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raelhbishop · 14 days

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Cabaret of the Macabre

Filed under [M] for "macabre."

A collaboration between me and the magnificent @roadkill-frankenstein. The prose is mine, the art is theirs, the characters are ours. Consider it a "back-door pilot" for a setting of mine, of which he's a collaborator.

Capt. Grim Blackburn and Brennos Lobhadh belong to @roadkill-frankenstein.

Theoxenia Trismegistus and Mr. Manson belong to @raelhbishop.

Content warning: Depictions of PTSD and body dysmorphia; graphic depictions of death and stake-burning; body horror; mild emetophobia and hemophobia

❊

Two beaming yellow-on-red specks float about in the darkness. Aside from distant flickers of candles, they alone bring light to an all-encroaching darkness, like embers from a dying universe.

If one squints hard enough, one can see suggestions of a surroundings; the grain of stone, the glint of leather, the smudge of ashes, the subtle crevices of some much larger carving. In the dark, it's hard to tell truly where one thing ends and another begins.

An acrid, metallic smell singes the air.

The specks turn slightly, like two wispy marbles. A thin, bronzy outline of two circles and a line follow some inches ahead. Shuffling can be heard; glyphs, pages, come into view, given a subtle red tinge by the spheres.

Adjust the eye of your mind, and one can see something more to these specks…

❊

"Manson, are you positive this is your… friend's… address?"

"WE'RE NOT EVEN THERE YET, HOW CAN YOU ASSUME I'M WRONG?"

A sleek car moseys its way down increasingly decrepit roads. The tag on the back reads "D3MB0NZ”.

The streets reek of piss and, occasionally, some really poor quality ganja wafting from a balcony — a typical day in Miami. The hot sun glistens off the faces of our protagonists. Well, two of them.

Theo and Grim haven't been here for very long, only a few months at the most. In-between their work schedules, the two of them like to wander around Miami and make mental maps of what it holds. They've got it figured out: where all the vegetarian restaurants, liquor stores, and bars that host live music are.

These streets, however, seem foreign to them both. Mr. Manson has been driving for some time now, practically past the city's heart and into something overgrown.

Their ride comes to an end. He leaves the car confidently, leading the two past increasingly questionable buildings.

Grim adjusts his wide-brimmed straw hat. "…why are we going here again?"

"TO VISIT A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE." His voice is reminiscent of the roar of a car's engine.

"Brennos, right?"

Manson nods, audibly rustling. "YOU WILL LIKE HIM, TRUST ME. HE'S A PROPER GENTLEMAN. PLAYS A GOOD GAME OF POKER.”

The trio walk past a condemned building, boarded up, stucco walls crumbling. Mr. Manson stops at the next house, standing before a rotted door that looks minutes away from falling off its hinges entirely. He starts shuffling through his overly large ring of keys — the one thing, he laments, can't be upgraded.

Theo whispers to Grim. "I still don't know why he's our landlord."

"You know damn well why. He's the only one who would take us in."

"I dunno, dude. He still gives me the creeps."

"Come on, he's just undead, that's all. Like me."

"Well, yeah, but you've got flesh and bones and stuff. He's just… bones."

"AH, HERE IT IS."

Mr. Manson pulls out a literal skeleton key, the teeth resembling tiny ribs jutting out of an elongated phalange. At the key's base is a small crow-like skull.

He jabs it into the doorknob. Fighting a little, it eventually unlocks and glows the faintest bit. The eyes of the key light up a ruby red.

Adjusting his jacket and top hat, Manson opens the door and enters.

Theo grabs Grim's hand. They lock eyes, take a deep breath, and follow behind.

❊

A beam of light bursts through the darkness. Three figures emerge from it: the first, a top hat and Prussian blue coat clad figure, walking confident and cool. The second is straw-hatted, with hints of turquoise visible from underneath his yellow raincoat. He has only one arm. Close behind is a cowboy booted figure, sheepishly wearing a colorful hoodie with a smiling black cat on it.

As the door begins closing, the group find themselves in a corridor filled with other doors. They're all exquisitely carved — Mr. Manson notes they're made from solid ironwood — and are all identical except for a small symbol at the center of each. The door they just left bears a manatee engraved into it; a rose sits on the door to the left, and a fountain to the right.

Manson leads them to one end of the corridor, where a much larger door with a wolf-headed knocker greets them. He puts his skeletal finger to it; without even making contact, it knocks itself with a bark.

Startled, Theo leaps backwards, hitting a door with an eight-spoked wheel engraved into it. His hoodie gets knocked back, revealing two goat-like horns that curl behind and down below his equally hircine ears.

Grim sighs. He grabs Theo by the hand.

The door slowly opens, revealing more darkness inside. Manson continues, unperturbed. His shoes clack across the dark marble floor.

Following his lead, the two enter an even larger corridor. The simple wooden walls of the previous room have now been replaced with a dark stone. Pillars and alcoves have been periodically carved into them, covered in intricate detail that comes off as all-too sinister in the dim light.

The visitors peer into the alcoves as they walk past. Artefacts sit on pedestals in each one, lit by lanterns hoisted mere feet above. One holds a beige bejeweled cup, bearing the suture marks characteristic of a human skullcap. Another holds a preserved jar with a snake inside, a strange blend of the cobra and the moray eel. They pass by tusks from long-extinct wild cats, obsidian daggers, gold urns holding crystal spheres instead of ashes…

They walk by an intricate pocket watch with a mirror exposed; as the three walk past, only Theo's reflection appears.

Manson turns a corner. Theo bumps into a pedestal, showcasing a sizable ram's skull. He shudders.

They come to a still life; Theo and Grim stop to look.

"This painting gives me the creeps."

Grim nods. "It's very well done. I wonder if it has any deeper meaning."

Theo cocks his head. "Maybe you're right, dude… see the way the skull is in the forefront? Maybe it's supposed to represent how, like, death is everywhere. And all the stuff behind it is what you want to see." He points. "The books, the flute — a most excellent flute — the sword, the… weird little thingy you, like, put incense in or something…"

"What of the conch shell?"

Theo shrugs. "They're nice to look at? All the objects represent what we see in life, but the skull rules over them all."

They look at it quietly a little longer. An ever-so faint metallic smell begins to waft over.

"What do you think, dude?"

Grim shrugs. "Looks all the same to me… uh, Theo?"

He turns from the painting and is frozen in his tracks.

The two of them see the orbs in the distance. Floating. Ominously. The metallic odor grows stronger. They pinch each other to make sure this is all real, and slowly inch to the side.

Underneath the spheres, a line of frozen flames of red begin to emerge from the void. Both seem to be hovering in the distance. Eyeballing a nearby chandelier, Grim figures the orbs — the eyes, must be a good ten feet off the ground.

The eyes draw closer. The line becomes more defined, taller even, revealing the flames to be rows of sanguine teeth.

Grim feels for something on his left hip, but hears whimpers from his right. He grips Theo's arm to lessen his trembling.

"AH, BRENNOS! THERE YOU ARE!"

Manson walks past the duo, arms open.

A voice emerges from the lurking face. "Charles! Good to see you."

Stepping into the light, something emerges from the shadows.

A pink, slimy visage surrounds the eyes. It has the skull of a coyote, cleansed of all its flesh except for a thin film coating it. It sits atop a long, shaggy neck that freely hunches over. It’s composed of varying furs — suture marks can be seen patching them together.

The mysterious face seems to smile now, commanding a spindly and domineering body. Whatever other unspeakable things the body has inside it are concealed under rather refined clothes: a red dress shirt and pants, and a black collared vest with brass buttons down its left.

A book is clasped by the figure's massive wolf-like talons. They glisten wetly in the light.

Manson stands beside the ten-foot patchwork creature. The latter closes his book, bends his knees, and gives the skeleton a firm handshake.

"I'VE BROUGHT SOME CLIENTS ALONG WITH ME, I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND."

"Not at all."

"THAT ONE," he points to the figure in the straw hat, "IS ONE GRIM BLACKBURN, AND THE SHAKING SATYR HE'S CLUTCHING IS THEOXENIA TRISMEGISTUS."

"Ah, yes, you've told me about them. The ex-pirate and the aspiring musician." He approaches said musician. "I hear you prefer to go by 'Theo,' is that correct?"

Sputtering ensues.

"Ah, don't be so nervous, lad. Your horns don't bother me one bit."

Theo freezes.

"Would you all like a tour of my humble abode?"

"I THINK THAT WOULD BE IN ORDER."

Grim slowly nods his head.

"Splendiferous."

Brennos begins leading Mr. Manson down a left corridor, the others trailing behind. He begins a thorough discussion of the first item he sees — a shrunken head, hoisted to his right, said to hold the soul of the man it once belonged to.

Theo leans over towards Grim. "I think he's gonna kill me, dude."

"Not as long as I'm here."

He smiles at Grim, his lips quivering.

❊

Cacophony rebounds across the halls. Its source is a simple tea room, with Brennos and Manson chortling and patella-slapping. The two of them regale anecdotes of their "lives," happenings from centuries ago that lose some of their humor on the guests.

A fireplace roars in the background — the most light you'll find anywhere in the place. To the left lies a gallery, to the right a kitchen, and directly in front sits Brennos in his leathery armchair.

"You know, Charles, I could install one of these in your place."

Mr. Manson rattles.

"Really, it's no bother."

"THANKS, BUT NO. MY FLATSCREEN TV WORKS JUST FINE."

"Well, what about a cauldron?"

"SLOW COOKER."

"Magic orb?"

"DESKTOP COMPUTER."

"Oh, you make me feel like such a luddite sometimes!"

Grim fidgets with his coat. Theo stares into his empty teacup.

Brennos turns to the two. “So, tell me, how long have you two known each other?"

"About a year." Grim cautiously eyes his host.

"Good."

There's an awkward silence across the tea room. Brennos flashes a sanguine smile; Grim seems a little unnerved by it, so Brennos retracts. It's at this point Grim realizes Brennos hasn't moved his mouth at all — the words get beamed into his brain.

"Say, Charles, did you ever tell them about how we met?"

Before he can start, howling can be heard in the distance. Theo looks up from his teacup, eyes widened in concern.

"Ah, sounds like the tea's done." Brennos slowly rises to his full height. Theo starts bleating in panic — after trying to relax for the past ten minutes, he'd forgotten how tall his host was. Sitting to Theo's left, Grim taps him on the shoulder to get him to calm down. It doesn't work.

He moves his hand to his nape and quasi-massages his neck. The panicked bleating slows down; he breathes easier.

"YOU TWO HAVE AN INTERESTING RELATIONSHIP."

"Yes, but it's ours, and I'm glad to have it." Grim moves closer to Theo; the latter puts his head on the former's shoulder and bleats, this time happily.

Manson grins — not that he has much choice.

Brennos returns with the tea. He pours Theo and Grim cups. The former's hesitant at first, but messily takes a sip — less out of courtesy and more out of his love for herbal teas. It's quite a nice blend; the rest of the cup soon follows.

Grim notices the host pours himself a cup from a smaller kettle; he inquires.

"Oh, my friend, this is a drink for… very specific tastes. I'm certain if you tried it you'd regret it."

Grim highly doubts that — the man makes his cocktails with antifreeze, after all.

