal the blush and warmth there, knowing what is to come. Mingi starts to remove his suit jacket… and Yeosang, Yunho, and surprisingly, Jongho remove their coats as well.

As the trio wines and grinds on the floor behind the Groom, Mingi moves closer towards you to go and remove your garter.

When he reaches you, he does not even take the time to bunch up your dress and goes straight into hunting for the garter. His big hands rub around the top of your knees to find it.

When he does, he drops his hands to the floor to give himself leverage. He proceeds to leave a speckled trail of kisses up your leg and bites right below the garter, causing you to yelp in surprise and the crowd to holler out.

Mingi drags the garter down your leg to your ankle and removes it from your foot. At this point, there is a tension between you two that begs and pleads to be relieved.

Mingi stands to his feet, grabbing your hands to guide you straight up off the chair. You two make eye contact, and you can see the tension. “Alright young bachelorettes, come out to the floor and catch you a bouquet!” The host says in the mic, and all the women move to the floor, ready to start drinking, the actual after-party, and the real fun.

When all participants are on the floor, you pretend to throw the bouquet to keep them on edge. After a few false turns, you finally throw, and Jae-hee sprints to the front to catch it effortlessly.

“Yeahhh bitches, I’m next to get married!!!” She jumps up and down as you laugh and the other ladies leave the floor.

The host announces that it is the fellas’ turn to come out on the floor. It was not as many males as females, but there was a good amount present. Mingi played the same card as you: pretending to throw the garter until he did.

In an ironic twist of events, Jongho caught it on the top of his head like a flower crown. When he patted his head to confirm he sort of caught it, he made eye contact with Jae-hee.

They both quickly look away with a bright pink flush on their cheeks, which causes you and Mingi to laugh together. He wraps his arms across your shoulder blades and squeezes your shoulder. You look at him questioningly, and he nods to the door. You nod and grab his hand, running to the back door with your husband.

Seonghwa will have your ass for running out and leaving him and Hongjoong to clean up your mess, but that is a tomorrow problem, and you have more… pressing matters to deal with.

Mingi is flying down the street with you in the back seat to compensate room for your dress. As he tries to get to your home without getting a ticket, you untie his tie and proceed to rub down his chest, slow and meticulously popping one button after another.

Before you could decorate his neck in pretty little hickeys and love bites, the car jerks to a stop, and he power strides to your door and opens it. He grabs you in his arms bridal style out of the vehicle.

You were surprised at how easy he made that look, especially with all of the extra fluff on your dress. He carries you into the threshold with ease, kissing you as if his life depends on it.

When Mingi blindly finds your room, he puts you down on your feet, spins you around, and begins to unzip your dress. He kisses under your ear and down your neck as your dress pools around your feet. He breaks away to rest his forehead on yours.

“As much I would love to pound you into the mattress right now, I would like for our first time as a married couple to be gentle,” he breathes out. You nod your head, and he slowly turns you around to unclip the black strapless bra, allowing your breasts to drop.

He returns his mouth back to your neck and softly twists your nipple between his fingers, eliciting tingles to run all over your body. As good as the feeling was, you remove Mingi’s hand and spin around to face your husband. You walk backward until the back of your legs hit the mattress and lean back.

MIngi crawls on top of you and slowly kisses you. You can feel the passion and love through it, causing you to shiver. Mingi, once again, pulls away from you to drag your black lace panties down your legs. He throws them across the room and stands from the bed, peeling away the dress shirt you opened in the car.

The shirt drops to the floor, and he begins to unbuckle his belt, dropping it to the floor. The pants come next, along with the boxer briefs, and they pooled around his ankles. You bite your finger and lick your lips with lust-darkened eyes as you are being blessed with this private show.

Mingi returns to your V of your legs and brings your ankle to his mouth, leaving delicate kisses down the inner side of your leg until he reaches the inner thigh, where he leaves a bite – causing you to giggle and squirm a bit.

He lifts himself to where his penis grazes your labia. He rubs the tip along your slit and teases the tip inside of your core. “You ready, baby?” He sticks the reddened tip inside, just to pull it back out, and repeats this a couple times until you are a whining and moaning little mess. He finally pushes his dick past the tip and slowly moves into you, allowing you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock.

You moan in relief and very, very, VERY slight pain due to his girth, and Mingi doesn’t stop until he is at the hilt, meeting you pelvis to pelvis. He doesn’t move for a second, trying to collect himself before he busts in you from the tightness of your honey pot. You shiver as he pants in your neck, leaving goosebumps wherever his warm minty breath hits.

You grind your hips around, signaling that you have adjusted to his size, and he moans out at the action. He begins to pump inside very slowly in and out of you, with his brows scrunched and his bottom lip being bitten.

You hear the squelching noises from his slow pace. When you started getting louder, Mingi moves a bit faster, seeing that you are slowly reaching your orgasm, and frankly, so is he. “Baby, I love you so much,” he mutters like a mantra as he helps you both reach new heights.

You two have made love before, but never to this extent. After every mutter, your heart from knowing that this is the man you will spend the rest of your life with. You place your hand on the back of Mingi’s neck to kiss him, but before your lips could make contact, Mingi stops.

He licks the base of his thumb and places a firm pressure on your clitoris, and then kisses you, his tongue swirling around your own. You two are seeing specks of light under your eyelids from cumming so hard. It may not have been anything degrading, rough or intense in that sense. Still, it was absolutely beautiful joining souls with your lover.

~The Next Morning~

You wake up feeling floaty, like you are lying on a cloud. Your husband is asleep with his arm draped around your waist. As you face Mingi, his features are soft, and it looks like he is in bliss. You place your hand on his cheek and caress the apple.

When you are done admiring your husband, you carefully move his arm to his side to make breakfast. You are successful in not waking Mingi and hop out of bed, still naked from last night’s escapades. “Wow, it feels nice to say that,” you think as you grab your husband’s dress shirt and run to the bathroom to clean Mingi’s cum that has dripped down your leg.

~A few minutes later~

You are now in the kitchen, whipping up some waffle batter. The table is decorated with a nicely plated array of bacon and a bowl of freshly washed and cut fruit. You finish plugging in the waffle iron when your husband wraps his arms around your shoulders and spins you around.

He quickly lifts you on the counter. “Good morning, Mrs. Song.” He says huskily from his morning voice. You try to reply with a greeting, but Mingi catches the words in your mouth. Your lips are smashed together from Mingi’s fervency, and his long and slender fingers start to move down to your hole.

“Oh my goodness, babe. You’re so wet for me.” He teased. You moan out while he rubs your entrance, spreading your slick up and down. “You like this, don’t you?” He asks when he pushes a finger in, causing you to scream in response. “Those weren’t proper words, but I’ll take it.” He responds while adding another finger in and drastically changing his pace. You cry out due to the incredible speed. Mingi looks up at you.

Your head is tilted back, tiny pants coming from your mouth, and hands grabbing the counter as if to ground yourself. Mingi lets a drop of spit fall from his mouth and adds another finger to add more lubrication and bring you closer to climax.

You start to squirm on the counter, which is now soaked in your fluids, and whimper softly. A telltale sign that you are almost there; you just need that one little push. Mingi kneels down to be face to face with your cunt, and he stares at your dripping core as if he was hypnotized by how well you are taking his digits.

A loud moan from you knocks him out of his trance, and he adds one more finger and starts to apply suction on your button. A blinding white light flashes behind your eyelids, and a fuzzy warmth roams all over your body.

You breathe heavily from your high, and Mingi slows his speed, allowing you to ride out your orgasm. He slowly removes his fingers, causing you to whimper from overstimulation, and brings them to your mouth.

You immediately open your mouth to welcome in the appendages and begin to suck them as if your life depends on it. The spit dribbles from your mouth down your chin and along Mingi’s forearm. He gently pulls at your jaw to open your mouth and spits in your mouth.

“Swallow.” He growls, and you do not think twice about disobeying him. He returns to kiss you, mixing your natural taste with your juices and his tongue.

He pulls away, and your fucked out state is adorable: your eyes are dilated from here to Hell, saliva glistening your chin, your cheeks are heavily flushed, and your ass is drenched with your cum.

“If this is what I wake to every morning, I’m not complaining.” Mingi chuckles. “You didn’t even get to have breakfast yet.” You laughed. He looks with an eyebrow raised… “Oh, you meant actual food?” You nod your head.

“As long as I have you, I don’t think I’ll need anything else.” He cheesily says. “Yeah, sure, that’s not what your body will be saying.” You retaliate as you jump off the counter, cringing when you hear your butt peel off the corner from your juices.