Manson and Brennos resume their recollections, some puns at the expense of a 'Governor Phips' here, wise-cracks about Puritan dogma there, and a passing mention about a Sikh vetala and a book club. Then Manson does an impression of some obscure minister that sends Brennos reeling.

As he laughs, a little spills from Brennos' cup. A crimson stain pools on the table.

Grim hovers over the spill.

Theo cocks his head. "…is that…?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Brennos pulls out a kerchief and wipes it up.

"Oh god." Theo puts a hand over his mouth.

"Down the hall, second door on your right."

He runs from the table.

Meanwhile, Grim hovers over Brennos' "tea"cup.

"I told you it was for specific tastes." He sips a little. "You look quite perturbed by it for a retired swashbuckler."

Grim stares at a painting opposite Brennos. "Have you ever seen the mountains outside Marrakesh?"

"In books, yes."

"You know how they transition from being a dried red on the bottom to pallid and snowcapped on the top?"

Brennos acknowledges.

"Every time I see… just any red, really… I'm reminded of those mountains.

"I'm reminded of seeing a pool of crimson, covering the hardened snow. Staining the jagged rocks. Draining the color from…” he winces “…skin. Taking with it, every last inch of warmth… flowing down to join the red rocks below.

"Even just seeing a crimson shirt hanging in a store makes me nauseous."

The void creature takes another sip. "Are you always so honest with gentlemen you've just met?"

"Not until lately." Grim sighs. "How do I put it…"

"YOUR BOY TOY HAS MADE YOU FEEL THINGS?"

Grim shoots Manson a glare that would make one's skin peel. It does what you would expect to someone with no skin.

"JUST A BIT OF HUMOR."

"You're not wrong, though." He resumes staring at the painting. He sighs. "I used to despise the undead, see them as affronts to the unyielding hand of God. And then, by a cruel twist of fate, I was forced to join them."

Putting his cup down, the sewn-together figure steeples his talons. "Do you know how Charles and I became what we are?"

"You just said it was some event in Massachusetts."

"Aye, but that's only part of the story. We used to be flesh and bone too. It was a rather… excuse me for a moment…"

Brennos turns to a cabinet behind him, rummaging through it. He pulls out a stone, clasps it in his hands, and concentrates. He seems to wince while doing so. When he opens his claw, the stone has been reduced to a glowing dust.

"An old trick from the Babylonians." He tosses the dust into the fire. "Observe."

Grim looks into the fireplace and watches its flames turn a vibrant green. It seems rather ordinary, all things considered… but he can't seem to look away from it-

In an instant, Grim sees a foreign vision in his head, a memory that is not his own, playing back as clear as crystal…

❊

Many people misconstrue what 'alchemy' is. It's not the search to turn lesser metals into gold; that's merely a side effect. The true goal of alchemy was mystical: to purify the self, to transmogrify oneself from an impure being of flesh and vice into a transcendent spirit.

To study the vibrations of the world, and pluck them with understanding, turning the universe into a perfect orchestra.

To alter one's own vibrations.

Witchcraft, traditionally, was seen as the innate ability to cause misfortune simply by willing it. Magic for malice, as it were.

But some, many who found themselves magically-inclined or curious — mystically inclined or curious — were targeted as "witches". The actions, the goals, the dreams — they didn't matter to the outsider; their strangeness was enough to warrant scapegoating.

The memory unfolds in a cramped house, wooden logs as its walls and a simple dirt floor. All manner of drawings and writings in scripts — Arabic, Latin shorthand, some bastard version of Greek — line the walls.

He sees a figure in the mirror — one covered with scars across its chest, scars it - he, knows to be from disgust, from a desire to become something different.

A body, a mind, a soul, torn from years of constant, minor degradation. Like a thousand arrows shot at the psyche. Insults from others; assaults from others; assaults from his own mind… and a growing desire to escape.

Today, there is no disgust. There's only excitement… a little fear, but eager anticipation overwhelms it.

A cloth covers a vaguely humanoid outline in another corner of the room.

The anticipation wells further. Various items line the desks here; crucibles and alembics, a bubbling cauldron, ashes, herbs familiar and exotic, not-so precious gems, animal skulls, talismans from within and without the New World…

He turns to see sigils inscribed into various loose-leaf pages and small discs. A wooden one sits forefront, destined to be an amulet.

Removing a rod from the fire of the cauldron, he burns a strange symbol into the disc, then submerges it in the cauldron.

He takes the amulet and… the memory gets blurry here, painful. When it returns, the amulet has been snapped in half; one half, he wears himself, the other, now placed onto the cloaked figure. Both seem to glow gently.

His excitement boils over — as does the cauldron. He takes a cupful from the cauldron, pipping hot, and drinks it, burning his throat in the process. He doesn't care. He takes another, and pours it into the cloaked figure.

Colors now seem more vibrant. He can feel his blood, his breath, his nerves — like winds, swirling about his body. He drinks more of the brew; the inner vision, the excitement grows stronger — blinding his awareness of what's unfolding outside.

The rituals that follow are a bit esoteric for most; still, the feeling of the winds becomes ever-present. They begin to coalesce in channels across the body.

It's exhilarating… it's chaotic… it's purifying…

He can feel a synergy, a connection, with a foreign channel mere feet away, as if a door is opening with a ruby red key.

Suddenly, his own door bursts down. A mob breaks in, armed with simple weapons, dressed in simpler clothes. The few that enter are baffled by the array of oddities. They utter prayers and complaints.

The strongest one of them grabs him by the shoulders, jostling his trance.

It's as if one's hand had been jarred in that very door. The connection splinters, shivers… the winds turn into typhoons around their channels… voices from before, from beyond, from within, are amplified a thousandfold. Dread rises from every pore.

He tries to fight back, thrashing his limbs, knocking his set to the floor. It's no use.

He gets dragged out by the mob. His vision is blurry, hazy, like a mirage. As he gets dragged further, he can see his house burning in the distance. He can make out a few faces in the crowd; most prominent, that of a buckle-hatted, mustached figure — a certain Charles Baldrick Manson III, Esquire, farmer and moral arbiter.

The connection still lingers. He tries desperately to re-enter the trance, to hold on to it for as long as possible. He feels sensations across his bodies ebb in-and-out. A soul cast between two homes, tethered to neither and longing for both…

Within moments, he now finds himself tied to a stake. A woman, a familiar voice, tries desperately to stop them, but it is of no use. She pleads before Manson; he is unperturbed.

He fades in-and-out of awareness, across bodies. He feels the other one grow warmer — a sign of progress?

He can barely hear the confident speech of the mob leaders as he tries to re-enter the trance. Suddenly, light begins to shine from below.

He thinks it's a good sign at first — the soul, finishing its migration!

He looks down — both bodies — to see that he's gravely wrong.

Flames pierce the skin like cuts from a red-hot sword. The smell of burning flesh is choked out only by the stench of the wood underneath.

Blood begins to boil underneath the skin. Joints bubble and explode. Bones can be heard crackling from the flames.

His body begins to feel numb all over, the pain unbearably dulling all his senses. He goes blind — either from the trauma, or from his eyes popping in their sockets.

The last thing he can see is the smiling face of Charles, taking a mirage-like transition into darkness. Swirling darkness, like the smoke of the flames.

There's a piercing ringing in the ears.

It slowly dampens as if it were going down a distant corridor, echoing as it departs.

The vision becomes filled with sparks.

The all-consuming pain slowly seeps, drains out. He can feel the winds withdraw from his body, heat coalescing, then dissolving from the heart…

Grim grips his chest, reflexively…

… pooling into something.

The vision gradually transforms, from the light of a moon-lit sky, to an ember-like reddish glow, to black voidness… finally, to a clear, blinding, calming light…

… it sits there for some time…

… he awakes to find himself in the ashes. Not on them, in them. He feels strangely free, fluid, like he could fly through mountains…

… and yet, he finds himself trapped in a black, bile-like form, pooled in and around what was once the stake.

It takes some time for his spirit to adapt to this liminal body — liminal being the loosest and yet closest fit term for what this is.

Two bead-like eyes form from the mental image of himself. The world no longer looks the same; ghosts and auras are now as clear as day, and the mundanities of life give way to the extraordinarities of the beyond.

Brennos' cool, cold, shadow-like body creeps its way out of the pile of smolders. It rolls itself into the direction of the town, to the direction of a certain manor, inhabited by a certain Mr. Manson…

❊

The memory ends. It felt like hours. It all flashes by in a minute's time.

"I had worked so long and hard to sculpt the perfect form, something I could feel confident in…" Brennos creaks, akin to a sigh. "I spent years learning to re-assemble myself, using what little magic I had left to survive."

Grim quietly, slowly nods.

"It took me some time to get to the form you see today. Most of the bodies and cadavers I tried to inhabit were failures from the start — too decayed, too weak, too small. I soon gave up on trying to become human again. Instead I built myself a body, the one you see before you now. One of flesh, fur, and bone. At first, I was disgusted by myself."

Grim says nothing.

He sips from his cup, teeth clacking ominously against it. "It took me some time to accept what I had become. And now, I've grown quite fond of this body of mine."

Grim still stares in the direction of the fireplace. Brennos creeps over; his cheeks seem wet with tears.

He extends a talon.

Grim turns.

"We all need help sometimes."

Grim grasps the claw. They do a quasi-handshake.

"Say, Charles and I have a little… coven, you might say, of undead friends that meet here. We're called the Cabaret. Would you like to join us?"

Grim looks down, thinking.

"There is no pressure to join, my good sir."

He thinks for a moment. "Well, only if I-" He turns in his chair. "Wait a second… my landlord is the man that killed you?"

"Indeed. I was quite miffed at the time. In a fit of rage, I went over to Manson while he slept, and put a hex on him. I spared his wife-"

"AND I MUST SAY, THANK YOU FOR SPARING HER."

"Why wouldn't I? She was the only one who stood up for me."

"VENGEANCE DOES STRANGE THINGS TO THE MIND."

"Very true. Regardless, that hex is what brought him to his current form as a walking skeleton."

Grim looks Brennos in the eyes. "The cycle of violence."

Brennos nods. "Ah, but how trivial it all looks in death." He points at Manson. "You accused me of witchcraft because I mentioned the possibility of rain, and it rained that day. You were correct, of course, but your reasons… quite absurd."

"TRUTH IS, I WAS JUST MAD BECAUSE I WAS PLANNING A PICNIC THAT DAY. OUR PASTRIES WERE RUINED."

"Ah, to put your fellow man to death over soggy pastries! How interesting those times were."

Manson hunches towards Brennos. "I'M AFRAID NOT MUCH HAS CHANGED IN THAT REGARD, TO THE MORTALS AT LEAST. QUITE SAD, REALLY."

"Yes, but at least the stake-burnings are metaphorical now instead of literal.”

"YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT THEY DO IN SUBSAHARAN AFRICA THESE DAYS. IT WOULD MAKE YOUR BILE-"

A metallic thud can be heard in the distance, followed by a yelp.

"Griiiim!"

Seconds later, Theo emerges from a corridor, a helmet from a Qing dynasty coat of armor rolling in behind him. He runs over to Grim, and buries his head into his shoulder. "I want to go home!"

He sobs profusely on the pirate's left side, tears trickling down his armless shoulder.