Mingi laughs, grabs some paper towels to clean that. When he’s done, he washes his hands and proceeds to help you cook so you two can build the stamina to christen the rest of your home together. Well, christen is not the right word… more like fuck like rabbits until the morning light returns.

~~~~~

And there's the fic ✨ hope you enjoyed the read ✨ leave an ask and say hi or even follow me or reblog if you did

#mingissoggywaffles #ateez #ateez smut #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #atz smut #song mingi smut #mingi smut #ateez x reader #mingi x reader #mingi x y/n #kpop smut #song mingi x reader

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persephoneyss · 3 years

Text

Doomeds.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x f! Reader. Ft. Bts.

Genre: Yandere, dark themes, anguish, suspense.

Summary: ❝We are doomeds, wandering in eternal suffering.❞

Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsession, stalking / stalking on cameras, humiliation, unspecified forced marriage, n*n-c*n explicit sexual relations (on the reader), abuse of power, implicit murder, drug use, kidnapping, hitting, manipulation, dating previous trauma, alcoholism and depression (in Yoongi), accusations of infidelity, dub-con (in Yoongi's case), the reader is in school but is of legal age, death threats, really strange facts. Possibly this would qualify as dark fantasy since everything is so unrealistic.

Number of words: 10,000+

︙Author's note: *sighs* This is the longest fic I've ever written, and I honestly don't know how it turned out because I didn't read it twice like I always do before publishing it. But my beautiful baby helped me correct, I hope you enjoy it and please read the warnings well, I do not want lawsuits. Thanks for being here!

(Sorry for any mistakes, my first language is not English and I am not fluent either.)

Puedes leer este fic y más aquí en español.

If they ever had to ask the reality of events it would be ... Unbelievable. Thinking of how just a simple action changes everything in an already established and perfect environment.

A life.

Your minutes, hours and days were the same under your criteria and eyesight, you study in the mornings, you work in the afternoons and you attend to your homework at night. It was a good routine that used to be repetitive at times, it was fun to follow, even more so in your part-time job.

You could meet many people working in one of the best cafes in the city, your classmate insisted too many times that you work with her saying that could recommend you and you should not even pass a test, they would only accept you for her.

It was a good opportunity and you accepted it with a smile, although she was long gone from work, you were still grateful for the good salary and health insurance that they gave you every month.

"An American coffee with a spoon of sugar and a green tea cake with cream on top." Your mouth and hand move in sync, the client nods silently. You smile, pointing out other details before asking what name you would give the order.

With a sigh, he name came out like a gust of light wind. "Min... Min Yoongi."

You write his name on the screen, the little receipt paper comes out of the machine. You hand it to him by brushing his hand with yours, strangely cold and pale. A chill runs through you but you ignore it, continuing with your work.

"Good Morning _____!" One of the employees greets you kindly, you correspond still concentrated on serving the mysterious stranger's coffee. "Do you have a request for me?"

"Oh, uh... Yeah, this is for table four."

Yun smiles taking the tray with Yoongi's coffee and cake, arriving at his table. The man's expression can be dazzled even under his black mask that covers half of his face, his eyes look for you before colliding with you. YYou refuse to play along, continuing with your work, you had a lot to do and wasting time flirting wouldn't really help you make money.

However, it became pointless trying to ignore him when he kept coming back day after day. Week after week. Tormenting your head, Yoongi was not the first nor the last handsome man you would see coming often, your work establishment was literally in a strategic area and not cheap, you knew that many men and women with money frequented them to drink a coffee or eat some delicacy, even sometimes they only came in to sit for a few hours attending to their affairs over the phone.

It was fine, it was comfortable. You weren't expecting too much, sitting behind a counter, always having to fake a smile despite being tired.

Perhaps it was the constant visits that led you to start a conversation with him. You had about an hour of rest, you prefer to spend those few moments sitting in front of the window of the premises eating any cake that was a few days before expiring to avoid paying for consumption, you felt comfortable in that place that seemed so far from all the other clients.

Until his voice interrupted once, he seemed as calm as ever. His gaze lost from you elsewhere avoiding making contact with you, nervous apparently. His rough and austere tone was changed to a bolder and lower one, asking if he could sit next to you for a few minutes.

"Sure, sit down... he's not busy." It was your answer without having any problem in sharing your place so secret, so comfortable. It was still just as safe even with him present.

And in much the same way, everything became a silent routine. You heeded his order, you took your rest next to him and then you both left at one point. The talks became more common, he being the first to ask about such insignificant things as the rise in the market in the country and how prices should start to rise in coffee as well.

You laughed, you really did it by getting his attention and sharing your reaction.

They both started laughing at how strange it all started, and it was always the perfect anecdote to tell their friends about how they met.

Everything was perfect, like a painting by a great artist, what you would see would be beautiful and cheerful colors, adorning both of you possibly holding hands with a smile and a loving expression from the man who was now your partner. Her pale skin and angelic face represented on beautiful thin paper, presented to the world as a painting that reflected a symbol of love between two souls met in a casual cafe and who wanted each other so much. Too much.

Yoongi was the clear representation of an ethereal person, casual and elegant, polite and kind, protective but not possessive. Simply to the target.

Your routine didn't change much after starting your relationship, you kept walking to your school in the mornings, you attended the cafeteria in the afternoons and you rested at night. Perhaps the only significant thing that you would get out of your boring schedule was your boyfriend's proposal about moving with him to the house of his best friend, almost a brother as he described it, and avoiding paying for your little apartment. You had made one and a thousand excuses, making Yoongi shut them all up.

"Jin is my brother, he would never take advantage of us. I already mentioned the proposal, about you... I have been living there for a few weeks, I assure you that you will be like family."

Family?

Your face relaxed for a few seconds, you had abandoned that feeling and sensation long ago since you moved from your home in your native country. Your mother used to call you every night but little by little that habit was lost, she also had her own problems and being aware of you as if you were a child was ridiculous.

"It's fine." It was your final decision, nervously you moved your hands in the air explaining what you would not accept.

Do not invade your privacy.

You had spent days thinking about how to introduce yourself to them, because apparently there would be more than just Jin, Yoongi and you in that house. Your things were scattered in boxes, you stood in the middle of the almost empty room still nervous about meeting new people and friends of your boyfriend.

That they were now family. Literally family.

The moving truck was parked in front of a large house, it had two stories and an incredibly large garden. More like a forest than an ordinary garden, you got out of the car trying to clean your clothes as much as possible and look presentable. Although it was difficult when your whole body was covered in dust after lifting the boxes.

"I'm not ready, Yoon." You say, containing your anxiety that vibrates to the surface of the skin within you.

Her hand gently brushed your cheek, giving you a bit of reassurance. "You look beautiful, they will accept you anyway." Her lips came up to yours, giving you a quick and soft kiss. "I just remember that I love you, and I know all my brothers will too because you are perfect."

You thanked the little compliment in a whisper, the door of the house opened just after the two of them left, you automatically showed a friendly smile approaching the first person to leave. He was a tall and rather handsome man, he seemed very well dressed to be indoors on a Sunday, more like he was going out to an important business meeting. He looked flawless and elegant.

"The suit was not necessary, Nam!" Shouted your boyfriend behind you mocking, the man laughed showing all the charm of him to your eyes.

"I'm Namjoon, Yoongi's friend. Nice to meet you... _____, right?"

"Yes, it's me. Sorry to see me so disastrous, it was a tiring day with the move."

Namjoon seemed like a very nice and incredibly understanding guy, his presence made you want to meet your boyfriend's other friends. You opened the door entering the house after Yoongi asked you to find your room to start carrying the other things, Namjoon stayed behind to help him, leaving you alone on your unknown route. You walk all over the place and you are surprised that you only walked through the living room, your eyes straying to a noise in the kitchen.

Curious.

You ignore it, continuing your way up, you read every name on the doors. Jin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. All written brilliantly on each different door, you walk a few steps to one that says your name and you thank it with a sigh.

You weren't surprised by how big it was, everything inside that place seemed to be exorbitant and out of the ordinary.

"Oh, it must be you." You are surprised to hear a voice behind you, you turn around in fear before remaining calm. You recognized her face from a photo Yoongi had on her phone.

"Jimin?" You ask with fear of being wrong.

"It's me, it's nice to finally meet you. Jin-hyung said you're moving in a few days, I didn't think it would be so soon." His voice seemed to be calm but there was a hidden question. Why? Why were you there?

You take a few uncomfortable steps back. "It really was, but ... I thought it would be better to do it today that I don't have classes, plus Yoongi doesn't work this day and it seemed like the right thing to do. I'm sorry if bother you."

"No you don't. it's okay, Welcome." With that one simple word he left.

You thought you would have a longer talk with him but you weren't expecting too much, they didn't even know each other and you plan to chat with him like they were old acquaintances. Well, naive.

It seemed strange to you that no one else showed up in the whole house, even when you were uploading the last boxes of the move no one seemed to be a little curious to meet you. Aside from the already friendly Namjoon and the reserved Jimin.

"Yoon" You get his attention, he smiles at you taking the sheets out of your suitcase and making your makeshift bed ready for the night. "Do your friends work today?"

"I guess so, they really don't spend a lot of time together or at home." Explain without noticing your downcast face. You nod, putting the issue aside and concentrating your eyes on arranging your clothes. "Hey... Okay, you can meet them all at dinner today."

Your chest clenches in anguish, "Dinner?!"

"Yes, darling. It's the only time they meet all day, when Jin-hyung cooks for us especially on days like these where we have pleasant surprises."

You purse your lips annoyed, Yoongi smiles kissing your forehead so carefully and lovingly that it melts your senses. The mere presence of him made you want to continue with him forever, you relax for a few seconds hugging his body in silence. They both stay like this, with nothing to say but telling each other everything at the same time.

The thought of ever letting go scares you.

You wait several hours, still sitting in the same place where Yoongi left you. You should be presentable for dinner, you take a quick shower before running to change into a nice comfortable dress, you try not to overdo it but also not show disinterest. From the stairs you hear everyone's mixed voices, chatting animatedly.

"Honey, come here." Yoongi watches you, being the only one to notice that you were peeking in the shadows still unsure of interrupting.

You say hello by walking a few steps until you reach your boyfriend's side, you present yourself the best you can. Everyone falls silent, Namjoon smiles at you just like he did before. Jin interrupts the moment where no one seemed to have anything to say about you, or if he wants to want to introduce himself.

"Today we have a special guest, the dear girlfriend of our brother. I introduce myself, I am Jin the official cook of this family." His body bends down with an exaggeratedly long bow, proud of his words. Jimin rolls his eyes, while his other siblings just choose to tease. "On Yoongi's orders we made her favorite dish, so I don't want any complaints of any kind about the food. I'm looking at you Jungkook."

You are surprised how well everything is going, you feel praised when your favorite food is in front of you. She looked just as elegant, as if you were eating in a five-star restaurant and at a luxurious table with silk tablecloths.

Jungkook still stayed away from the talks, preferring to eat quietly and fiddle with his phone. Hoseok was more animated, asking about you and exaggerating anecdotes that happened with his childhood friends. He moved you that he will still remember all that after years. Namjoon vaguely drew your attention with book recommendations when you commented on your love of reading, Jin quietly continued eating in complete tranquility, Jimin thanked the food and just left.

Taehyung... He seemed interesting to you, he was looking at you all the time with narrowed eyes and when Jimin got up and walked away, he followed closely with a small and almost hidden smile.

You had a strange feeling inside what they called home.

"I-I... I need to use the bathroom." You say goodbye by wiping your lips with a napkin before quickly walking behind them both. Something attracted you to want to know more, as if they were leaving clues knowing that curiosity killed the cat and that you wanted to be the one.

Your steps were quiet, even more so when you tried not to be noticed . You went upstairs listening to their voices whispering and then... An obscene moan was clearly heard, Jimin seemed to laugh in the air.

Your hands shook thinking of opening the door and seeing what was happening. And without knowing it, you had fallen into the same network of attraction as them.

You curse yourself biting your tongue and cheek until they bleed, sure that you were going to make a big and heavy mistake. Minutes later you are going down the stairs back to the table but no one is waiting for you anymore, the table was just as spotless and clean. You are pleasantly surprised to learn that they don't treat you like a guest and that they don't wait too long for you. Maybe they had things to do, however you feel a chill when silence comes.

Where were?

You look around the yard, but no one is outside. Neither in the kitchen and less in the room where you had already walked twice. You catch the sound of drums in your ears rumbling loudly, you close your eyes in a daze for a few seconds until in an instant it goes away, and then everything comes back to itself. You hear their voices upstairs, chatting animatedly for the second time.

"Where were you sweetie? Are you okay?"

You nod still confused. How did they... When was that... You were really fine? You refuse to fall into paranoia and lie down next to Yoongi, as they continue their conversation with each other. Your head keeps spinning with the fresh memories you have, but they seem to disappear second by second and it scares you, you open your eyes without wanting to fall asleep yet but it is as difficult as breathing.

You fall into the dark abyss of sleep, feeling the same chill.

Your gaze is lost in the gray sky, you are cold and your body is swaying. Your eyes move restlessly observing that you are under the snow and a person holds you in his arms through the forest, walking at a slow and safe pace.

It's fine. Are you okay.

Wake up. Yoongi greets you from the door of your now room, you try to regulate your breathing thinking that he would notice your overwhelmed state and he would worry, but no. He is as calm as ever, relaxed even.

"Good morning beautiful, it's time for breakfast. Jin-hyung made your favorite." And with that last sentence she is shifting away, closing the door behind he.

You go down the stairs ready to go, your backpack resting on your shoulder. The table is just as full as at dinner, Jimin seemed very tired trying not to fall asleep, you watch him for a few seconds before looking at Taehyung who ignores you taking his cup of ... Coffee. You approach making him recoil alarmed and disgusted, you check the cup realizing that it is the same recipe that you use in the cafeteria.

Like them?

You look up noticing that, you were uncomfortable, Taehyung takes a few steps away from your body almost leaning against his, still sitting in his chair. You apologize to him making me sigh irritated, still ashamed you apologize again without eating or serving anything, just leaving through the front door.

Your journey is reflective. You forget, dream and recognize, that was the pattern you were following, everything seemed so strange and deep down gloomy, you feel the already casual chill running through your entire body almost like a warning.

Your seat in class was empty waiting, ready for you. Ari greets you, being your table companion and friend.

"Hey, intense night?" She jokes, you look shaking his head. She laughs pointing your neck. "You have... something there."

She frowns even more confused, her face leaves her smile aside and she starts looking at her things until she takes out a small mirror and she hands it to you. You look with horror at a large red bruise painting on your skin, it seemed painful but you had not even noticed or felt it. You touch it still scared and nothing, it doesn't hurt or it seems real.

You take a deep breath before lying with silly chatter, "I had an accident, but I'm fine. I had forgotten I was there, it was nothing serious."

Ari seems worried but in the end she forgets it by returning to the same kind and joking attitude of her, but her gaze drops from second by second to your neck making you cover yourself uncomfortable. Who? It can't be Yoongi, he was always very calm in that regard. You think terrified, your hand goes up to touch it and this time you manage to feel a sharp pain.

You have to cover it with the collar of your shirt so that no customer will notice it and avoid staining the reputation of the cafeteria, you smile nervously taking orders as fast as you can and avoiding looks. Yun greets you like every day, arriving at his work time. You spend hours begging for the clock to advance faster, the night sky appears and the doors close, you clear the last counter before you can finally show your neck again and breathe.

"That's a big problem." Yun whispers looking at the horrible mark, you nod with a sigh giving the same stupid excuse you told Ari. "You should use a little makeup to cover it up, I think it will help you a lot."

You think about it for a few seconds before deciding what you would do. You bow to him with a bow after he offered to close in your place and finish the remaining work for you.

You come home with a smile, you greet Namjoon who is reclining on the couch in the living room watching something on TV. You wait a few seconds but you do not receive a small or accidental look, you approach a few steps to repeat it again but you only get him to get up and go upstairs closing the door of his room apparently with a door slam. What the hell? You think covering your face with your hands looking for some comfort.

Everything was happening inside you, it was like a whirlpool sweeping away your sanity. Were you going crazy? Or you were just thinking a lot about nothing.

You try to draw a picture of your situation, but the only thing that repeats is the constant painting of Yoongi and you together.

"Yoongi!" You say to yourself with a smile, you drop your backpack running towards his room, wanting to see him after such a day.

Your hopes fade like air, everything within the space him screams 'he', but he is not there. You check the safe time that he should be home at that moment. You hear Jin's voice screaming from below about dinner ready, you sigh losing your appetite at those moments.

You lie on your bed checking your cell phone in case there was a message from Yoongi warning about he delay but nothing. You feel empty for some strange reason, but there was nothing different about it now.

If I had been more attentive and conscientious, you would have noticed that two more people other than Yoongi and you were missing from the table. Jin smiles sitting in his same place leaving your plate not caring without you being there with them, his smile never fades even when all his brothers are sitting silently eating and looking at your empty place so intensely that it was terrifying, he squeezes the cutlery in his hand without wanting to break the tradition in his family.

Dinners are sacred and no one should be missing. There will be no discussions or complaints, that's what the rest of the time is for.

That was what her mother said, sitting at the table in her old home containing her anger at seeing her husband so calm after having been unfaithful once more. Not on the table, not on the table.

Not on the table, honey.

Jimin opened the last bottle with a little satisfaction, poured another glass before handing it to his friend who was only glaring at the ground.

"She's not like that... I know her." Repeating the same stupid prayer for hours, Taehyung rolled his eyes trying to calm his annoyance, looking at his other friend insisting that he help him.

"Yoongi-hyung you saw it yourself, she had that... That mark. you didn't do it, maybe Tae is right and she-..."

"Not!" I scream interrupting what to him were lies. "_____ she's my girlfriend, she's not like that. I know her ... she loves me! She loves me! Do you understand?" Says exalted, holding the shirt of his friend who closed his mouth immediately, Jimin noticed that same reflection of anger in him and knew it was better to leave it for now.

Taehyung pushed the drunk Yoongi away from his side, making him release him and repeat the same phrase as in his state, he tried to believe himself.

The door to your room was opened and the smell of alcohol invaded you, making you look disgusted. You closed your eyes without wanting to see him, his body fell to the side of your bed approaching your body so slowly that the anxiety inside you doubled.

"I'm sorry..." He whispered.

His hands rested around you, giving you that warmth so familiar and comfortable in your gray days. A sob was heard while you lost yourself in your own thought, you watch it melt into your arms crying and without wanting to tell you why.

"It hurts." It's the only thing it says. But... Why?

You wake up. Just like a week ago, days had passed and it seemed like your skin kept accumulating horrible marks all over the place. You even went to consult a doctor but he only insisted that something... Or someone did them with such fury that it was incredible that a piece of skin will not be torn off by the force of his suction.

You touched the last mark that came, it was dangerously close to your crotch, you try to hide the others with makeup but they were still visible at a short distance.

You went down the stairs to see them all again, you greet with regret taking the first thing you find. Your mug had your name written on it, it was a rather curious gift from Jin after your melancholic night with Yoongi days ago, he apologized explaining that he felt bad after hearing all the sobs and apologies. For a moment you thought it was something exaggerated but he kept insisting that he felt bad about himself, not with Yoongi who was almost his brother or with you, with him.

You accepted it without wanting to show your dislike for his selfishness and narcissism, thanking him so softly that he hardly heard you.

The special drink that morning was coffee... Americano. You felt insecure to drink it, and you just put it aside.

Same recipe.

Yoongi looked at you for a few seconds before smiling fondly, and you just looked away, leaving him with a confused face as you walk out the door so quickly that he can hardly feel you.

He sighed before being drawn to Jimin's grin-adorned face, he shrugged, hinting at his silent opinion. She is not faithful to you Yoongi, why do you keep waiting for something good? Only looks at her body, her attitude and who she surrounds herself with, it is a classic of womens. You will know that she is a fox hidden under her sheepsuit, just observing her more and you never leave her.

The marks on your body, your cold attitude made him more and more suspicious and fall for Taehyung's profound words. She bit his lip, refusing to spy on your life away from him... Out of his sight.

But he really wasn't doing anything wrong, just observing. In his now dirty head, everything was valid if he could know the truth.

You did the same thing you always told him on his nights where they stayed up talking about his heavy days. You went to school, to work, and then home. Nothing changed your version.

I try to focus on your friends, there was only one girl you spent more time with in your classes and after them. He researched everything about his life, but he had nothing to worry about after learning that he had a boyfriend. He passed your work, standing outside for hours waiting to see you do something dirty or guilty, but you never seemed to move.

You just served the orders and then kindly said goodbye to the customers. He felt guilty for doing something so low to you, until he saw you.

To you.

Your smile grew when one of the workers who was your partner approached your place in the box to whisper something in your ear, you left your place following him towards the warehouse.

Anger consumed him quickly, refusing to continue standing there observing the obvious, possibly he was being irrational and he knew it but the constant insinuations of Jimin. The conversations with Taehyung, his words, his suspicions, the pleased looks from they when he fell back at his feet asking them to tell him what to do with you.

With his damn relationship.

Where were you and him. Not them. You and he.

He opened the door to your room and started going through your things like a degenerate, something must have made him sure that you were cheating on him. Something, a letter, a note, a gift from him, or a simple cheap jewel.

This was your Yoongi? You were clearly looking at another subject.

"Yoon..." You started, his eyes coldly piercing you. He looked different, he was looking at you but you didn't feel safe being so close. "What are you doing?"

"What do you think I do?" He asked how else he will not point to the obvious, for a moment you thought that even if it was, out of respect or dignity, he would try to deny it or find another explanation for his actions so offensive to you. "Where is?"

"Where is what?" You claim, starting to get angry, his eyes leave you again as he continues searching through your drawers, dropping everything to the floor with thudding noises. You get closer trying to push it away but you only get rejection. "Stop it, Yoongi."

"Not until you say so."

You freeze without knowing what he meant by the latter, you take his arm to stop him but you only receive a push that makes you back away this time scared by the force of his attack. "Enough!" You claim this time by making him look at you with his cold eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about and why you're doing this, but enough."

"Then say it..." You shout again that you don't know what he wants you to say, you even curse furiously making him come closer to support your shoulders with his hands bringing you closer to his face. "Say it damn it! Say you're cheating on me with that bastard son of a bitch!"

You feel the pain of his grip, you sob, begging him to release you but are ignored as he continues to ask you to say so. You refuse to lie, especially with something so degrading.

Jin hears the screams as he continues serving the dinner desserts, Jungkook strangely puts aside his phone for a few minutes to thank him with a small toast and a smile that was rarely seen on him.

"The dessert tonight is sweeter than usual."

Jimin raises his glass with a bright smile, Namjoon adjusts his tie tied perfectly around his neck as he sips from his glass, Hoseok laughs eating the delicious cake with enthusiasm.

Curious, a green tea cake with cream on top.

"It's a shame Yoongi-hyung misses out on dessert." Taehyung speaks pretending a pout on his lips, playing with his spoon with the cream on her plate. "It is especially exquisite today."

"Stop playing already, when will you do it? I'm looking forward to getting started." Jin snaps angrily, pushing the cake out of her sight as he drinks from her wine glass.

Jungkook laughs, turning his phone back on to continue playing as usual. "So impatient, hyung." He says he with a click of annoyance.