Grim looks over at his hosts. He turns back and puts a consolatory hand on Theo's shoulder.

The whimpers echo across the halls of the manor.

As the tears begin to lessen, Grim pats Theo on the shoulder, grabs him by the chin, and turns his head.

He sees Brennos there, taking on the posture of a plant that's begun wilting.

This ten-foot fleshwork creature, witch, daemon, whatever it is, seems… sad.

Theo gets the feeling that there's emotion there. Its mouth may be bony and menacing, and its eyes more like burnt embers than eyes, but it… he, seems just like him in a way.

He burrows his head back onto Grim to process.

Theo gets the sense that, somehow, Brennos is just as sad as him. He doesn't know it like Grim knows it, but he senses that somewhere, deep in those eyes, a mortal just like him once resided — still resides. A hopeful, excited — corrupted, mirror of himself.

"Alright, I understand. You two are free to leave." Brennos approaches a little. "But first — and, I must say, this is entirely your choice — I think I have something you might enjoy, Theo. Would you like to come see it?"

He sniffles. Picking his head off of Grim's shoulder, he grips his hand and looks him square in the eyes.

Grim nods slowly.

Theo turns and cautiously accepts, following behind Brennos and gripping Grim's hand.

They wind past corridors Brennos showed them prior — weapons, skulls, preserved viscera and the like — and enter one the group missed. It's filled with instruments; Theo is amazed by their diversity and age. He brightens up a little, pointing at the erhu and the mandolin and the qanun.

Brennos then pulls out a dust-covered box from beside a pipe organ. His claws wrap neatly around it, brushing the dust off in one stroke.

"I remember hearing you liked music. Is that so?"

"I live for music."

"Good, very good. I've always admired a musician's heart. It's similar to a witch's heart, in a way."

Brennos lowers himself to Theo's height. "Charles has been telling me of all the strange new ways everyone listens to music. When I was born, you could only hear music by playing it yourself or hearing someone else. Before the phonograph or the cassette-disc player or what-have-you, we had this."

He puts the box in Theo's hands. It's wooden, fairly dense, is about the size of a paperback novel, and has a painting of a forest scene on it.

"Go ahead, open it. It won't bite."

Theo cautiously lifts open the top. As he does, it begins playing a gentle tune. He can see the machinery inside — a spinning copper disc with holes punched into it, and a braided metal rod that sticks halfway across its length, dipping up-and-down with the grooves of the disc.

It's so old, so simple, and yet so intricate.

"That's… Clair de Lune.”

"Good ear."

Something about the music box's tune strikes a chord with Theo. The high-pitched, metallic strumming seems to take him back to a time before he was born; nostalgia for a faceless face, a placeless place. He sees the tree he was born under, his name not yet carved in its side.

He feels a pressure build from the side of his eyes, growing stronger with each high-note.

Tears once more stream down his face.

He lets it loop two or three times, before gently closing the box.

"It's yours if you want it, friend. A gift."

He sniffles. "Thank you." He puts the box beside him, wipes his eyes, and looks at Brennos down his comically small glasses.

Theo slowly smiles. He chuckles. "Sorry, dude. I think I forgot to introduce myself." He puts his left fingers on his chest and extends his right hand outwards. "Theo."

Brennos nods. "Brennos Lobhadh, at your service." He extends a hand, as if to shake.

Theo extends his hand upwards.

They stand silent for a few seconds, before Charles approaches Brennos and hushedly explains what a high-five is.

Brennos shrugs and complies, slapping his massive claws against Theo's frail hand. The satyr winces, grips his wrist and grits his teeth, trying to conceal the pain twelve pounds of talons hurdling at his palm conveyed.

Brennos looks concerned.

The satyr smiles back. He sticks his tongue out, playfully. "Don't worry, the last dude that did that became my boyfriend."

❊

The wolf-knockered door opens once more; this time, Theo and Grim walk mirthfully out of it, saying goodbye to their hosts.

Manson and Brennos stand in the doorway, waving back.

"Oh, Grim!"

Grim turns. Brennos gestures conversationally.

"My offer still stands. To join us, I mean. Here at the Cabaret. I think you would make a welcome addition. We share our collections"

"Only if he can come along." Grim nods toward the satyr beside him.

Brennos puts an inquisitive talon on his face. "Well, he's not quite undead… rather the opposite, really…"

"That's my offer. Take it or leave it."

Brennos shrugs. "I suppose a little life wouldn't hurt."

Theo opens the door with a rose carved into it. He waves as the couple say their final goodbyes.

"WAIT, HOLD O-"

The two of them exit the room, entering a shaded pathway nestled beside a dilapidated corridor. Grim holds in his hand double, Theo nothing.

"Remind me never to take you to Vegas."

Theo chuckles. "Remind me to never take you to Macau."

"Think I'd drain their casinos dry?"

"I don't want to have to break you out of a Chinese prison."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Grim ducks walking past a… gargoyle?

"You're a cheat."

"I don't cheat!"

They turn a corner, Theo's hands motioning past a poster written in some strange language. "Come on, dude, you even cheat in Monopoly."

"I do not!"

"I dunno, I don't think 'accepting aid from the East India Company' is in the game rules."

"They're called house rules!"

"…Grim?"

A giant statue of a woman on horseback, flanked by two paladins, stands before Theo, with "TRANDAFIR SI APOSTOLII EI" carved into the stone it sits on.

"I don't think we went through the right door…" ❊

6 notes · View notes

pennyellee · 4 months

Text

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐁 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐔 pairings: heartthrob!jk, yandere!jk x fashion employee f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: 14K beta read by @chaoticpuff17 (ily) masterlist

summary: You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?

warnings: minors dni 18+ | sexual tension, emotional distress, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, jk is selfish af, jk is delulu, oral (fem receiving), forced oral (m receiving) spanking, squirting, cum swallowing, creampie, yandere behaviour, obsessive behaviour, choking, rough sex, pussy pounding, bruises, manipulation, gaslighting, strong language, oppressiveness

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone.

author's note: so as I said in the preview, this did not go as planned but I really enjoyed writing this to the point that I might do a part 2, perhaps 3, but we'll see about that. JK is delulu af here and the reader does not think through everything. For those who did not read preview and came upon this just now - originally what i wanted to build around was how Rachel Green from Friends was offered a job at Louis Vuitton but it was in Paris and Ross did not want her to go - that was supposed to be the whole plot (with slight changes ofc), well and somehow it went a bit darker than i intended so instead of rom-com, i'd rather listed it as dark romance and yandere. Hope you'll enjoy it! Love, always.

1996

“He said what now?!” The sentence burst out of you with a high-pitched tone, nearly causing your latte to spill all over your pristine white blouse and grey blazer. Not exactly the ideal way to kick off a new month, you mused as your friend dropped the bombshell about a certain someone.

“That you’re the future mother of his children,” said your friend, an amused smirk playing on her face. “I seriously don’t know how you can still resist him, girl.” But resist him, you did.

Jeon Jungkook was undoubtedly one of the most sought-after and sexiest heartthrobs of the decade, possessed the best face card in the industry and carried the biggest ego in all of New York City. You could vividly recall the day he strolled inside of your office with the head of your department. A cocky, playful grin plastered on his face the moment his eyes landed on you.

Right from the very beginning, you made it crystal clear to Jungkook that your relationship would be strictly professional during your collaboration on the Calvin Klein project. He was given his own collection of men’s wear, and the job to work with him fell upon you.

You knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you to elevate your standing within the fashion circle. Jeon Jungkook’s fame was immense, and your name would be signed on the collection too. It’s not like you are head over heels that your name would be associated specifically with Jeon Jungkook, but you understood right away that this could put you on the radar. Your boss had even hinted at the possibility of a higher position within the department.

He constantly teased you, flirted shamelessly, and crossed boundaries by touching you as if you were his girlfriend. It was wildly inappropriate, especially given that the two of you had never even gone out for a work dinner or lunch alone. There were always other people from the team, and yet he always managed to find a way to sit right next to you. But it seems Jungkook was still living in an illusion where you were his girlfriend.

Your gaze shifted to the majestic Twin Towers, standing proudly in the distance, as you let out an annoyed puff of air.

“He’s ridiculous,” you finally declared.

“Or cute,” countered your friend, opposing your viewpoint. She found this pseudo-relationship with Jungkook amusing, but a small part of her secretly wished you’d just give in and go out with him. It was quite some time since you were in a relationship, and Jeon Jungkook would definitely be a nice catch. You were not interested. Or you tried to persuade others that you aren’t.

“No, ridiculous,” you retorted again, lips pursed, and brows furrowed.

“Oh, come on, give him a chance finally!!” she exclaimed.

“Absolutely not! He’s egoistic, manipulative, a cocky little bastard with damn good hair,” you said, your tone rising as you reached your final proclamation, which had simply slipped out of your mind that way.

“See? One good thing — good hair. Marry him,” she laughed it off.

“Now you’re being ridiculous, and I’m going to be late for work.” You said while dusting your black skirt, grabbing your purse, and leaving a few bucks for the coffee. The song on the radio stopped your departure for a moment, listening to the familiar voice coming from it, you rolled your eyes.

“That’s a clear sign, Y/N. Give it a chance!” she called after you, and you couldn’t help but throw a side eye her way, though a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips nonetheless.

As the day passed, you found yourself increasingly entangled in the whirlwind of meetings, fittings, and photoshoots with an ever-present Jungkook. The photoshoots, in particular, became a source of both frustration and amusement. However today, a bigger problem surfaced.

“Why’s he half-naked, Lucy?!” You hissed at your assistant. Normally, you are very kind and respectful to everyone, but Jungkook had managed to irk you the moment you stepped into your office, finding him already seated in your chair with that smirk you despised. Bringing a coffee for you, which you never drink, or donuts that you always share with the department - not eating one yourself.

Jungkook, adorned in the latest Calvin Klein designs you two had meticulously crafted together, claimed a personal touch of his persona— at least, that’s how he described it. He looked effortlessly handsome, the camera adoring him, but what grated on your nerves was that his attention was solely focused on teasing you.

“We also have shirts, why is he not wearing one?!” You continued, expressing your disagreement to what was before you. What angered you even more was that you could not stop staring at his abs.

“We shot with shirts earlier. They said the underwear and jeans will appear more artistic if his V line and abs—”

“Alright! Alright!” You stopped her in mid-sentence. You didn’t want to look that way nor you didn’t want to admit that showcasing his V-line would enhance the aesthetics of the jeans. Therefore, you took a deep breath and walked towards the refreshments, you were in need of a second cup of coffee.

You heard the photographer call for a break, but you were focused on calming yourself with a steaming cup of coffee. Despite your irritation, you couldn’t deny that he looked breath-taking in the outfits you had designed, and it infuriated you.

Suddenly, two arms were laid flat on the table’s surface, caging you in between. You could imagine his devilish grin. He did this way too often, whether it was his fingers lightly tracing your arm or tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, looking intently into your eyes until you were fighting yourself to not get lost in his Bambi eyes.

“We’re almost done for today,” he whispered seductively into your right ear, his lips almost touching it. Your breath stammered.

“And yet you did not learn a single thing about professionalism or work ethic.” You bit sarcastically, turning slowly to face him.