Jin rolls his eyes, following her gaze to Jimin who is innocently cowering in her chair. Ignoring how completely obsessed Jungkook is with his games, it really was not his business,for something his youngest friend had his parents, who were too busy with their work, they ran the largest electronics factory in the country, leaving his son in the background just giving him everything he asked for without objection. Always showing a smile when little Jungkook came before them demanding a new console or the best phone.

"It only remains to wait..." Whispering, he released a patient Hoseok. His smile as charming as ever. "For her to decide what to do and then... Plot! She fell into the wrong well."

"I hate when you describe and talk like that, but I can't expect much from a Jung... like you."

However, Hoseok never stops smiling even when anger is consuming his mind causing him to clench his fists under the table and bite his tongue inside his mouth, hidden by his gleaming and visible teeth. Namjoon smiles at her, knowing that she managed to provoke him but that she won't do anything to shut him up.

"Pathetic."

Motherfucker.

Jin breaks the tense silence, shushing everyone with a snap. That silence. Nobody hears anything from you or Yoongi, for a moment they feel the anguish that something bad has happened or that his friend has lost a bit ... The hand. But just seconds later you're rushing down, wearing the same clothes and your face covered in tears. You don't even look at them when you run to the door, leaving a trail of emptiness behind you.

"Hm, intense." This is Jungkook speaking, his eyes still lost on the phone screen of him playing a silly online championship. "She will be fine after hours."

"Jungkook is right, now we must move with Yoongi."

Namjoon gets up walking to your room, surprised that everything seems almost the same as it was before their fight.

He smiles when he manages to see his friend laying on the floor sobbing, and like that children's book called Pinocchio, he feels good being that cricket-shaped voice of reason. Only this time that sweet and serene voice, released one and a thousand blasphemies that would contaminate even the most devout by his beliefs.

He managed to convince Yoongi's easy to manipulate mind, blurting out words almost like a song. Playing with the naive self of hes that still lived and breathes inside him.

You had come home after days of spending with Ari and her boyfriend away from him. You really didn't want to set foot in that house again in years, a small irrational part of you believed that it was all his fault, your real problems started when you set foot in that damn place.

You open the door observing the room in the same way, empty. You try not to make yourself feel ready to go to sleep, without having been able to do it in days, but now you doubted that it would be different here.

You remain static in view of everyone, you had forgotten that at that time they were having dinner together. They only met once a day and it had to be right there.

"Good evening, sorry to interrupt." You ignoring Yoongi's gaze that, he's trying not to get too excited about your return, even though she causes he to euphoric whirl. "Carry on, I'll just go to my room."

"Please no, sit with us."

"I'm not well."

"I insist, sit with us. They were difficult days but I know they can fix it." Jin puts a plate in front of one of the empty chairs, you refuse to sit down but you do it out of compromise.

Everyone seems to be exclusively quiet, dinner was gray, like a black and white painting. Remember the first dinner, where everyone seemed to have so much to say and now that was left behind, Jungkook continues to play with his phone sometimes moving his plate by accident, without touching a single silverware with the intention of eating. Jin eats in peace, so slowly that he is strange. Namjoon reads a book in his hand, eating so cleanly that it's amazing.

Hoseok looks at you playfully from time to time, with a smile that almost makes you smile the same. Jimin and Taehyung seem to communicate silently, they both look at each other with slight grimaces and smiles.

"We can talk?" Yoongi whispers, you feel her breath next to you and instinctively you walk away scared. Still hurt by her actions and attitude, you give your vow of silence by standing up and without saying goodbye, you walk up the stairs.

"How rude." Jungkook interrupts, keeping an eye on his screen lighting up his beautiful face. "He didn't even taste the food."

Yoongi looks at Jin, her oldest friend and the one she trusted the most, seeking some advice. But just gets the same treatment as always, a look insisting that go with you and try to fix her mistake.

However, it was late. You had packed a makeshift suitcase by going down as quietly as you could, exiting through the back door like a thief or a fugitive.

You spent days thinking about your cowardly way of running away, but in the same way you felt better and even more so when you did not receive any message from him. Maybe it wasn't that important to him, it hurt but it also relieved you.

You knew it would be awkward to see him in the face again, but you should go back and get your things over with as soon as possible. You naively thought of forming a friendship, a very distant one, but in the end it would be the healthiest thing for both of you.

"______?" Asked the person who opened the door after you barely managed to ring the bell due to nerves, he was clearly confused.

"W-good morning ... Jin." You greet by taking a few steps back to get a better look at it, you had forgotten how tall it was. "Sorry to bother I just wanted to -..."

"Talk to Yoongi? I'm sorry but he's already better without you, he even met someone new." You were surprised by his austere, sour tone and trying to intimidate you. "And you better go, you are not welcome here."

"No ... No, I-I came for my things but I'm glad to know that it's better now, and that ..." The words stayed in your mouth, almost as if it hurt to admit it. "I was able to find someone, I hope we can be friends. Also with you, I'm sorry I left without explaining or saying goodbye properly."

You waited what seemed like ages for her response, and you expected more than a simple nod of the head, letting you pass without a hitch. You searched your room quickly, trying not to have any contact with any of them for now. You opened the door that had your name on it but you were scared by what you found inside, the whole room had been painted blood red, a very dark color that managed to give you such familiar chills.

"What is this? Where are my things?!" You turned around ready to go and claim but the door closed behind you with a stormy noise. You ran to try to open it but it did not move an inch, you searched the whole room for something useful to help you but it was completely empty, and alone.

You sobbed in fear, not understanding what was happening and why it seemed that the walls were getting narrower every second. You fell to the ground, trying to stay calm and without losing your goal, hours and even days passed for you, you waited to hear at least one noise but everything was so quiet that you had to avoid going crazy, you played with your hands trying to distract yourself and think positive things, you had read many books about stressful situations to know that thinking a lot about those things caused even more stress, you lie on the floor sure that a nap will calm everything down, if it was a nightmare you wanted to wake up and if not , you wanted to dream that it was.

A lock, you hear that particular noise and you wake up. You open your eyes as fast as you can lifting your body, the door was slightly open as if someone was exiting. You scream for help but it closes, you fall back into sadness and despair screaming even more for your freedom.

You didn't deserve this.

You look with regret at the delicious food they left for you, for a moment you think about going on a hunger strike but your stomach demands you not to be so stupid. The same would not change anything. Regardless of manners, you eat as fast as you can, dropping quite a bit of food on the ground in your rush.

It had an exquisite taste, and you could recognize it everywhere. It was one of your favorite dishes, you felt disgusted to compare it to your mother's food, but as magnificent as it was, it reminded you so much of her.

You wait for something to happen, but minutes go by in which you just look at nothing, letting your head fly. Thinking of a thousand things, playing with the spoon and singing in a low voice.

You feel hot from one moment to the next, your vision becomes cloudy and the door opens again. You just stay in the same place, you don't care about anything, not even how they hold you by helping you walk into another room.

"You were right, she is very calm now."

You look at him, their faces so familiar and you try to place them, but your head is flying away at that moment. You close your eyes laughing, and drifting into unconsciousness.

You wake up. You open your eyes and you are tied, you struggle with the ropes that hold your arms while the bed below you makes your body bounce. You touch the sheets realizing that they are extremely soft, you are in an unfamiliar room surrounded by scarlet red, with elegant and shimmering decorations. You try to stand up but your legs, like your hands, are tied.

And you're still quiet because of the rag in your mouth.

You fight the bindings furiously, screaming into the cloth as much as you can get sick of being locked up again.

You think of Yoongi, although at that moment it was irrelevant you wonder where she is and if she knew that she was being kidnapped in such a way, would she help you at least? Resignation covers you completely, fighting the bonds again with such force that you feel like they burn your skin every time you move.

You sob, just as he did one fall day.

Yoongi watches you from the monitor in another room, Jin is talking to Namjoon to the side while Jungkook is still sitting in a corner entertaining on her phone. Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok seem reluctant to look at each other despite facing each other.

Remember the day, the one in the past, when he met them. Jimin and Taehyung were already friends playing in one of the children's castles, with their hands pretending to be weapons as they ran around. Hoseok was sitting next to his mother, talking and apparently they had a lot to say. Namjoon did not detach from the side of his father who urged him to go up to the games, while Jin was busy collecting Flowers in a basket that his grandmother was holding.

They were all strangers and even more so he, felt out of place surrounded by so many games and away from home. His parents had freed up a whole day to spend together in a decent park, it was several hours of travel from Daegu to Seoul only for his son to play in a beautiful park surrounded by luxurious buildings.

He dropped down next to her mother, hugging her without wanting to let her go.

"Min Yoongi, we didn't take this trip just for you to sit there all day, son."

"I'm scared..." he whispered, biting her lip and hiding her face in the neck of his beloved mother.

"I see... but the games look so much fun. Run and try them, love."

He nodded still uneasy, walking over to one of the swings where he sat rocking so slowly that he seemed still. He felt hands pushing his body from behind, scared he looked at the boy behind him, he had a smile on his face and waved him with a hand.

"Sorry, I thought you needed to be pushed." He spoke and did not seem at all nervous.

"I'm fine, but thank you..." There was a momentary silence before he interrupted again. "I am Yoongi."

"Hoseok, although my mommy calls me Hobi."

He smiled, offering himself this time to push the swing, they spent minutes like this just helping each other take a walk pleasantly. He didn't even think about it when Hoseok offered to talk to Jimin and Taehyung about how they'll all play together in teams.

Now in the present, he smiled again remembering how he met Jin that same day, he had collided with him when he was running so as not to be caught by Jimin. His older friend was flushed with anger, screaming for her flowers and his dirty clothes. His grandmother teased him a bit making him deny even more, he followed Yoongi for several minutes until the chase because of her desire to hit him became a game.

They both fell to the ground tired, laughing before Hoseok introduced himself to Jin. Namjoon arrived shortly after, curious about the commotion and why he had gotten bored of sitting for so long, as he explained later. Besides that his father didn't have the best conversation starters.

He cried so much that very day when he had to go home again, promising to return soon.

"We have everything ready, are you ready?" Jin stood next to him, his eyes looked at him but he couldn't recognize his childhood friend. The same one that he offered to organize his birthday parties when his parents could not afford them, the same one that he never took advantage of his money to lower it. The one who hugged him as many times as he could when he came out of his therapies after his parents died.

Who was this man?

"Y-yes." He murmured still stunned. He got up, following in his footsteps with his head lowered.

They opened the door showing him, you were distracted biting the cloth in your mouth and trying to move your hands to free them.

Your body felt the same repetitive chill making you look at them feeling their presences so... uncomfortable.

"Enough." Jin ordered as you continued your insistent useless movement, trying to free yourself. "I'm not playing around, stop."

Me neither, idiot. You clench your teeth as much as you can at not being able to say it out loud, you stubbornly keep moving even faster than before. Your hair falls on your face from your busy tossing and you stare at him, challenging his patience and judgment.

You try not to tremble when he approaches you with intentions that deep down manage to scare you. But you continue, the bed moves as fast as you do until his hand falls against your cheek causing a gasp to come out of your gagged mouth.

"Hyung!" Yoongi claims holding her hand to prevent her from trying to hit you again, you feel the particular burning on your right cheek and the tears growing back in your eyes. "Please, no blows. That was not what we agreed on."

Jimin cleared his throat, a satisfied smile on his face, "We never specified anything, actually... Yoongi-hyung."

"Jimin is right, you never specified any kind of restriction for her and us." Namjoon clarified making you look at them confused, it was as if they were talking in terms of employment or contract.

But you had never signed anything.

"B-but they can't do that, they'll never accomplish anything if they force her." He tried to persuade him but Jungkook sighed, dropping his phone to the ground and then stepping on it like it was worthless. "She will just hate them."