Jungkook’s grin only widened at your remark, and you couldn’t decide whether you were infuriated or slightly flustered by his audacity. He leaned in even closer, his breath grazing your ear as he spoke in a low, husky tone.

“Tutor me then, in bedroom — preferably” he suggested, his lips still dangerously close to the shell of your ear.

“I don’t think so. You’re beyond help,” you shot back, trying to assert control over the situation. His proximity was distracting, and you couldn’t afford to let him undermine the fact that you were in charge.

Jungkook continued to hover over you, the photographer calling for everyone to regroup for the next set of shots. You seized the opportunity to escape his magnetic pull, smoothly slipping out from between the table and his arms, deciding to escape to your humble office, seeking solace in the calmness it provided.

It wasn’t long before the shoot officially ended, and you knew damn well, that the man wouldn’t leave you alone. The door creaked open, and you turned to find Jungkook leaning against the frame, that infernal smirk still etched onto his face.

“We did a good job, why don’t we celebrate it over at my place, baby?” he complimented, but there was an undertone of something else in his voice. You overlooked his physique and leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes, making a clicking sound with your tongue.

“Jungkook, again, this was a professional collaboration. Nothing more,” you asserted, emphasising each word. If you did not say this sentence at least a hundred times you don’t know. He never takes it seriously; it appears as he is still trying to hammer his way into your guarded heart.

He pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered closer. “We’ll see about that,” he said, leaving you with a cryptic grin as he exited your office. The only thing you could do is sigh.

Before you went to continue working, you heard how Jungkook’s voice echoed from the hallway.

“I bet I can change your mind, sweetheart!”

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath.

“Not a chance.”

The denim collection with Jungkook was taking shape, and the buzz surrounding the collaboration grew with each passing day. A success, your boss was much more than pleased.

This success, however, meant even more for you. You were on cloud nine, basking in the glory of your hard work and the prospect of a ground-breaking partnership. Totally, forgetting to play unreachable when it came to the clinging boy who starred in this iconic collaboration. And that must have given him a false hope, perhaps a narrative in which you were his girl.

You were sitting in your office when you hung up the telephone after speaking with the vice president of Guess that contacted you earlier last week, offering you a part in a project for their brand, in Los Angeles. A dream come true for you. Leaving this place, after years of building your career from scratch, felt overwhelming. You loved working under Klein, yet it was time for you to take it higher. Your boss did not offer you a new position, and therefore, you did not hesitate to take the job opportunity and elevate yourself in fashion ranks.

It was an offer too tempting to resist, and you found yourself diving headfirst into the project, not even looking at the door when someone stepped in without knocking.

“You may leave the reception reports on the table, Lucy,” you said once feeling a presence in your office, not raising your eyesight from your computer, writing the prompts for the project Guess wants you to lead. Your twelve days’ notice already printed out, ready to be signed by your boss. You planned to stop by his office after you would finish writing the draft and sending it to the Guess team together with the copy of your portfolio that you needed to make before you leave.

When there were no reports left on your table after a good long minute, you looked up.

“You can’t just leave.” he said, standing tall in the frame of the door, stepping inside once you finally gave him your attention. You could sense a hint of desperation and anger in his voice.

You raised your brows at him. How does he know? The mere thought of you leaving for LA, leaving him behind, was enough to make him confess the depth of his feelings.

You leaned to the leather armchair and listened to him closely.

“What are you talking about Jungkook?” His eyes betrayed a mix of anxiety and vulnerability as he blurted out his fears.

“What about us? What about everything we’ve built together?” He stepped closer to your desk, looking directly to your eyes. You were taken aback by the raw emotion in his words. The air in the room thickened.

The once-confident man now stood vulnerable before you, stripped of the bravado that had defined him. And you were utterly confused and surprised how delusional this man is.

“What are you even saying, Jungkook?” you questioned, your tone a mix of confusion and frustration.

“You can’t leave me!” He raised his voice an octave higher.

“Calm your tits. I’m a grown-up woman. I can do what I want.” You sassed back at him, tired of this made up situation-ship in his head. He scoffed, a bitter smile playing on his lips.

“We’ve built something special, and I can’t watch it crumble because of some job offer!” He continued his rampage. You took a moment to breathe his words in, closing your eyes and counting to ten to calm yourself.

“Jungkook, I appreciate your honesty, but I can’t give you what you’re asking for.” This caught him by surprise. Instead of screaming at him, you chose to play the I’ll stay calm and professional card.

His eyes widened in disbelief, a mix of confusion and hurt clouding his features. “What do you mean?”

Choosing your words carefully, you said: “I genuinely value this project we worked on together, but it’s time for us to part our ways.” To fool him was your goal.

Jungkook’s shoulders slumped, the weight of your words settling upon him. “Who are you lying to, Y/N?” His words shocked you.

“I’m not lying Jungkook, I’m telling you the truth to your face, as you were too stubborn to hear it before.” You stood up from your chair, moving to lean on the front of your desk, to show him he cannot get to you.

The room fell into a heavy silence as Jungkook looked deep into your eyes, searching for the truth in your words.

“So, it’s all about the career for you? You’re willing to sacrifice everything else, including us?” Your jaw clenched, but you maintained your composed façade and with flaring nostrils and clenched teeth, you spoke.

“There is no us, Jungkook. Get it into your head already!” So much for being calm. The room crackled with tension as the argument reached an impasse. Jungkook shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“I can’t believe you’re throwing away what we have because of some job.” Your eyes widened even more and the fact he would not listen boiled your blood.

“Do I need to spell it out for you? I’m not your girlfriend! I was never your girlfriend, and I will never be your girlfriend!”

But Jungkook wasn’t ready to accept defeat. His frustration reached a boiling point too, and without warning, he grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you into an intense, angry kiss. It was a clash of emotions, a tumultuous blend of passion and anger that fuelled the fiery exchange.

Your initial instinct was to resist, to push him away, but the intensity of the kiss ignited a different kind of fire within you. His lips moved fiercely against yours, gripping your ass in his hands, making you moan to his lips. Your hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the dishevelled locks as the kiss deepened, your frustration causing to tug them. He growled from pleasure at the sensation.

It was a collision of lips and tongues, a heated exchange that spoke volumes without a single word. Once his hands disappeared under your skirt and the heat intensified, a sudden surge of clarity washed over you, breaking the intoxicating spell.

With a forceful push, you broke away from the kiss, creating a space between you and Jungkook. You locked eyes with him, your chest heaving as you struggled to regain control of the situation.

“I need you to leave,” you stated, your voice cutting through the lingering tension, you leaned against the desk, your heart still racing from the intensity of the moment.

Jungkook, still caught in the haze of desire, tried to close the distance again, but you held up a hand, halting his advance.

“Leave!” You growled, turning your back to him. You didn’t want him to see your face anymore, because soon enough, tears would break from your eyes. You’re overwhelmed.

A loud bang of the door signalled that he finally understood and left. Breaking down with tears streaming down your cheeks you gasped for air. Tears blurred your vision as you struggled to regain composure.

You’ve counted to ten again, wiping your tears. You felt taken advantage of. He went too far this time. But this was only the beginning of his tremulous and wicked plan he had for you.

You packed your purse, ready to leave your office, you just needed to grab your work portfolio that you needed to send over to Guess. But the space it always inhabited, on the conference table, was empty. And you had one lucky guess who the thief was. “Fucking bastard.”

In the days that followed, the chaos in your personal and professional life escalated. The stolen portfolio, a representation of your work, became a haunting absence. As if the life source of your hard work was cut down.

Determined to salvage what remained of your career, you began the arduous task of recreating it. But time was not on your side, and as you delved into the meticulous process, news of your termination from Calvin Klein reached you like a punch to the gut.

The phone call was impersonal, a cold voice delivering the news of your dismissal as if reading from a script. Some Jack from the HR department spoke to you, someone you have never ever seen in the building whatsoever. Your boss did not even pick up the call when you wanted to ask what made them push the decision to let you go. You certainly did not deserve this after years of working for the brand. The reasons were vague and you knew this had to source from someone powerful. In simple terms, someone snitched that you’re planning to leave.

As the reality of unemployment settled in, you clung to the remnants of optimism that lingered, but even that proved elusive.

You were hundred percent sure that he is trying to sabotage your whole life when the call from Guess, a reason you did not fight for your position at Klein’s delivered another blow.

Their decision not to collaborate with you crushed the remnants of optimism that clung to your spirit. The dream that had seemed within reach now slipped through your fingers, leaving you in a free fall of uncertainty.

They hadn’t even granted you the courtesy of waiting for your portfolio, even though it wouldn’t be what they expected. Whatever oral agreement had been in place disintegrated. So here you are — jobless.

All this left you reeling with disbelief. The career you had meticulously built, the dreams that had taken years to nurture, all unravelling at the seams. The pain was visceral, a mix of frustration, anger, and a profound sense of betrayal.

You were certain that Jeon Jungkook himself was pulling the strings behind the scenes. And you hated him for it, needed to confront him and say that shit with your chest right to his face— he can go fuck himself. Set the record straight once you’re there.

Whatever he was thinking by ruining your career will force you to do, he better fix it before you’ll sing to the media about his bunny smile and kind heart being all fake. The line had been crossed, and he would face the consequences of pushing you to the brink. Or so you thought it would go how your brain delusional thought it through.

Hence, with a heavy heart and a determination to confront the chaos head-on, you stood before the front door of his infamous penthouse. Emotions swirling within you like a tempest.

With a deep breath, you knocked, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway. The door swung open, revealing Jungkook’s bunny smile reaching his eyes.

“Well, well well, are we ready to talk like adults, pretty?” He mocked this whole situation because he knew this would end up in his favour, nonetheless.

He moved back to let you in, and you stepped into his apartment, a mixture of anger and desperation in your gaze.

“I know you took it,” you said, crossing your arms on your breasts. The heels of your black leather boots echoed in the apartment when you turned to face him.

“Took your breath away by that heated kiss, sexy, certainly. Otherwise, I did not take anything.” Jungkook scoffed, crossing his arms defensively. The tension in the room was palpable as you square your shoulders, refusing to back down. You blinked twice at his cheesiness. The tip of your tongue moved to rest on the bottom of your upper teeth, your smile spreading on your face. The chuckle came out of you so naturally, laughing at his ridiculously ridiculous behaviour.

“Don’t play dumb, I know it was all you. You malicious sabotaging petty boy—” You retorted, articulation perfectly clear while the words laced with underlying frustration and anger.

He sighed, weariness settling over him. “You think I stole your portfolio to sabotage your career? You’re giving me too much credit, love.” Here he comes.

“I said nothing about my portfolio, Jungkook.” You said playing with his name on your tongue. A tense silence hung in the air as he considered your words, clicking his tongue, clearly annoyed and you were just getting started.

“I managed to figure that out. A drink? —” He offered, shrugging her statements of like snow in summer whilst he moved to the small bar that was a part of his spacious living room.

“I don’t want a drink, Jungkook. I want it back now,” you replied, your tone cutting through the casual offer. The anger in your gaze intensified, fuelled by the frustration of dealing with his nonchalant attitude.

“Let’s talk, baby.” He gestured towards the living room, as if trying to usher you into a more comfortable setting for the impending confrontation. He knew this was just a little shower, the real storm was still far away, giving him space to prepare.