"She will do it anyway, if we let her off her or try to convince her to stick with sweet words she won't think twice and she will run away ready to report us for kidnapping."

"In addition to the damages that she suffered here." Namjoon continued to condemn Jungkook, uplifting her surname and her family's status.

"You are in this with us or against us, there is still a free place in the basement for you with chains just as heavy."

Again, the same chill ran through you causing you to cringe in your place. These men were insane, they were capable of betraying each other, and worse, they could possibly also consider shooting themselves in the back when they weren't looking at each other. All for you, as if you were some kind of prize for winning and owning.

After moments that seemed eternal, Taehyung was releasing your mouth as you began to complain about what they were doing, how they dared and demanding freedom.

Really a classic, so much so that it was witty and hilarious that you said it literally.

They forced you to kneel on the ground with your hands on your legs still perfectly tied. More questions filled your mouth not knowing what they were planning, all you could do was look at them so scared it was adorable.

"Uh... Well... I guess one should go first." Jin says, taking a few steps away from your crouched figure.

Jimin stepped forward, standing in front of you causing you to look up from your spot below him.

"What are you doing?" You ask weakly, you try to drag yourself away when his hand struggles with his pants to remove it but Jin holds you in place. Getting on his knees to speak into your ear softly.

"You better take a breath instead of trying to run away, honey. I thought you were smarter... hm?" He laughs mocking your scared face, you refuse to open your eyes and mouth making him stop laughing in annoyance.

Jimin sighs taking your face in his hands so roughly that they will surely leave a purple mark on your skin. He was still dressed, I was hoping I could humiliate you more and then fuck your mouth until you suffocate while his hyung explains everything to you. How it all started, his obsession, his plan, they had planned everything so perfect that it was terrifying, everything monopolized on one board.

Soon as soon as possible you will just be a cute housewife and you will forget your life before that day. Not for nothing did they have a closet full of cheerful and homely outfits ready for you, they wanted to destroy you and then put you back together just to serve them.

You would be his wife, of everyone.

"Come on, little bitch..." Jimin started, reaching over to kiss you on the lips even though you refused to do so. You really no longer had a vote or a word of objection in his plans. "Open your eyes darling, you don't want a stray bullet to land in your mother's skull, do you?" He threatened making you obey even more scared than before.

"P-please don't hurt my mother!" You sob, clasping your tied hands in supplication.

"Oh, we won't.... yet." He whispered kissing your lips one last time before imposing himself on your kneeling body. Her cock came out of her pants, stroked a few times before guiding it to your lips. Your stomach contracted, and you pulled your face away as far as you could before Hoseok held you by the hair tightly pulling you close again. "Take it, baby. Everything will be fine if you just obey."

"I hate them, they disgust me" You whisper before Jin forced you to open your mouth making you take it, you fight for a few seconds but her hips are already moving making you choke and gasp. His moans are so loud they make you squirm but his hands hold your head close to him.

"I told you you'll take a breath, but you're a dumb whore." His breath is hitting your neck directly, your skin crawling trying to distract you from anything other than Jimin's cock in your throat causing you to gag and vomit. "I bet you're wondering why, what did you do, and nothing really. Or if Yoongi!"

You do not look at your boyfriend before, you only focus on Jin who smiles, caressing your body with his hands, almost exceeding your limits. However, what did it matter if he did it, there was nothing you could do for yourself.

"You were only here, I think we all loved you from the first moment we saw you. We spent many nights wondering what was special about you, many of us had dated women before but you... You were so different, you had something that attracted us and it made us go crazy. " His hands squeezed your breasts causing you to gasp on Jimin's cock who moaned with pleasure, continuing his steady and hard rhythm. "Taehyung got involved in the matter. "

Jimin smirked when your eyes went up to him, your eyes showing how angry and helpless you felt. And it was exquisite.

"I bet you didn't know about your beloved boyfriend's background,locked up in a rehab center for alcoholics for two years. Three years taking therapy for his depression after the tragic death of his parents, quite strong actually." His words had such a strong past but from his mouth they came out as if it were not so important. Something common for him. "I'm surprised he loved you so much and didn't tell you."

You cried unable to turn your face to look at him, deep down you wanted to put Yoongi aside and not hate him for this. But it seemed almost impossible when he was there, doing nothing, so calm that it was unreal that he had ever looked at you directly and declared his love to you over and over again. For months.

"He really was fine for a while until we decided to make him fall again, one drink after another... First trust him, then question their relationship and finally make them argue." A laugh left his lips, it was almost uncomfortable that he was the only one doing it. Everyone else was so quiet just watching. "But I can't give myself all the credit, let me introduce ourselves well, my dear."

Jimin walked away from you letting you breathe again, you had almost forgotten that he had been doing that act against you. Your tied hands help you hold off the ground by not being able to breathe properly, you feel so weak that you are about to pass out but you refuse to look weak in front of them.

"Kim Seokjin, son of the best chefs in the country and heir owner of thousands of five-star restaurants, inside and outside the country." His body crouched down, making an extremely long bow. Namjoon stood next to him, with the same smile from the day he met you. "Kim Namjoon, the only and adored son of the best lawyers and mayoral candidates, future presidents if occasion permits." There was a strange tone behind his voice, with a knowing wink. "I thought you can guess what Hoseok's parents do, but I'll tell you just in case. Great psychiatrists recognized for their countless achievements outside and within the country, having a tradition from generation to generation, capable of manipulating even the cleverest mind like yours."

Hosoek smiled at you, but this time his smile showed malice and pride. All that time you were surrounded by people who wielded a certain power and influence, oblivious to the fact that they could ever use it against you.

"Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung... Maybe you heard about their surnames on the news two years ago? Families specialized in medicine, their knowledge dazzles science and biology. Before allies and now both surnames are enemies competing for the market, but who would say that their children would meet secretly and use their same knowledge to retain a precise treasure." His hand stroked your hair causing you to recoil angrily, with a grimace of disgust and resignation. "Well... Finally Jungkook, son of the best technology creators in the country. Capable of creating anything, millionaires obviously, like everyone. Faithful lovers and devoted to he son, giving him everything he wants. " He stopped for a moment and then brought his hand to your ear taking out one of your earrings, you looked at him confused before he opened it showing a tiny device that lit up. "Even creating a more than wonderful device, a tracker of the smallest size."

You opened your mouth completely petrified, looking at each and every one of them. Most of them had a firm and conceited posture, but your eyes only looked at him.

"Were you in on this?" You ask by moving your body slightly, Yoongi only remains silent, avoiding looking at you at all costs, even if it is out of mercy you demand a simple word. "Speak! Tell me! Tell me!" You scream completely out of control, letting out all your frustration and anger with him, just him. It's all his fault. "Tell me now! To finally be able to completely hate them all... Please tell me, I just want to stop inventing and fooling my head trying to justify why you are standing there doing nothing for me" You sob almost exhausted, " Without helping me, when before you said you love me."

His eyes meet yours a few seconds before Jungkook chimed in, completely certain that you were trying to play your manipulation cards to get rid of them. Funny, they had done the same to catch you, their hyung could sometimes be so... credulous. That it was ironic that she was older than him.

"Good enough talk for today." He demanded, causing you to hide your head again in fear. You were so scared, even with the pain in your cheek and jaw from being forced by Jimin, you would never give up on them.

Your mouth felt dry, you couldn't remember the last time you drank water alone. As if they could read your thoughts, Taehyung appeared with a tray with a glass of water and a purple pill.

"Take that away from me." You scream when he tries to put the pill in your mouth, backing up as far as your bound legs will allow.

He sighs bored, as if he doesn't have the patience to deal with it, "If you want water you'll have to do this."

"What is it?" You ask almost breathless from the lack of water in your body, he smiles before bringing the pill to his face to look at it rolling it on his finger.

"Hm... Vitamins." Respond after hesitating. "Everything you need in one compact little pill. It was an invention by Jimin and me, we were hoping you would be the first to try it."

A few seconds ago you remember hearing about the reputations of both families, they were specialists who probably passed that knowledge on to their children. If they knew what they were doing with them, they would be shocked. Your reasoning tells you no, to throw it away and try to run away but your head and body can't take it anymore, they demand water and a rest.

"I-it's okay." You accept, removing the pill and the glass of water from the tray angrily. You put the pill in first, then the water so hard your mouth hurts from the force.

You return the glass silently, eyeing him suspiciously before sitting back down and walking a few inches away. You wait for everyone to do something, but they stay so still as dolls that it scares you, everything about them and their attitudes was creepy.

I wish you had noticed earlier.

And now you feel it, it was not pain, nor anxiety. I was just calm, the noises seem to decrease and your vision does not blur but you feel so relaxed that you do not seem to be affected by any drugs. You could feel it all, but you didn't care.

It was relaxing but you weren't far this time, you remember the previous scenes. When you ate the food they gave you, it was similar but as if it had been modified so that you can remain docile and obedient, but at the same time you know what they are doing.

Your body falls on the bed, you don't even try to get up. Your brain isn't thinking about that, it just gets distracted by the decorations around it, but it clearly perceives one of them nearby. Namjoon is behind your body lying face down, half is on the bed and your legs are still kneeling on the floor. You feel his kisses so desperate on your neck, his hands touching your breasts and stomach trying to lower himself further, anxious not to wait to fuck you as he always wanted and should have been.

You do not fight when his legs open yours with force and speed, you just stand still, thinking with your head glued to the soft sheets of the bed, deep down you can slightly feel your desire to push him and push him away furiously, you want to do it but not you do. You feel so confused that you sob into the sheets in released frustration.

"I thought I heard from you, that her wouldn't refuse anything with his stupid pill." Jin whispers, disgusted seeing you struggle with yourself in search of reason.

"I don't see her deny it." Jimin retorts, crossing his arms with a small victorious smile.

Yoongi stands aside, not wanting to accept this but likewise, like you, does nothing to avoid it while Namjoon sinks deep inside you causing you to writhe overwhelmed and let out a groan of pain, your mouth opens to complain and probably ask him to stop, but he instantly closes again only releasing more gasps and squeals.

They spend minutes with all eyes on you, taking the cock of her friend who abuses your sore pussy from overstimulation, this time you are crying and begging for mercy to stop. Even in your unconsciousness you continue to feel all the pain and also the pleasure that is now almost non-existent.

"S-stop!" You cry between gasps of exhaustion, your hands had been released by Jungkook seconds ago so that you can hold on properly. However, you only use them to try to ward off Namjoon who is holding you against the bed by slamming his body against yours with obscene noises. The bed squirms like you, colliding with the wall in sync.

"A little more baby... Just a little more... And I'll fill you with my cum, so fucking tight. You like that, hm?" Her breath very close to your cheek makes you react, you squeeze your eyes almost suffering from your next inevitable orgasm. You scream making everyone watch you fascinated by how your face contracts with pleasure and pain, you try to walk away when the moment of ecstasy recedes, but he continues to fuck you bareback hard, selfishly chasing the release of him against you.

You spent hours repeating the same routine, sometimes sometimes even more hours than you can remember or count.. Your body was completely covered with bruises and marks not only made by them manually, you had discovered in the worst way that Hoseok had a great fetish to make small cuts to any animal or person that had skin and that glistening blood came out of those wounds, red as hell and as sweet as ambrosia.

A delicacy, truly a true delicacy blessed by God.

Jin could not stop laughing at your overwhelmed face, sometimes he would sit next to you while your body was fucked uncontrollably, watching your face move on the sheets with the constant and hard movements of his friends.

"Do you enjoy it, you dirty bitch?" You knew he was making fun of it, not only because it denigrated your dignity, but also because you couldn't answer correctly and the only thing that moved was your head up and down from the thrusts. As if you were affirming his disgusting words. "You like it right?" And again. "I bet you will enjoy it every day from now on, do you want to marry us, little bitch? Be ours forever, that we fuck you every damn day like that, that we also fill you up that you would get pregnant, you would have our children , and you would gladly. Do you accept _______?"