As you moved, you could not help but notice the contrast between your demeanour and his. While your arms were still crossed defensively, his posture exuded a calm confidence that irked you further.

You took a seat on the edge of the sofa, not willing to fully settle into the illusion of camaraderie. Jungkook, on the other hand, sprawled onto a nearby chair, the picture of nonchalance.

“I need that portfolio to get a job because a certain someone has to be bitchy and sabotage my whole career because his big ass ego cannot take rejection. Give it to me,” you fired off, your words sharp and accusatory. He leaned back in the chair, smirking.

“Those are very bold words, Y/N. I would prefer to think of it as a wake-up call for you, not sabotage.” Your incredulous glare only intensified.

“Are you fucking serious Jungkook? A wake up call? You’ve just jeopardised everything I’ve worked for, and you’re calling this a wake up call?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locked onto yours.

“I can get you a better job.”

You scoffed. The audacity of his response fuelled the simmering anger within you.

“You can’t get a shit, so give it back to me, and I’ll be on my way,” you requested.

Jungkook’s smirk remained, an infuriating mix of arrogance and nonchalance.

“No,” he said, smiling. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, the frustration reaching a boiling point. He leaned back, seemingly unperturbed by your rising anger.

“What do you mean no?!” you shot back, your voice sharp.

“You were about to make a decision that would have consequences beyond your imagination. I had to intervene.”

“What the fuck are you on again?” Jungkook’s gaze remained fixed on you, the intensity of his stare almost unnerving while your voice went an octave higher. Your frustration reached its peak, and you stood up, pacing the room as you ranted. You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself.

You needed that portfolio, it was a collection of years of a work and your best work to be specific. The lousy new version won’t get you a job at no high-profile fashion brand and you cannot afford to go lower than your last position.

“Alright—” You said defeated, turning yourself to face him again, you put off your black leather jacket and fixed your low ponytail, slumping back to his sofa. Spreading your arms on the backrest and cross your legs.

Jungkook took a moment to breathe in the sight before him; he was throbbing for you.

“—what do you want?” you asked. He leaned back further into the chair, putting his masculine tattooed arms to rest on the back of his head, showing his abs from under the white tank top he is wearing.

“What do I want?” he mused, as if contemplating the question but he already knew.

“Spill it out.” You barked and he chuckled at your eagerness. He got up from his seat and dangerously slowly walked towards you.

When he reached you, both of his arms pressed to the leather of the sofa inches from you, caging your body. Your breath stammered as you looked at him towering over you, the golden chain around his neck hanging.

“Firstly, I want you to be my good girl, apologise for being a brat the other day and admit there is an “us”. Secondly—” he whispered seductively, closing the approximate distance while doing so. He was right in your face, looking over at your lips evidently, he was controlling himself to not attack them. He invaded your personal space. The sudden shift in atmosphere left you breathless, and you could feel the heat radiating between you.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to succumb to the intoxicating energy he exuded. “I won’t apologise for any shit, now secondly?” You said while trying to hold your horses. You hate to admit your pussy was clenching and leaking under his gaze. He was attractive, and no one could deny that.

His fingers grazed your cheek gently, a teasing touch that sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You swallowed hard, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

“I want these feisty little plump lips wrapped around my thick cock—” you pushed him away from you once you heard his words. Grabbing your jacket and storming your way out to the door, angry with yourself that you let it go this far.

“You walk out that door, and you’re done in this city, fuck even the whole continent if I want,” Jungkook declared, his tone heavy with a sense of entitlement. The words hung in the air, a threat laced with possessiveness that sent a chill down your spine.

“You’re bluffing.” His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths.

“You’re underestimating the consequences, Y/N. I’ll snap my fingers, and you won’t get a job. Anywhere.” A bitter laugh escaped your lips. You did not believe him one bit, determined to try harder at the job hunting.

“You’ve already done enough. You can’t do worse.” You scoffed, the absurdity of his demands pushing you further away. He stepped closer, the air thick with tension.

“You’re not leaving, Y/N. Either you’ll be my good girl and apologise, or all it will take is one phone call.” As you reached for the doorknob, he grabbed your arm with a force that bordered on aggression.

“I am my own woman, Jungkook.” Your eyes flashed with determination as you wrenched your arm free, emphasising every word of the sentence you just uttered.

With that, you swung the door open and stormed out, leaving Jungkook’s apartment and the tumultuous mess behind. The city lights greeted you outside, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere within.

Your telephone remained eerily silent, devoid of the calls and opportunities that once filled it with promise. Jungkook’s vindictiveness had effectively severed the threads connecting you to your professional life, leaving you adrift in a sea of uncertainties.

A tear escaped your eye as you clutched the piece of paper you fetched out of your mailbox — an eviction notice. You had fallen behind on rent, pleading with your landlord for more time, promising to pay in full for two months once you secured a job. But that ended up not happening, and that’s how you find yourself sitting in a messy apartment full of half packed boxes, no job, little money left, and a bottle of cheap wine.

Moving in with friends or seeking refuge with your parents was not an option. They never supported your dreams enough to provide for you in such dire circumstances, especially at your age. Unmarried, jobless, and on the brink of homelessness, you felt trapped.

Despite your efforts to secure another job, including poorly recreating parts of your portfolio, rejections piled up, and the search for a new apartment proved equally futile. Not like you could afford it anyway.

The city that once held promise now felt like a maze of closed doors and dead ends. The mere thought of dialling his number sent a shiver down your spine, a conflicting mix of pride and necessity wrestling within you.

You drank the last of your wine, hiccupped, and cried. With only twenty-four hours to vacate your flat for the new tenant to come in. The friends you once thought you could rely on were facing their own struggles, unable to provide the sanctuary you so desperately needed. You had nowhere to go apart to his clutches if you of course did not want to freeze to death in the bustling city. It confused you how it came to having no other option.

Taking a deep breath, you dialled his number, each ring echoing the surrender of your independence. The telephone rang in your trembling hand. As the call connected, a heavy silence hung in the air and you desperately tried to calm your breathing.

“Jeon speaking,” his voice crackled through the phone. You were shaking in cold sweat, your eyes blood red from crying and alcohol clouded your mind enough to call him.

“Hello?” you heard his voice speak again, and another sob left your lips. The lump in your throat made it difficult to speak, but you pushed through the discomfort.

“I-I’m sorry.” The man on the other line smirked, seemingly thrilled to hear your voice. The next sentence you uttered, however, was even sweeter music to his ears.

“I need you.”

You heard his car park in front of your building the next morning. The boxes were long gone on their way to the heart of Manhattan where Jungkook’s penthouse awaited. It was only you and your suitcase with only necessities packed inside. The reality of the situation hit you as you looked around at the empty apartment. The purple walls, once full of pictures from trips with your friends, were now bare. The fridge stripped of silly magnets you liked to collect, stood empty. Nothing left.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped the handle of your suitcase with a sense of resignation. You glanced out of the window on your way out, finding Jungkook casually leaning against his shiny black Jaguar, smiling directly at you. Closing your eyes, you mentally said goodbye to your small apartment.

Your hair, lazily put into a hair clip when you woke up, had a few stray strands escaping, framing your face that still showed signs of swelling from crying all night.

As you stepped out into the hallway, the door closing behind you, the weight of the suitcase in your hand served as a physical reminder of the choice you had made. Is this really your only option?

The sound of Jungkook’s footsteps echoed in the corridor, approaching closer with each passing second. He ran up the stairs just as you were locking the door. His gummy smile met your gaze, a clear expression of his happiness. The heartthrob had finally gotten you where he wanted you all along.

He was dressed in a denim jacket and jeans from the collection you worked on. As if he was intent on reminding you of something. His long curly locks were gone, replaced by a short mullet.

You, on the other hand, did not feel to dress classy and elegant as you usually did. You swapped heels for a pair of white sneakers, a tight designer skirt for simple blue boyfriend jeans and your upper body was covered by a white shirt layered with a pink shirt you loosely tight on your waist, leaving the buttons half open.

“Baby?” he called out. You must’ve zoned out, as now he was holding your suitcase in his hand, ready to leave.

“M’sorry, I was in my head,” you apologised. You didn’t want to upset him by negatively reacting to the pet name even though you irked to tell him you’re not his baby.

He smiled softly, putting the suitcase down, walking over to you. He caressed your cheek, leaning in for a kiss. Turning your face, he landed his lips on your other cheek. The man chuckled and put the freed strands of your hair behind your ear. “Don’t worry. I got you now.”

The drive to Jungkook’s penthouse was filled with an uncomfortable silence as the city lights passed by in a dizzying display.

“Welcome home!” The words hung in the air, the irony not lost on you. This was far from a home; it was a gilded cage you succumbed to. You did not answer him. You couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

He was saying something about a closet, but your mind totally spaced out looking at the boxes that you packed hours prior, casually sitting in his living room.

“Baby?” You looked at him, eyes wide when you realised you were not listening to him again.

“Do you want to start unpacking or should we head out for brunch first?” He approached you. Jungkook did not stop smiling since he pulled his car in front of your building.

Unpacking felt like an acceptance of this new reality, while brunch felt like an attempt to hold onto some semblance of normalcy.

“I... I think we should talk,” you finally managed to say, your voice carrying the uncertainty that lingered within. Jungkook’s smile wavered for a moment, but he quickly masked it.

You couldn’t ignore the fact that your life had taken a sharp turn, and the unfamiliar surroundings only intensified the sense of displacement. Jungkook threw himself at his sofa just where you were sitting months prior. He motioned with his hand, silently ordering you to sit.

“I promise not to bother you long. I just need you to get me off the blacklist so I can get a job. I can’t be tied to you indefinitely.” You spoke softly, careful to not anger him just yet. You knew he wouldn’t appreciate the direction this conversation was heading, but you needed to set the record straight. This was temporary, at least in your mind.

Jungkook’s expression shifted, a subtle tension in his features. He sighed. Leaning forward, Jungkook grabbed the remote control of the HiFi that was standing proud, setting it on, and whence the soft tones of Isaak’s “Wicked Game” resonated the penthouse, you could not help but raise an eyebrow.

He petted his knee, a silent invitation. You were not stupid to not understand what he wants, yet you opted to sit next to him instead of where he wanted you.

“Maybe we got lost in translation, love.” He spoke leaning closer to you. The music seemed to underscore the unspoken tension in the room.

“You won’t leave me, baby. I’ll keep you so satisfied and happy; you won’t even want to go.” He whispered to your ear. The atmosphere became charged with a palpable desire. His proximity sent a shiver down your spine, a conflicting mix of temptation and resistance.

“You can’t keep me here against my will, Jungkook,” you asserted, maintaining a thin thread of defiance. Yet, the allure of his touch lingered in the air, clouding your better judgement.

“Try me, love. I’ve got ways to make you stay,” he countered, his tone dripping with confidence.

It took all you have in you to stand up and storm to the large windows that provided a magnificent view of Manhattan. This time, however, he was right behind you.

You heard him growl. He was angry, and he proved so once you found yourself pinned to the large window, your back facing him. He attacked your neck right away, bruising every single inch. His hand roamed over your breast, squeezing them to the point you had to moan. The situation escalated rather quickly, your resistance made him press you to his back even harder.

“I’m so tired of your running,” he groaned into your neck. You put your hands on the glass trying to push yourself away and give yourself space to free from his grasp, but he has put a majority of his weight on you. You can feel his growing pulsating bulge on your heart-shaped bottom.

“Maybe I should show you, who you belong to, princess.” He cupped your sex through your pants, and you whimpered from the sensation. You knew this was utterly wrong; you should not react to his touch this way, but you couldn’t help to notice the wetness pooling in between your legs once he continues to attack your neck with his soft plump lips.

“Jungkook-” You tried to resist, but his hand was already done with unbuttoning your jeans, sliding right down to your core. Your panties were sticky, your head was spinning, and the part of a window was getting foggy right next to your mouth from your hot breath.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good.” He pulled his hand out of your pants for a second to wet his fingers and put them right back on the little bud that was waiting to be touched. He pressed his fingertips on your clit, circling it painfully slow. The heartthrob rutted his hips into your ass, looking for a friction, making you move your hips towards his hand. He chuckled to your ear.

“If you want that job, baby, why don’t you deserve it first?” you could sense a little hint of mockery in his voice. The pulsating beats of the music seemed to echo the rhythm of his movements. Now slow and calculated.

As the song reached its crescendo, his finger entered your vibrating heat. “Hm?” He pried, his finger moving in and out in punishingly slow, drawing silent moans from you when he brushed up the right spot.

“W-what do you want?” You stammered out of yourself.

“You. All of you of course.” Jungkook replied in a heartbeat. Your heart raced and your head was clouded by the pleasure he was providing. Moving his finger slightly faster, you found yourself bowing forward, your body wanted him to reach deeper.

“Please—” you whimpered when he slowed down the tempo again.

“Give me an answer baby, will you be my good girl?” Now it was your mind that raced, grappling with the implications of his question while squeezing your walls around his finger.

“Maybe you need a little more convincing, hm?” He softly bit your earlobe whilst inserting his second finger into your heat, making you moan louder than before. You pressed your forehead onto the glass and looked down at his hand in between your legs. The sight made your pussy clench even harder. A small tear escaped your eye, you are overwhelmed, and the pleasure is clouding your sound judgement.

“What will it be, baby?” His fingers finally raised the tempo, and your eyesight was getting blurry, biting your lip from the sensation.

“Fuck—” you nibbed at your bottom lip a bit harder, trying to fight with yourself. But you couldn’t. He was playing a game, and he was winning this round.

“Yes!” you screamed louder than you intended when he hit the sweet spot, making you see stars. You did not necessarily want to agree. It was more of a reaction to how good his fingers feel inside of you. But Jungkook’s interpretation did not align with yours.

What you did not expect is the sudden feel of emptiness once his fingers abdicated its place. You protested with an unpleasant whine of frustration.

He spun you to face him, being quick enough to grab you below your ass, illocutionary forcing you to jump up. Jungkook leaned in to kiss you while he navigated the apartment blindly, right to the master bedroom.

Now you were feeling thrown. Literally. Your body bounced a little while Jungkook stood at the foot of his king sized bed adorned in black sheets. You could smell his expensive cologne on them. He was very eager to continue what you started.

His shirt was long gone and so were his pants when he was pulling down yours, alongside with your through-and-through wet panties. He very quickly inhabited his head in between your legs. Licking all the dirty juice your pussy was producing.

You could not help but to bury your fingers into his hair, slightly tugging on it once he decided to abuse your clit, sucking on it, his piercing cold against your skin. You were starting to feel the knot inside your lower belly, moaning and panting out loud.

“I’m gonna!—” you breathed out heavily. Squeezing your eyes shut, feeling the heat rushing your body.

“Not yet,” said the heartthrob, parting away from you. You shot your eyes open to look at him towering over you, his briefs thrown away somewhere in the room, and his pride leaning proudly against his abdomen, angry and red. The perfect opposite of soft. You gulped down. He was definitely not lying when he suggested he is thick.

The heartthrob helped you get rid of the rest of your clothes, bending down to lay a single kiss right above your clit, maintaining eye contact with you all the time. Sticking his tongue out yet again, making a straight wet line up your belly, ending at the valley between your breasts.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He groaned, squeezing your tits while pumping his dick, he could not take it anymore.

He spread your legs further, making space for him to fit right in. Your walls are trembling from excitement, especially when he presses the length of his cock to your lips, coating himself in your juices.

“Condo—” you went to say when his lips silenced you in a hard passionate kiss. He moaned to your mouth, pressing the tip of his cock to your entrance, stretching you open. You pressed your hands to his chest, parting away from him. He looked at you with confusion and you repeated yourself.

“Condom, Guk,” you said, using the nickname in an attempt to soften his hard features. Something told you that you might have just pissed him off. The heartthrob sighed and involuntarily got up, walking all the way to the bathroom, giving you a million-dollar view of his ass. Your gaze then shifted to his muscular shoulders, involuntarily admiring his impressive physique. You couldn’t deny he was hot as hell.

Your nipples were perky from the thrill that your body was going through. It was quite some time since the last you got laid. Maybe that’s why it took him minimum effort to turn you into a whiny, needy little bitch.

You heard the light switch going off in the bathroom, and the man himself appearing in the doorframe with the little shiny square in his hands. Tearing it open, he returned to sit on his knees on the bed while sliding the condom on.

He grabbed your legs under your knees with one swift movement, sliding you closer to him. One hand aiming his cock to your entrance the other finding its place on your throat, holding it with the right pressure to elevate your pleasure. Pushing all the way through, you whimpered loudly at the intrusion. He was big, and you felt like you’re going to explode. The heat rushed through you like a momentary fever.

The heartthrob could not wait for you to adjust to his size, and he started to snap his hips into you in a punishing tempo, making your body bounce up at every thrust and clench your eyes shut tightly. Loud moans coming out of you.

“You take me so well, baby.” He whispered into your ear seductively, panting and groaning from the pleasure. He was on cloud nine, finally having the woman he longed for quite some time.

“Got me waiting for this pussy almost the whole damn year.” You met his hungry gaze, your moaning synchronised with his. He crushed his lips to yours one more time before thrusting his cock in and out of your heat faster and deeper.

You bit down on his lip, him groaning at the sensation, slapping your ass in the heat of the moment.

“This pussy was fucking designed for me.” He claimed you.

He was hitting all the right places, making you squeeze your eyes shut again. He upheld his promise to fuck you good. You can regret this after, now it’s not the time.

“M’wanna pound this pretty ass too.” He pulled out of you, turning you to lay on your belly, slapping the already reddened skin before setting you on all fours, ass up. He did not hesitate to rut inside of you again, feeling him all the way in your stomach, you screamed his name.

“Jungkook!” his thrusts set a brutal pace that you were not sure if you’ll survive. Their moans continued to echo in the room.

“You belong to me.” He growled, pounding your pussy, the sound of skin slapping was audible ten times louder than usual. The knot in your lower belly appeared again, got you moaning uncontrollably.

Jungkook sensed that your climax was near and went to rub your clit with the desire to make you cum all over him while getting himself off with you.

“Guk—” you choked on your words, your legs and hands were trembling, tears springing out of your eyes. You desperately needed to cum.

“I know, baby.” He kissed the arch of your back, making his hand and hips move even faster, hitting your cervix. If this is heaven, you don’t want to leave.

“I-I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!” You shouted, feeling the knot untying itself rather quickly. Jungkook growled right to your ear. He was close too, dangerously close.

“Baby!” He whimpered, feeling the tension rising.

Your juice splashed the sheets as you squirted all over his cock, crying, the orgasm hitting you way too hard. Jungkook’s hips did not stop while he chased his own release, complimenting you, your body, and how you are such a good girl while doing so. With a loud moan and one last deep thrust, he came in you, holding you still while he emptied himself. The warmth of his release felt too authentic, but you were too fucked out to notice.

As you were also too fucked out to notice the empty abandoned condom laying on the ground.

“I love you so much baby—”

It was getting dark outside when you woke up, your head pounding as you looked over your naked body and evident ache in between your legs. The sheer curtains that are covering the floor to ceiling windows, once airy and light, now filter the early evening light into a soft, diffused glow, creating a cosy atmosphere. You cuddled the soft sheets that were wrapped around your lower body, thinking that you could sleep some more.

But when you heard the muted notes of En Vogue’s Whatta Man blasting somewhere in the penthouse, any hopes of serenity were shattered. A curse slipped through your lips as the reality of your surroundings hit you.

“Fuck,” you muttered through your teeth, the small fists pounding against the bed. To muffle the scream of mixed emotions, you seized a leopard-patterned pillow, pressing it against your face.

You had willingly let this happen, all for the pursuit of a damn book and damn fucking job and your damn fucking career. But why was it so precious, you might ask? Your portfolio wasn’t just a collection of pages bound together; it was a culmination of dreams, aspirations, and relentless hard work. Each design you made over the years, a carefully curated piece of your artistic vision, held a piece of your soul.

The portfolio was your identity as a designer, a visual storyteller who poured emotions, creativity, and skill into each piece of clothing. It was something you presented yourself with, and you believed it held the power to open doors. It got you your first adult job after you spent two years in the big apple on your own, dreaming big while washing dishes behind the counter.

And it got you the second job of your early fashion career, a higher position than sales assistant, the head designer at the men’s wear division at Calvin Klein. You were aiming to become the head of the department when a better offer came your way, from Guess.

The project they offered you to be a part of was a kind of interview to get through and sit as the executive director of the women’s department. You were thrilled to accept as you always wanted to design for your gender.

And he fucked it up. So, you have to excuse yourself by letting your guard down, giving him a chance to sway you. You are doing this for you and your career.

You sat on the bed, eyeing the modern bedroom that screamed his name as did the smell of the room. Just like you remembered before you blacked out from all the pleasure he forced upon you.

Sighing, you moved your sore naked body to the edge of the bed. A black leather armchair caught your eye, a clean set of underwear laid out on it, burning under your gaze. You gulped down. This was your mess after all. You let him come too close—extremely close, judging by the recurring ache between your legs.

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” You’d manage somehow, or at least, that’s how you decided to play along with his nonsensical fantasy and possessive behaviour.

You tiptoed down the penthouse, searching for the devil. You knew you were going the right way when the music grew louder. Peeking from the narrow hallway into the living room, he was nowhere in sight. Only the RCA telly with MTV on indicated that he must’ve been there.

The sizzling sound of something cooking and a pleasant aroma hit your ears and nose. He was in the kitchen, cooking. Jeon Jungkook was in the kitchen, cooking. A certain degree of domesticity welcomed you as you stepped into the all-blue kitchen. His kitchen was way nicer than yours, you noted. Large cabinets, the island full of food ingredients he was preparing. Your gaze lingered as your eyes traced his masculine, naked back, tattoos shouting at you. Your knees felt weak at the sight, your body reacting to him as if he were the alpha wolf.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip. He was swaying his hips to the rhythm of the song. Even from this point of view, you could tell he is in a very good mood. It seemed like he was glowing.

You leaned against the arch, contemplating whether to make your presence known or observe from the shadows. Before you could decide, he turned around, planning to cut the vegetables, his eyes locking onto yours immediately. Bunny smile plastered on his face, reaching his ears — a juxtaposition to how anxious you looked in his big shirt.