You did not want to know where he managed to get your last name, nor your full name and less because he thought that after the effect of whatever they had given you, you would really accept being his damned wife.

But he just stands there, watching Jungkook abuse his new power against you and taunt him.

I just wanted to wait for everyone to leave, so I could hug you, heal you, and ask for forgiveness.

He couldn't save you if he was chained to the basement like they threatened to do. He was afraid of his own friends, who looked at him madly when hours before he thought of withdrawing from the plan, Hoseok as charismatic as he always claimed to be able to cut his neck so easily if I took you away from them.

Now, they were doomeds.

The painting lost its color once more.

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quillsanddaydreams · 3 years

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starry henna

sirius black x desi!reader

—author’s note: this was something I'd been waiting to write since forever. Requested by @sirisuorionblack, thank you so much bby I loved writing it. I hope you enjoy! Sirius attends your sister's wedding which finally makes him confess his feelings.

—warning(s): mentions of food and drink. female!reader (pronouns aren’t used, but is implied).

—word count: 1,754

You adjusted your bangle, before taking a last look at yourself. The traditional salwar you chose for the day was growing on you. Your sister called you, struggling to tie the threads at the back of her dress. Taking them from her hand, you made a beautiful butterfly knot, moving to take a final glance at her. She bit her lip, raising her eyebrows.

“Kaisi lag rahi huun? (How do I look?)” she asked, moving a strand of her hair nervously as you smiled at her encouragingly.

“Bahut sundar, (Very beautiful)” you said softly, hugging her. She sighed. “Itni kya jaldi hai shaadi karne ki? Thoda ruk nahi sakte the? (Why did you have to rush to marry? Couldn't you wait for a bit?)”

She chuckled, pulling back, holding both your arms.

“I’m gonna miss you too, not more than my room though,” she laughed, lightening the mood. She always seemed to know how to do that.

“Now let’s go, we wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting. Especially that boyfriend of yours,” she said a knowing look on her face as you felt your cheeks warm. You protested.

“He’s not my boyfriend—”

“Not yet,” she said, cutting you off. Something about her smirk told you; you couldn’t argue with her. But then again, you didn’t want to.

The two of you moved out of your room, placing the hotel key safely in your bag. It was rather silent in the elevator, you knew your sister was anxious about the ceremony. Not that one could tell that as soon as you arrived at the hall. You gasped taking in the changed decorations. Colorful, studded umbrellas hung from the ceiling and small couches were placed along the edges of the room— mehendi artists sat there with people surrounding them with open palms. Everyone’s eyes landed on your sister as she beamed and greeted them gracefully. You wondered whether you could ever be as elegant as her.

You gazed across the room looking at your cousins, mausis, and other members of the extended family. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Seeing James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter at the back near the food stands; you made your way over to them. They looked charming in kurtas you had bought with them earlier. And what a shopping trip had it been.

“No but you have to get it, it’s what today is about—” James said to a tired-looking Remus.

“What is today about?” you asked, amused. They wheeled towards you, their faces lighting up.

“Tell Remus he must get henna,” James pleaded, and Remus swayed his head wildly.

“Well,” you started smugly. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

Remus groaned making Peter snort. You faced Sirius who was staring at you wordlessly. Ignoring the tickling in your stomach, you asked him, “Are you not getting one too?”

Sirius shook himself a little, before releasing a cough.

“Well, I was hoping you would apply some on me,” he said as you raised your eyebrows.

“Me?” you asked, incredulously.

“You are quite the artist and the tattoo would mean more with you making it,” he said. “If you want, of course.”

“I would like that,” you said after a beat.

“You’re looking stunning today by the way,” Sirius added. “You do everyday, but this dress…”

“And we’re invisible again,” James said before you reply. Remus let out a laugh patting him.

“Bet they wouldn’t have noticed if we slowly moved away,” Peter snickered.

Sirius shoved his shoulder casually as you picked up a drink to hide your expression.

“I think you should get your henna done now,” you said, seeing your sister sit down at the head of the room, the henna women sitting by her sides and taking her hands. “I got mine done in the morning. It would take time to dry.”

As James and Peter took Remus away unwillingly, you shifted towards Sirius.

“Come, I’ll find a cone to make some on you,” you told Sirius, taking him by his hand. Moving to one of the couches you asked for some spare henna. The boy nodded, giving you a fresh cone along with some cotton swabs and cleanser.

The two of you proceed to sit at a corner and you put a cushion over your leg for support.

“Where would you like me to draw?” you asked as he offered you his left palm dramatically, running the other hand through his hair— picture of a model. You giggled.

“And what exactly do you want it to look like?” you asked, placing your hand on your cheek.

“I didn’t think much about that,” he pondered. “I do like those vines on yours? Uh— make whatever you like.”

You hummed, thinking. Perchance you did know what exactly would suit him. Cleaning his hand with a cotton swab, you took a cone in your hand and started making little footprints from his thumb to his pinky finger. Sirius inhaled sharply when he realized what you were drawing.

“Tsk, stay put,” you said as Sirius sat up straighter. He looked on to what you created keenly. You caught him gazing at you instead more often than not, making it harder for you to concentrate.

“You never quite told us what this is about,” he said after some time. “I mean it’s pretty great, people getting temporary tattoos before a wedding. And from what I’ve learnt from staying here, everything has a meaning. Does it have a story too or?”

“It’s supposed to wish the bride prosperity and happiness,” you said, remembering what your mother told you when you asked her the same. “A saying goes that the darker someone’s henna becomes, the more loving their partner is.”

“Oh?” he asked curiously, looking at your hands. “If your henna becomes darker later— it would be because of some lover?”

You chuckled.

“Well, according to the saying yes,” you shook your head. “In reality, it depends on your skin and what kind of powder you use to make the mehendi. But it’s pretty to believe the saying, don’t you think?”

“If you have someone in mind, then yes,” he replied.

“Do you?”

Sirius eyed you intensely. Your heart beat faster awaiting his answer.

“I do,” he said. For a moment neither of you looked away from each other. The dholak began to play startling you both out of the trance. You peeked at him and then got on to make little paws to complete the design. Neither of you dared to speak again. The tension seemed almost unbearable.

“Tada!” you said on adding the finishing touches. Sirius observed the design, seemingly delighted with it.

“It’s so pretty,” he hushed. “The paws, the footprints... brilliant! I wish I could do the same for you...”

“You can actually” you said all of a sudden. Sirius furrowed his eyebrows as you explained further. “There is a small space left here you could make something on.”

“You would like that?”

“I would love it,” you gaped as Sirius shook his head. “You can do it, please Sirius, that way we both would have made each other a tattoo.”

“I’m not great at art,” he pointed out. “And what would I even make?”

“Make the Orion belt,” you said, ignoring the heat rising in your ears. “I saw those gorgeous astronomy projects you made and I would love something starry and tied to you too.”

Sirius blushed, abashed.

“If you want that,” he said. You handed him the used cone, having won, and laid out your palm to him.

Carefully marking up the stars he began to fill them in. You bit your lip watching Sirius work. His hair fell over his face, curls licking his skin. He was so caught up in work that he seemed to forget everything nearby.

“I know I’m handsome but I won’t be able to work with you looking at me like that,” he said, unmoving. You flushed, mummering you weren’t making Sirius smirk widen.

“Of course you weren’t.”

Sirius heaved a sigh sitting back, letting you regard the stars.

“It’s beautiful—”

You wanted to say more but your cousin Ruuhan came beside you, grabbing your arm to get your attention.

“Come dance, everyone is!” he said as you grinned. You looked at Sirius in silent question as he shook his head telling you to go on. Your mausis and other cousins were already dancing when you were pulled in. Laughing you moved along with them, dragging your sister to dance along with you.

You spent the night eating, dancing and having fun. The marauders joined you— you gave them your best puppy dog eyes when they said no. Amidst everything, you couldn’t remember the last time you had been this happy. It felt like a high. A happy high. One you never wanted to escape.

The next few days passed in a blur and it was almost too soon you were walking your sister through the grounds to marry the girl she loved. Wrapping an arm with hers you watched all the eyes on you two. Sirius stood along with the marauders, gasping a little when he saw you. You gave him a small nod, expecting him to wink back or give a teasing look, but it never came. He looked at you like he was seeing stars for the first time. Angling your attention towards your sister, you stepped forward. Handing over her hand to her fiancée, you watched your sister get up on the stage. Tears welled up in your eyes. Sirius came to stand beside you and took your hand in his. Squeezing it a little, you gave him a reassuring glance.

“You know; the past few days I’ve realized something,” Sirius said quietly as the ceremony moved on. You gestured for him to continue.

“Love should be celebrated, grandly because,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Because you shouldn’t be afraid to show off the one you adore to all around you. What I couldn’t understand however; what were we supposed to do if all others except the person knew about the affection you had for them?”

You sucked in a breath, waiting for him to continue. Sirius took your hand in his, running his fingertips along with the stars he drew.

“I love you,” he whispered so softly you almost missed it. Your heart leaped as he avoided your eyes. You cradled his face, making him look at you. His grey eyes shone angelically under the fairy lights.

“I love you too, Sirius,” you said, pulling him close. The two of you sat with an arm around the other, watching your sister take her vows for life.

—as for the taglist: I don’t make taglists, I have a blog @from-my-quill which is updated whenever I post fanfiction. You could have the notifications on for it and it will work just like me tagging you.

⟨⟨REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED⟩⟩

#sirius black #sirius #sirius x reader #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius x you #sirius black x y/n #the marauders #james potter #remus lupin #hp #harry potter #sirius fanfiction #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fluff #from anu's quill

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hitoshisbabygirl · 3 years

Text

Author's Notes ♡: Hi there hey! Welcome back to another collab piece!! This round I try to have him in his pro hero line of work and being his usual soft and caring self. It’s a bit soft but also heated at the end sooo, I love making a softer Kiri so enjoy!! I hope I did this justice~ bunny ❥

Warnings : NSFW again! (◎_◎;)

A use of pet names like twice, if you squint you’ll see a bit size kink and Soft Dom Kiri, fingering, Light cursing, pussy job, Kiri is a soft but huge lover

Word count : About 3.3k!

Paring(s) : Pro hero!Eijiro Kirishima x F!Reader

Summary : Kirishima was used to saving people, and having the joy that comes with it and completing his job, so what happens when he falls for the girl that is his main link to a case?

Enjoy ♡

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Kirishima knew taking this mission with Fatgum would be one of their more challenging ones : A drug ring filtered out throughout a high end hotel with an escort and stripping service. Supposedly they'd traffic with the girls, under trays of food or other masked ways. The menus were keys to what each drug was, and each service was a different type of delivery. They were so close , so very close to understanding what was happening but...they also hit a bump. Most of the investigation was focused on the owner of the hotel but they soon found out that they were barking up the wrong tree. The owner of the hotel wasn't who controlled the flux in the drug ring but a patreon, a wealthy real estate manager for a mob. Sighing, Kirishima rubbed his face, glancing at Fatgum who was writing like a madman at the desk in their jointed room “Hey Taishiro..” Kirishima called as the blonde let out a hum,still jotting notes “We have that other lead right? Uh..” He started as he flipped through his own notes, running over a name “Peaches, the cage dancer?” “Yeah what about her?” Fatgum said as he looked to his red haired subordinate “Why don't we see if we can find her? She should be working tonight right? The other dancer said she only comes in on certain days, and she seems tied to Mr.N'' He siad as Fatgum joined him at his side , reading over his notes “Yeah! If we're lucky we’ll find some more about our lovely friend here”