Quickly circling the kitchen island, he reached you in a matter of seconds. The heartthrob was beaming with happiness seeing you in his kitchen, in his shirt, barefoot, face raw, and all his. At least, that was his perspective after he finally got you where he wanted you.

“Baby!” He squeaked happily, pulling you by your wrists. The movement causes your petite frame to collide with his naked torso. Jungkook did not let you speak even if you wanted to, instead he pulled you even closer, pressing his lips to yours. You yelped, surprised by the unexpected collision. The vulnerability you felt in his presence only heightened as he claimed you, his happiness seemingly derived from having you exactly where he wanted—vulnerable and dependent on him.

The kiss lingered for a moment, and as Jungkook pulled back, his eyes locked onto yours again, gleaming with an unspoken mischief you could not decipher. He seemed to revel in the flustered state he had induced, and a cocky grin played on his lips.

“Morning, beautiful,” he whispered, his warm breath grazing your ear as he finally released your wrists, pecking your lips softly again. The shirt you wore clung to your form.

“It’s almost five pm.” You muttered back after you gave the digital clock on the stove a glance. He laughed it off, not replying.

“How do you like your steak?” he asked, his tone casual as if the passionate kiss hadn’t just occurred.

“M-medium rare,” you stammered, still processing the sudden turn of events. He chuckled, the sound resonating in the cosy kitchen as he came back to the stove to resume cooking, what you assumed is your dinner. Your stomach growled loudly when the delicious smell hit your nostrils, loudly. Jungkook even looked your way, encouraging you to take whatever you wanted from the fridge that was next to him, until dinner was ready.

You looked at the silver double-door fridge, and suddenly, your hunger vanished. Those were your magnets that were on your fridge just hours prior. He went through your boxes and unpacked them. The world was spinning, and your stomach was dangerously twisting.

He noticed the change in your expression, the playfulness in his eyes fading as he followed your gaze to the fridge.

“Something wrong, baby?” he inquired. You swallowed hard, attempting to mask the unease that threatened to bubble to the surface.

“No, nothing,” you replied, forcing a tight smile. His attention returned to the stove, the sizzling sounds and savoury aroma filling the kitchen. The clock on the stove continued its indifferent march towards evening. But your mind stopped.

“I-I think—” you stammered, it was hard for you to speak when there was an evident lump in your throat that wanted to emerge to the surface.

“Baby?” he raised a brow at you, letting everything he was doing to approach you again. You gulped down, trying to breathe it out.

“I think... I need—,” you tried, the words escaping in a breathy whisper. Jungkook’s expression shifted from curiosity to concern as he stepped closer. That got you even more anxious and a quick escape was a way you opted.

Your legs carried you back to the room where you knew a bathroom would be near. You heard him calling your name, but he did not run to get you. He must have thought that you’re trying to run again, but when he saw you going the way the master bedroom is, he did not push it.

You slumped right to your knees, emptying your already empty stomach into the toilet. Tears stringed from your eyes. Before you could calm or clean yourself the door creaked open, and Jungkook’s concerned voice seeped into the bathroom.

“Oh my god! Are you okay baby?” He hovered in the doorway, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. You didn’t have the strength to respond, only offering a weak nod as you continued to empty the contents of your stomach.

His footsteps approached, and you could feel him kneeling beside you, one hand tentatively rubbing your back.

“Easy, baby. Easy,” he murmured softly.

After a moment, the nausea subsided, and you leaned back against the cool porcelain, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Jungkook remained by your side, a true concern readable in his eyes.

As you caught your breath, you couldn’t help but notice the familiar objects around the bathroom. Toothbrush, hairbrush, all your makeup and even your pyjamas, had found a place alongside Jungkook’s in the bathroom. He was blurring the lines between your lives.

Glancing at yourself in the mirror, you winced at the sight of prominent hickeys and bite marks adorning your neck. You caught Jungkook’s worrying gaze but did not pay attention to it longer than you needed to.

“When was the last time you ate properly, baby?” he asked, caressing the small of your back, kissing the top of your head. You touched the tender skin on your neck, a mix of shame and regret settling in the pit of your stomach.

You knew very well that this wasn’t a doing of the lack of nutrition within your body but it did stop you to think for a second. When was the last time you had a proper meal and not a cheap ramen noodles from a convenience store near your building? You did not recall, so you rather opted to shrug your shoulders and reach for your toothbrush that could have melted under your gaze at this point.

“Why don’t you freshen up, and I’m going to finish dinner.” He sighed and kissed your temple. You’ve let him. He has done worse. As he left the bathroom, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being exposed—physically, emotionally, and now even in your most private spaces. Your eyes lingered back on the assortment of makeup and personal items neatly arranged beside his.

Brushing your teeth never felt so foreign and unnatural. Your eyes darted around his room after you finished, and that’s when you noticed what you did not when you woke up —a closet, half-filled with your clothes. Neatly folded, hanged right beside his. Even your jewellery was sorted by the type of metal. Your shoes, your skirts, dresses, everything. He had seamlessly integrated your wardrobe into his, as if signalling an intention far beyond a temporary stay.

Then all your pictures scattered on the walls as you walked down the corridor back to the heartthrob who swayed you here. Feeling the unease building in your stomach again.

Jungkook stood by the table, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched you approach. His eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and possession. This all seemed like a stage for a performance you hadn’t signed up for.

The steak, perfectly cooked to your liking, accompanied by a side of vegetables. The spread looked delectable, and your stomach rumbled again, reminding you that you hadn’t had a proper meal in days. The scent of the meal teased your senses.

As you picked at your food, a question lingered in the back of your mind—how had it come to this? Have you really had no choice but him? Was this worth the trouble? Perhaps.

Your parents would think of you as a failure if you returned home. and your pride did not allow you to pick up your old job and be a girl for everything. You worked in the fashion industry and you were willing to do anything to maintain it.

“Are you listening to me, baby?” Jungkook broke the stream of your consciousness, his voice soft yet insistent. You hummed in response but your ears could not pick precise words that left his mouth.

“There’s Grammys next week, do you have any design for the red carpet so we could match—”

“What about the job?” You interrupted him, setting your fork down, staring at him viciously.

“So the Grammys—” he tried to continue without replying to you but you were having none of it.

“So the job, Jungkook.” You said through clenched teeth one more time. You weren’t about to let him sidestep the conversation about your career.

He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching with a momentary annoyance. The room crackled with tension, the unspoken power dynamics unravelling before you.

“You’ve been a very good girl so far—” he lifted the handkerchief he had on his lap and placed it on top of the table next to his glass of red wine.

“Why do you have to misbehave now.” His attempt to redirect the conversation towards your behaviour only fuelled your frustration.

“I’m not misbehaving, Jungkook,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unyielding. “I need to know about the job. I need to know that you’re actually doing something concrete to help me, not just playing puppeteer with my life.”

“There’s an opening at Givenchy, and Prada or Dior but—” your eyes were full of false hope.

“—until I can be sure you won’t leave me the second you get the new job. You won’t go to any interview.” He leaned back, a predatory gleam in his eyes, as if enjoying the power play.

Your mind raced, torn between ambition and self-respect. You had worked tirelessly to establish yourself, and the taste of success was within reach. Yet, the cost demanded by Jungkook was steep—an indefinite surrender of your autonomy.

“That’s not what we agreed upon—” You whined out, anxiety clutching your insights in tight grip.

“Oh but we did baby.” He answered swiftly, smiling sweetly.

“I—” you wanted to protest, but he was quick to dismiss any argument you wanted to come up with.

“I said I want you, and you agreed, baby. You can’t take it back.”

“What does that even mean?!” You whined out.

“That I won’t let you slip through my fingers again. You belong here with me, and you better learn your place or prepare for a farewell with the magnificent fashion world of yours.” The ultimatum echoed in your mind as his gaze was trying to make you submit. Jungkook’s possessiveness loomed over you, a suffocating force that sought to confine your wings.

“You can’t force me,” words slipped past your lips, a proclamation of your refusal to succumb to his dominance.

“You underestimate the lengths I’ll go to keep you, Y/N,” he retorted, his voice low and laced with a dangerous edge.

“You’re sick.” You spat out at him, standing up to leave when he grabbed you and held you tight. You were looking up at his face, seemingly angry with your words. His eyes darkened, a fleeting moment of anger crossing his features.

“Aren’t you a bit ungrateful, my love?” he seethed, his voice a low growl. The possessive tone sent shivers down your spine, but you refused to cower under his gaze.

“I’m providing you with shelter, food, money and most of all my love.”

“It’s sick, Jungkook. This isn’t love,” you shot back, your voice unwavering. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his grip unyielding. He scoffed, a bitter smile playing on his lips.

“You’re testing my patience, Y/N. You’re mine,” he retorted quickly, not letting you go. You wanted to protest, to tell him to fuck off, and even worse things, but he was not finished.

“Think with your pretty little head, won’t you?—” you glared at him, defiance burning in your eyes.

“—you can live like a princess, you can have your dream position and on top of that a loving significant other �� me.” The seconds felt like an eternity, the weight of his possessiveness pressing down on you.

“What is success for when you cannot share the joy with someone you love.” He whispered, a sinister undertone in his words. You had a feeling he’s not only talking about you. You had to think, and you had to think quickly.

“You’re asking me to give up my autonomy, Jungkook.” You shot back, your voice unwavering. He scoffed, the air heavy with tension.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good, Y/N. You need me—” He chuckled, a condescending tone lacing his voice.

“—what were you gonna do if you didn’t come to me? Hm? Your mami and papi who are disappointed in you or your fake friends who did not bat an eye to try and help you out?—” You turned your face away from him, not wanting to let his words affect you.

“—I helped you. I am here for you!” He shook you, still holding a tight grip on you.

“All I’m asking in return is you to give yourself to me.” With a defiant push, you broke free from his grasp, leaving him seething in frustration. Covering your face with your palms, you sobbed.

“Love and loyalty is not that big of a price when you think about it.”

“You promise?” you choked out through your tears. You were tired, exhausted to the bone, and this was taking a bigger toll on you than you would expect. You wanted to trick him and instead he tricked you. But you needed to play by his rules to win in the game he started. His eyes softened momentarily, a twisted form of concern flickering in his gaze.

“I promise, baby,” he murmured, his tone almost soothing. The fire has ceased for now. Or so you thought. Despite the fragile promise, you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you were dancing on the edge of a precipice, held by the strings he so skilfully pulled. But the stakes were high, and you couldn’t afford to falter. You had no shelter, almost no money and no one to turn to. For now. You promised yourself, this is temporary. You will find a way out of this arrangement.

You finished your dinner. He insisted. You stripped naked while he was drawing the bath. He again insisted. The penthouse, filled with music and the fragrance of expensive candles. You allowed yourself to be led, like a puppet, your exhaustion overshadowing your instincts. As you sat there in the hot water, vulnerable, he wiped away your tears.

The water lapping against your skin is like an ominous reminder of the depths you found yourself in. Jungkook’s hands traced patterns on your back.

Jungkook, seemingly attuned to your exhaustion, wiped away your tears, the gesture carrying a strange mixture of care and control.

“It’s all gonna feel better once you accept it.” Said he, right to your ear, sending shivers down your naked body. You pressed your legs to your chest to hide yourself, a futile attempt at preserving some semblance of privacy, even though he had seen it all.