And with that they headed downstairs and to the giant double door, the sound of thumping music seeping through the crack “Well Red, let's head in yeah?” Taishiro said as Kirishima followed behind. He knew undercover work was difficult, and it didn't help that both had to disguise their identities to the best they could : Fatgum and him both using colored hair spray to hide their hair colors. Taishiro opted to stay in his smaller form more often and wore clothes that were more fancy while under the name “Yuri”. Kirishima on the other hand was his makeshift “Bodyguard” , opting for all black looks and tended to hide his mouth with a black mask, going by the simple nickname “J”. The purpose was for Fatgum to look like another high end boss with security , and that's how it was. As the two entered they were greeted with half dressed to bare women with only covers asking them what they needed or wanted , some handing them drinks and allowing them to wander. The lights were bright and strobing , almost too much to the sober person, so the intoxicated had to be worse. Heading to the back they passed through a curtain into the higher end of things. Men with people at their hips, smoking cigars and watching as more dancers did their usuals, money being handed over , thrown and placed on their person. “Alright how about we split up, il take this seat, see if you can find the cage dancers” Fatgum said as he sat to an approaching girl, the women threw herself to his lap as Kirishima sighed watching him start up as he saw a red light behind another side curtain. Catching his attention Kirishima walked forward, into a darker room with a string of red lights illuminating a cage-like stage. Before he could get far a man stopped him

“Excuse me sir do you have a reservation with Peaches?” Bingo. He found her “Uh no sorry i don't , i didn't know i needed one for her '' He said shyly as the man looked up to him before sighing “Well, then sir i can't help you” Sighing Kirishima looked at the stage again when he saw one of the most beautiful sights he could see. A woman, covered in a red and black piece popped into the stage “Whats the issue Moby?” The women said as her eyes widened to the tall male in her usual empty room “Ah nothing miss Peaches, this guy i guess thought he'd get a show” The security said as the girl still looked to him and smiled waving him in “He does now, put him on my list yeah?” She said as the security stuttered , letting the towering man past “Ah miss, is it okay if my friend comes along as well? He went to a different stage but he would be meeting back up with me” He admitted as th e woman strolled to him , pressing a hand to the cage “He can come too, tell Moby to put him on the list sweetheart” She said before walking away, yelling to the security “Put his friend on the too!”

Soon Fatgum came into the room with him, sitting beside him as more paterons surrounded the stage “the other dont know them, it seems our girl is the one were with now” He whispered as they all looked up to the stage , the setting being set for the act who was coming out. If the hush whispers were anything he knew the girl they were waiting for would be something great.

All of a sudden Kiri could feel his heart in his throat, the woman he had spoken to came out , still dress the same as she waved to the whistling people below, goting to her pole with a jump and started spinning effortlessly, the sight was absolutely stunning ; he'd never seen such a beautiful display before. No one told him that stripping was a form of art, no matter how people tried to look down on it, this was art to him. He now knew why she was so sought after, the grace she had as she moved closer to him through the cage made his heart unironically thump and all of a sudden the throb in his chest moved to between his legs , an embarrassment he wish he wouldn't admit outright until a shove on the arm from his senior “Its alright, i think she likes you” Fatgum whispered as Kirishima looked up, seeing in fact that her eyes were glued to him.

Moving to the front she leaned against it, eyes locked on him as she beckoned him closer, the desperate others trying to reach for her as she smirked , reaching to Kirishima “Why dont you cmre big boy” She said as they whooped and hollered , all smacking him in the back as he gave fatgum a wide eyed look, the hidden blonde, giving him a thumbs up. “U-uhm I-” Before he could say much she tapped the cage , pointing to Kirishima as the security took him around to the opening “You're a lucky guy ; its rare she does a lap dance with fresh faces” The guy said, confusing the hidden redhead “How's that?” He ask “Well whoever spends the most on her usually just gets a leg tap or such, a lapdance is the highest thing she'll do with a crowd” He said before giving him a chair and opening her door “Have fun, she might spoil ya” And withthst he was face to face with the beauty. Walking up to Kirishima she gave him a smile, her smaller hand running over his chest before she took the chair from him , sitting it in the red light. “What should i call you cutie” She whispered before he felt the knot in his stomach tighten again “ Uh..how about..Jay..” He whispered back as she pushed him lightly into the chair “Well then Jay, ill give you a nice show hm?” she giggled, before moving into his lap. Kiri felt himself freeze , she smelt very good, and was too close for comfort. She was warm, and the way she looked at him made him feel like a highschooler all over again “C-can i touch you sweetheart?” He whispered as she settled , her eyes wide as she buried her face in his neck “A real gentlemen, I knew it was a good idea to trust you.

Go right ahead cutie, be gentle with me” she answered as she started to rock, rolling her hips with the thumping of her music. Slowly he put his own hand on her waist, following her constant moving as the group below yelled, telling him to do more or for her to strip even more. He felt her get close to his face before their noses touched, the heat in his chest blooming more as she pulled away. Feeling brave he gripped her hips, pulling her closer and with a gasp her arms moved back to his chest , the two in their own world before realizing there were eyes on them both still. Slowly she crawled down his lap, eyes on his as she ran her hand back on his thighs , her face on his lap as they screamed for more before the curtain dropped, covering them and the guys outside of it begged for more. Sitting back on her legs and letting kirishima catch his breath he held a hand to her , helping her up “T-Thank you for the show Miss Peaches , I feel honored“ Kirishima said as she blinked, before feeling her body heat up “O-Oh uhm why thank you for thanking me, i don't get much appreciation, and most would want your place. I….felt drawn to you so” She admitted before giving him a look “OH and you can call me [ ], but try not to around patreons, they'd be upset they don't know yet and i just told some newbie” [ ] teased as he laughed , agreeing “Yeah definitely. I hope to see you uh, more often” He said before he could stop himself, giving her the same shocked look her face had “I guess you're who've been asking for me.

Here, I'll give you my number and you tell me whenever you need something” She said, holding her hand out for his phone. Fumbling he took his phone out, taking her number in his phone as they walked to her dressing room. Shyly [ ] looked up at the tall boy who insisted on walking her back to her room. Standing ther awkwardly he gave her a shy look back “Uh i know this is random but when is your next show? I love how beautiful you look and i'd...wished to be able to..i'm not sure what id want to do being there” Starting to ramble he laughed and rubbed his head before [ ] grabbed his hands “Hey that's fine, i'll come around more often if you're around i feel safe with my new shield” She teased.

And thats how it was for a few weeks, them seeing her every day she danced and her even coming to see them on her off hours. Kirishima explained why they were really there and it made her heart happy to see change. She decided to help them, giving more information to them, helping them along with their case as it started to close. Before long Kirishima and [ ] had gotten closer, the two of them growing to love the others attention , so much so Fat gum called them out for it “Yknow, when this goes down, you should get [ ] to follow us , she's quite smart , and she could do wonderfully as a partner. She would benefit better from a safe environment” Fatgum said one day while they were finishing their report “Ya think? I do care for her, and I can't stand her coming over and crying about the abuse…...but i dunno what if she doesnt like me like that…”

Kirishima whispered as he felt a hand smack him on the shoulder “Ask her. Can't hurt to ask right? And the way you both give eachother puppy eyes even when she's on stage i'm pretty sure she likes you the same way you like her.” He teased as the red head beside him sighed, hearing a knock at their door. Opening it he was face to face with the girl in question, [ ]. Her eyes glowed as she came in, greeting the two males in front of her. “Hey guys! How's everything going?” She said as she sat on the edge of one of the beds in the room , dressed more casually which made them both have a sense of joy “Ah well we should be arresting him tomorrow once he gets here, I know you work tomorrow night so ill have Kiri be with you, he’ll make sure everything runs smoothly , we’ll all go back to the headquarters and regroup okay?” Fatgum finished as [ ] shook her head, agreeing with the plans as she sighed “I'm nervous but it needs to be done... I , well all of us can't take this anymore...constantly being in fear all the time yknow?” she sighed as she laid back, a comfortable silence falling between them as they all laid around the room “Uhm [ ] can I ask you something?”

Kirishima said as she hummed, cracking an eye open to look at him. Knowing what was to come Fatgum gave him a thumbs up before claiming he had a call to go investigate downstairs, leaving the two of them together. “[ ] I cant stand you in pain...I dunno what i can do for you but...please, let me help you out , come with me , with us. I want you to be happy y'know and ive enjoyed every second we’ve had together..maybe im being selfish, or maybe its silly but...I” Trailing off he looked up to [ ] giving him soft puppy like eyes. Reaching out she placed her hand on his , rubbing her thumb on the back of his hand as she took in a breath to start her own comment back “Kiri...Ejirou, I care about you, so so very much, I wouldn't want to be a burden to you, but I'd love to go with you. Question is , is tit the both of you who want me around or a certain red head who cant take his eyes off of me” She teased as the color in his face flushed to his ears , stuttering as [ ] laughed “Its okay Kiri, Fatgum told me too, that we both care so much for eachother and should admit it, its why im here now actually” [ ] said as she meekly met his wide eyes, not fully thinking he understood her “W-wait say that again?” Kirishima croaked, meeting her gaze as she smiled , tracing his hand that sat beside her leg. Before he could stop himself he tackled her to the bed , pushing his lips against hers. With a gasp she kissed him back, wrapping her hands around his neck as they laid there, sealing their promise to eachother with a kiss. Soon, Kirishima pulled away, but not before tugging her bottom lip in his mouth. Gently he placed his hands beside her face, looking into her [ ] colored eyes, his heart fluttering once more as he kissed her forehead “Im sorry [ ] i just couldnt help it… Uhm am I moving too fast? I can definitely wait until youre ready” He spoke out as the girl under him sat up, gripping his cheeks “Kiri, honey ive waited for us to confess and now youve gotten me riled up, take good care of me yeah? Later on we can be more intimate but for now..I need you” She said, seeing he way the red heads eyes darkened at her comment “Then let me tak good care of you my love”

And with that he slide a large hand down between her thighs, rubbing at a wet patch forming against her panties as he pushed passed them, entering her with teo plump fingers “I gotta get you to relax, i wont fit if youre this tight” Whispering in her ear he picked up the pace, kissing right under her pulse as [ ] sucked in a breath, grabbing onto a strong arm “K-kiri I-” Shushing her , Kirishima leaned over to kiss her lips, speeding up his fingers as he felt her drip between them “Cum for me sweetheart, let me open you right up” He begged. Feeling her stomach tense at his choice words [ ] whimpered, her high hitting her as the sound of him pumping her though it echoed throughout the room. Pulling his hand out from her fluttering pussy and short he smirked, licking her orgasm from his fingers. Giving her a lopsided smile he spoke ‘Cant wait to eat you out..but thatll have to wait. I need to be in you” Sittin up from her Kirishima pulled his shirt off and with a toss threw it uncerimosily into a corner, as well as his pants and her clothes. [ ] couldnt help biting her lip as she saw the bulge under his boxers, a spot of precum at the tip as he palmed himself before pulling them off slowly, the red tip smacking his stomach

“ Like what you see?” He teased as he ran the tip between her sopping folds, a gasp as soft ‘Yes’ falling from her lips “Ill be gentle okay? If its too much tell me, alright?” he said as [ ] agreed , opening her legs more as he started to rub around her clit, catching it with his swollen head. In a trance he kep that up, bucking between her lips as it started to make them both sticky and hot. Soon she couldnt take it anymore, grabbing his hand as she pleaded with him “Please Kiri, put it in already, I can take it” Letting her words sink in he smiled before flipping her to her stomach, pressing his tip against her wet hole “Hold on to something then” was his last warning before pushing in, his tip sliding by with ease as the smaller girl under him moaned, arching her back to take more in his first push. Slowly he kep rocking his hips, pushing more and more in before finally bottoming out, a satisfied groan spilling from both parties lips. Leaning down to her neck Kirishima bit down gently before picking up his pace, holding her hips in place as [ ] whined , reaching back for a hand “W-wait please its too much” She whined as he slowed his hips only a bit , feeling her clench over his own thick member “Youre close again...is me pounding you from behind too much” He cooed, biting a new post on her neck as he sped up again, making the girl squeal “I-i dont wanna cum yet! I dont w-want it to end” She spilled out as she felt the knot in her stomach return, warming her lower body as he kept up his pace, sliding a hand to go between her legs as he searched for her nub, tracing it as he drilled in her from behind. Too quickly [ ] felt it snap, the little bit of control over her rapid orgasm faulting as she came overhim, grabbing the hand on her hip as she weakly rocked back “Thatta girl, keep going you got it...fuck im close too, where d-do you wnat me to cum” He asked as his own hips got sloppy but never slowing down, in fact they picked up more pace as he chased his own high “Im on the pill, please fill me up baby, Eijirou i need you to fill me up” [ ] pleaded. Hearing his name unexpectedly was his demise. He felt himself quiver as thick ropes of cum spilled from hsi tip inside of her spasming and warm walls, a low growl falling from his lips as he rocked the last of his oragsm out, small ‘Thank yous’ and ‘I love you’ falling from his lips. With care he wrapped his arms around her torso, holding her to his chest as he pulled them sideways “Well...i didnt expect the night to go like this” [ ] giggled as Kirishima kissed her shoulder before agreeing “I don mind it...but I meant it...i didnt just use you fro sex or anything..”He said again as she hummed, kissing the hand the laid on her chest “I know...i meant it too..” As the comfortable silence filled the room [ ] felt something hot stir her again. Looking down she could see Kirishima getting hard again> Before she could say anything he spoke “Whenever youre ready, I could go for another round sweetheart” Slightly pushing her hips back [ ] knew she was in for a long night

#my hero academia #bnha #bnha collab #bnharem collab #kirishima ejiro x reader #kirishima x reader #kirishima smut #bnha x reader

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starglow-xx · 3 years

Text

owning a bakery and being discovered by the ada and the port mafia (part 3)

platonic! yosano akiko x f! reader

type of writing: head canons !!

this is part of my head canon series, flour & fluff !!

tag list is open !! go to this google form and fill it out to sign up!

series synopsis: owning a bakery at 20 is tough; even more so when you have to handle members of two opposing organizations! this is your journey to meeting those fools and creating an unlikely bond with each of them. but only at the cost of your peace and sanity.

fandom: bungou stray dogs

content: fluff & platonic stuff but trigger warning!! there may be a sensitive topic for others

*getting grabbed and pulled to an alleyway! alcohol mentioned!*

please remember that yokohama isn’t the friendliest place, especially at night.

previous: part 2 : their beloved president

author’s note: same ages as last time!! (so that means everyone is one year younger than canon; that makes yosano 24)

this one is actually pretty long :0

i got info abt her likes on her wiki page (careful! there’s spoilers!)

and yosano is a queen and no one can tell me otherwise

the doctor is in the house (quite literally)

going grocery shopping was an okay chore in your opinion

it honestly depended on your mood or whatever kind of shit happens when you go shopping

cause like something always, always happens whenever you go do groceries

sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and sometimes it’s just plain weird

one time some weirdo proposed to you in the middle of the store asking for a double suicide

he was good looking you’d admit but it’s not like you’d ever see him again

or so you thought

a n y w a y s

every so often, you’d run out of real person food in your apartment

you mostly survive off all of the leftover bakery treats and ingredients—which works out pretty well actually—but bakery supplies unfortunately also run out quite often

and also unfortunately, one time when both fukuzawa & ranpo took a visit to Sakura’s, fukuzawa argued that “no you can’t live off sweets for the rest of your life”

ranpo was scandalized and scrambled to cover your ears

you guys were at it for a while

in the end you sided with fukuzawa causing ranpo to go off about “betrayal from the people he cared most abt” or smth like that

you guys were okay again after bribing him with sweets :)

for bakery supplies you usually have them delivered bc you order them in large quantities bc ahaha no way were you gonna carry like 15-20 50 pound bags of flour no way

when days like those happen, you close up the bakery early so you aren’t walking home when it’s too dark

you scheduled it to happen every first saturday of the month

on those saturdays, you close at 5 instead of at 8

currently, you were at the grocery store looking for basic cooking ingredients such as proteins, vegetables, fruits, and most importantly, snacks

ranpo’s been rubbing off on you

the sun was starting to set and you were walking home with your two bags of groceries when shit went down

tbh you were kinda expecting it cause your grocery run was peaceful for once

but what you weren’t expecting was a wack-a-do to appear out of goddamn nowhere right when you were opening the side door to get to the staircase up to your apartment

like honestly

let a woman do her own thing

the man who grabbed you tried to covered your mouth so you couldn’t scream but you didn’t exactly make it easy for him

you kicked and thrashed around even using the grocery bags—that were somehow still in your hand—as a weapon and the man struggled but he was still bigger than you and was able to bring you to a nearby alley

he reeked of alcohol and you spotted a wedding band on his left hand

not that you cared about the detail in the moment

you kicked him in the groin and in response he let you go only to fall on broken glass that was in the alley way

using the wall to help yourself up, you grabbed a nearby wooden stick and struck him right on his back

your attacker fell and you immediately turned on your heels to escape only to fall back down on the hard cold ground once again

you lift your face up and look back to see the man holding onto your ankle

grabbing a shard of glass—cutting yourself in the process— you begin to swing it at him only for him to easily grip your wrist and stop you

you get ready try and kick him in the groin again but you’re interrupted as your attacker gets sucker punched and flies to wall

you look up to see your savior and you’re blessed to see a beautiful woman, probably not that much older than you are—she’s probably around ranpo’s age— donning a white long sleeve button up, a matching black necktie, knee length skirt, and gloves, along with tights, red heels, and a pretty butterfly clip in her short black hair

but what you really notice is her eyes

ranpo’s eyes were pretty but you like hers just a bit more

you’ve always liked the color magenta

the pretty lady holds out her hand and you take it graciously and thank her as she helps you up

as that’s happening, your attacker gets himself onto his feet and his groan catches both of your attention

he struggles to stand and the pretty lady simples saunters over to him and delivers an uppercut knocking him out cold

you’re stunned and you breathe out a “thank you” making her turn towards you

she notices the condition you’re in

bleeding scrapes on your hands, arms and legs, small rips in your clothes like your tights, blouse, and skirt, and the ruffled state of your hair and clothing

she asks if you live nearby and you tell her that you own the bakery that’s one or two buildings away

when you tell her that, it clicks in her mind that you must be the bakery girl ranpo’s been talking about and the friend fukuzawa was cat sitting for

it’s been abt two weeks since ranpo and fukuzawa first met you and since then, they’ve seen lucky in the office plenty and the boxes of your signature sweets even more

if those two trust you, she has no reason not to

she smiles at you, holds out her hand for you to shake, and introduces herself as the doctor of the armed detective agency

your eyes widen and you smile back at her shaking her hand

“ah! you must be yosano-sensei then! ranpo-san and fukuzawa-san have talked about you! it’s so nice to meet you! im (l/n) (y/n)!”

“they’ve talked about you too, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you (y/n)”

after that exchange she insisted on bringing you home to treat you wounds which you told her it wasn’t necessary

she gave you a pointed look and that was when you realized what state you were in

you sighed and weakly gave in to which she only grinned at

before leaving the alley she walks over to the unconscious man and pulls out his wallet for some sort of identification and home address as you try to see if there’s any groceries still salvageable

after texting the details to kunikida, yosano turns to you poking around the now ruined grocery bags

she simply rubs your back and tells you that the both of you could go buy more groceries together as she was meaning to get some anyways; she even said she’ll pay for you

you refused obviously but she, unknowingly, used the same tactic fukuzawa used with you

“so you’re saying you don’t need groceries?”

“...”

*cue an eyebrow raise from our resident queen*

“...you agency members don’t like making things easy for me huh.”

you gave in reluctantly and at this point you don’t even know why you try negotiating with them

and that’s only three of them

apparently, she was on the other side of the street on the way to buy groceries for the agency when she noticed different produce items on the other sidewalk leading to the alley and she went to check out what happened

ironically, the way to the grocery store from the agency makes you go past Sakura’s but she didn’t realize it until after the two of you had met

before you know it, the two of you are in your apartment kitchen as she cleans and patches up all of your wounds

as she does so the two of you have a little girl talk

you find it quite comforting bc since you opened up Sakura’s you haven’t really had the chance to connect to many people much less other women

you definitely see yosano as your cool, loving, badass older sister

she thinks you’re adorable and agrees with ranpo’s opinion

yup

that’s right

the opinion that you’re like a little kid </3

you called it a betrayal and all she did was laugh at you <//3

“awhh that’s really cool yosano-sensei!—MFPH?!?”

*squishing your cheeks the same way ranpo did* “ranpo-san was right (n/n)-chan, your cheeks are squishy!”

“?!”

after that small fiasco, the two of you talked some more and bonded over your love for flowers, japanese sweets, and much more!!

you even made a date to have a girls day to go shopping and eat out!

you’re internally squealing a bit bc it’s been a while since you’ve gone shopping

yosano notices and she giggles behind her hand not saying anything bc she knows you’ll only throw a fit

the two of you came around the topic of ranpo when lucky passed by

lucky quickly warmed up to the doctor and cozied up in her lap

“i wish ranpo-san was able to meet lucky when he came by the first time, but then again, he’d probably throw a tantrum if i don’t pay attention to him for 5 seconds”

she snorted at that and like fukuzawa, she shared stories abt the slightly older male

“ranpo-san doesn’t know how to ride a train?”

“unbelievable right?”

“for someone so intelligent i expected more from him”

“i’ll be telling that to ranpo-san, (n/n)-chan”

“wha—?! yosano-sensei please don’t!”

like ranpo, she’s also a tease </3

but you love her anyway <3

eventually, she finished patching you up and promised to treat you to a new set of clothes when the two of you go out

“you don’t need to lose a good set of clothes just because of a sleazy man (n/n)-chan! you deserve better!”

you were going to argue that the rips in your clothes were fairly small and could easily be fixed—except the tights—but you stopped in your tracks when you remembered that it was practically useless to argue against an ada member

the two of you walked to the grocery store and bought both of your needed supplies—along with some extra goodies—and then she walked you back to your place bc it was already a bit dark out

but even if it wasn’t, she would walk you anyways

besides, if anything happened to you, she’s 1000% positive that ranpo and fukuzawa are gonna flip the fuck out not that she wont cause she most definitely will

speaking of which

you were drinking a bottle of water as the two of made your way back to Sakura’s when all of a sudden

“(y/n) you do realize that i have to tell shachou and ranpo-san about what happened today right?”

you choked on your water

“yosano-sensei you can’t! if you do they’ll freak! they won’t leave me alone for at least two weeks! one if im lucky!”

“exactly the point”

you just accepted your defeat already knowing that you’d lose

but maybe you can simmer down their anger towards the bastard with sweets and lucky

you arrived at Sakura’s shortly after and after bringing groceries in, you packaged a bunch of pastries leftover from today—bc you closed early—and bc you’re well aware that ranpo doesn’t share any of the sweets you send him with

you even gave yosano her own special box filled with goodies she loves, and a thermos of fukuzawa’s favorite, your special hot honey lemon tea

other than the sweets, you prepared lucky to spend the night at fukuzawa’s

you really really hoped that doing these things would make them calm down

you shivered at the thought of what their responses would be

you felt really bad for giving yosano all these things to carry and that you were keeping her very late

she assured you that she was fine and that if someone tried to mess with her she’d kick their ass

and after exchanging numbers, the magenta eyed queen bid you a good night and walked back to the agency with lucky walking by her heels

arriving back at the agency, yosano was greeted with some concerns asking if she was alright bc she came back from her grocery run pretty late

(she usually goes in the mornings but today was pretty busy so she left in the late afternoon but now it was already dark)

she waved off the concerns and plopped a couple boxes of your signature bakery boxes at ranpo’s desk, the one for her at her own, the last few boxes in the kitchen for any other agent or clerk to grab, placed the thermos on the desk fukuzawa was by, and picked up lucky and handed him to the president

the two males were pleased with what yosano had brought them, and pleased that another agency member had the chance to meet you

fukuzawa was rubbing lucky and ranpo already snacking on treats as yosano expected

but here comes the hard part

or maybe it’s gonna amusing who knows

“i met (y/n) today.”

“we could tell.”

in goes another treat in the green eyed man’s mouth

“would you like to know how?”

“you bumped into each other, had girl talk, made plans to go out, went grocery shopping, and you brought me and shachou presents.”

“great job ranpo-san, you’re almost completely correct.”

this caught the attention of basically everyone bc they knew ranpo was never “almost completely correct”

“we ended up meeting bc she got attacked on her way home from grocery shopping, i treated her wounds, then we had girl talk and did all the other stuff”

ranpo and fukuzawa froze right in their tracks

“i sent all the info of the bastard to kunikida”

“kunikida.”

“yes shachou”

“find out everything about that man and bring it to me and ranpo”

“...yes shachou”

“and yosano”

“yes?”

“text (y/n) and tell her that her cat, tea, and pastries aren’t going to work as a bribe”

just as you finished taking a shower you sneezed

<<previous // next >>

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peacefulapocalypse · 3 years

Text

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

#I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter by ISABEL FALL #I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter #ISABEL FALL #gender identity

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