“I cannot grasp why you would do this to me, Jungkook,” you sobbed, letting him hold you against his chest.

“I did it for us, baby.” His hands firmly gripped yours now, making them stop hugging your knees. The heartthrob wanted you to relax in his presence. A laughable request considering the circumstances that led you here.

“Stop being delusional. There is no us.” You finally let him move your hands only for you to grab the frame of the bathtub and attempt to pull yourself up and away from him. He did not fancy this attempt of yours, and he let you know that by grabbing a large portion of your hair, dragging you back.

Your body slammed to his naked torso with a loud slap caused by the wet skin on skin contact. It took your breath away for a good minute.

“You didn’t seem to argue about it earlier today when my cock was hitting all-the-right-places, making you squirt, hmm?” Said the raven haired man, still holding your hair in his fist. He did not intend to hurt you, no, it was not as painful as the whole humiliating scenery and the fact you could not break free of him. He’s putting an example of what will happen once you stop behaving again. Putting you in your place — that’s what he called it.

“Matter of fact, Imma show you again that there’s us baby, until you realise it yourself.”

Trying to wiggle out of his grasp, you whimpered every time you pulled your hair back to make you stay still. And as if he changed his mind, your body was pulled out of the warm water, letting your hair go, making you fall down to the bright rug on the floor of the bathroom. Soaking it wet you looked up to him towering over your shivering physique.

“It was about time for you to show me how you are grateful to be my good girl—” he stepped closer. You did not want to look at him, knowing well what he is talking about.

“Open up baby—” you shook your head, pulling away from him and his hard member that he was holding just inches away from your face. You felt it meet your cheek and immediately retrieved yourself again which made him even more frustrated. His cock was painfully hard, and you were not cooperating.

The tattooed hand in your hair pulled you right back, his eyes bore to yours with a hard stare, and you swear they got even darker. His other hand was clutching your jaw, harder and harder until you involuntarily opened your mouth wide enough.

Taking the chance right away, he slipped his thick and hard manhood into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. He hissed at how your teeth slightly scraped his dick. You choked on it, but he was unfazed by it, continuing to thrust into your throat, making tears fall down your cheeks.

“I knew you could be my good girl.” He groaned, praising you with each of his hard thrusts into your mouth. Your breathing was shallow, and you tried to get as much air as you could. He was moaning loudly, the wet sounds of his cock slipping in and out of your mouth, covered by your saliva made him even more aroused and hungry for you.

“You just need a bit of a re-education.” He was getting lost in the pleasure your mouth was providing him, and you were deprived of the air you needed. Your hand hit his pelvis when you thought you’re going to pass out soon.

“Just a moment more, baby. I know you can take it.” He said through gritted teeth. Jungkook was panting loudly, mixing it with loud moans of your name.

“Fuck, Y/N. You’re my heaven.” Your nails were scratching his abdomen, trying to break free, but his hold was too strong. You were drooling all over his cock, and your hand started to spin from the lack of oxygen and how quickly your head was bobbing.

He was getting dangerously close and his sloppy movements reflected that. He managed to pull one last thrust before he was cumming down your throat. He was letting his dick soften, pressed on your tongue while the hot semen was springing out of his tip.

“Swallow.”

The night wore on, shadows dancing on the walls as you lay there, pressed to his chest, his hand limply laying on your hip, contemplating the surreal turn you took.

If anything arose in you during the intercourse you wish you would wipe out of your mind, it was a determination to break free from the suffocating grasp of the penthouse.

Jungkook laid beside you, his breathing steady, a façade of tranquillity painted on his features. As he drifted into a seemingly serene slumber, you waited for the right moment to seize the opportunity.

When you were certain he was deeply asleep, you carefully extricated yourself from his embrace, a shiver running down your spine as you tiptoed through the room.

The moon cast a pale glow through the sheer curtains, guiding your movements as you tiptoed across the room. Your hand grasped the cold doorknob, the soft creaking of the door threatened to betray your escape. Your body frozen in time, your pupils shaking, fearing what happens if he wakes up. You wait a minute to make sure he is not coming to drag you back before you open the door in one swift movement.

You rethought the tasks you listed in your plan. Find the portfolio and get the fuck out as quick as possible. Everything else is replaceable for you. The mindset that the portfolio is the only key to all your problems, remained.

The adrenaline surged through your veins, the pulse of your heart echoing in the quiet hallway you walked through to get to the front of the penthouse.

He never took you upstairs, therefore you assumed that’s where he must’ve hidden it.

You approached the staircase, the carpet soft beneath your feet. The air seemed to grow heavier with every ascending step. The possibility of him waking up was not zero.

As you reached the upper level, you noticed the subtle shift in the ambiance. The hallway, adorned with pieces of art that whispered tales of luxury, and all his awards he won during his career, displayed to show his success. You passed several open doors, a home recording studio in one of them, be ridden of what you were looking for.

The hallway led you towards a set of double doors. That must be it. The doors creaked open, your gaze scanning for any sign of your portfolio. Your eyes flickering between the meticulously arranged accolades and the sprawling desk. He must be using this room as his office.

The seconds stretched into minutes, the urgency escalating with each passing heartbeat. You began with the drawers of the glass table, trying to be as quiet as possible. You cannot afford to cause commotion.

Anxiety wrapped around you, a vice tightening with every passing moment. You went through the library too, looked under every surface, you could not find it.

With a deep breath, you steadied yourself. There must be another place he could have hidden it. Your eyes fell upon the stack of papers, leaning your head to the side you examined the tabloid underneath with your face on it.

You fished it out in mere seconds, eyeing it unbelievably. If you were on the cover of a tabloid you would for sure know that. But you were not aware that your face appeared in Star magazine, right beside Jungkook. “Jungkook’s Mysterious Muse Revealed!” the headline screamed at you.

It was not only you after all. Society has convinced Jungkook that you two are sort of an item. A clandestine affair, a narrative spun by the society, linking your name with Jungkook’s in a tale of intrigue.

It was dated right when you started working on Klein’s campaign, back in April. It is almost the end of November now, and this is the first time you’re seeing this. You couldn’t fathom how deeply the web had been woven around you. The urgency of the situation intensified, and you combed through every conceivable hiding spot.

A sudden noise from downstairs snapped your attention. Fear gripped you, and your heart raced. Did he wake up? The urgency of the situation intensified, and you felt the weight of the clock ticking against you.

You sobbed and when you went to rub your eyes, they fell upon the other room diagonally from the one you were searching now. The doors were slightly ajar and you could see soft shades of colours within. In a last-ditch effort you marched towards it.

But ever stepping inside you regretted. The whole scenery that was revealed once you opened the door swiftly caught your breath in your throat.

The soft shades of colours painted a haunting picture—a baby room, unfinished and untouched by time. The sight startled you, sending a shiver down your spine. This can’t be.

“No..” You whispered to yourself, panicking. Your hands found their place in your hair. He is one delusional man. There is no other explanation, he is sick in the head if he thinks he is going to baby trap you.

A sense of dread overwhelmed you, and in your shock, you stumbled over something on the floor, hitting your head in the process. You groaned from the pain, forgetting that this commotion must have been loud enough for Jungkook to wake up.

As you rolled to the side, your eyes widened in disbelief. The portfolio was taped to the bottom of a cabinet. Without a second thought, you ripped it free, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

The rain outside intensified, a symphony of droplets against the windows. With the portfolio clutched in your hands, you ran down the stairs, right to the front door you prayed would not be locked. Would he be that careless? Yes. The degree of his mental instability was enough for him to believe that you are his and you would not think of running. He cut off every single option you had.

First, by making sure that your former employer would get to know you’re planning to leave the brand, enough for them to let you go. Second, he successfully obtained your portfolio that you were stupid enough to not make a copy of, which resulted in not meeting the deadline with Guess and losing that job opportunity too.

Third, he did not expect you to not stay the first you went to his penthouse but he was determined to go to extremes. So, every single fashion brand that had department stores in New York and in the rest of the world, backlisted you. No job application you sent, assistant buyer, a visibly lower position to what you had at Klein, would be turned down.

Fourth, make sure your landlord has already a tenant replacing you, ready to pay double for your apartment if they can move in as soon as possible.

That you’re alienated from your parents played his cards right and he never wished anything bad upon someone else, but how he thanked God that your friends have either too small apartments for another person to live in or they were struggling even more than you were. But lucky for you. He was right there, waiting for your call.

The handle felt too cold in your hand once you pushed the front door open merging the distance to the elevators, you were madly pushing the down button.

The seconds felt like an eternity as you waited for the elevator. Your breaths came in short, erratic bursts, mirroring the frenetic pace of your heart. Quickly stepping inside the metal box you heard it.

“Y/N?!” Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. His eyes momentarily locked with yours. You were clutching your portfolio to your chest, the other hand pressing the close button, praying it will close faster.

He must have heard you running down the stairs, or perhaps when you tripped and fell. You even forgot that you’ve hurt yourself. The adrenaline was overshadowing the pain.

“Come back right now!” He was mad, that much you could tell.

With the last determined push, you closed the door on him, severing the visual link between you. Letting out a relieving breath, you knew that this is far from being over. The elevator descended, carrying you away from the penthouse.

He cannot make it all the way down in time before you’ll disappear from the area. You prayed, he would not.

The lobby welcomed you as the doors opened, the room blurred as you stormed towards the exit, your heart pounding in rhythm with the rain. You burst into the rain-soaked night. Clutching the book tightly, a surge of triumph coursed through your veins.

The cold drops pelted against your skin. The relentless downpour soaking your clothes and hair. Running towards the street, you waved at the cars, hoping a taxi would stop.

It took a minute for some yellow car to appear at the curb, not wasting time, you ran towards it.

A smile appeared on your face after a long time. You did not know where you’re going, nor what you’re going to do next but Jungkook was never supposed to be your option and now you got the chance to choose differently or not? This is your second chance, and you’re willing to take it.

Your hand touched the handle of the yellow vehicle, opening the door and planning to leap inside as quickly as possible.

A strong tattooed hand closed abruptly. You gulped down an enormous lump in your throat, almost not breathing. How could this happen? It was mere minutes. Did he run the stairs? Did you take too long to catch a cab? Should you just run as far as possible?

Every single thing you could have done differently would not change the outcome it seems. And every single thing worked out in his favour, again.

His palm pressed on the taxi door firm, you could not open it anymore nor he would let you hop in the front seat. Your heart pounded in your chest, the tension and fear to face him was killing you. The portfolio now felt like a burden, if you make peace with losing it and your career, would you avoid this?

You could feel his eyes burning holes to the back of your head.

“I will not go back.” You said, voice resolute, but inside you were shaking. You could feel his hot breath on your cold skin, similarly you could feel his body pressing to your back. Once he reached your ear, you felt his lips mere inches from it, whispering.

“You will.”

I N T E R L O G U E

Jungkook settled into the plush leather chair after he finished carefully unpacking all your belongings, believing he is helping you to settle down. His fingers deftly dialled his mother’s number. As the phone rang, he gazed out over the city lights sprawling beneath him, a realm he had conquered with ruthless determination.

His new song, obviously written about you, was an enormous hit, granting him another Grammy nomination. But what was his success for when he did not have his love to share it with?

He smiled to himself, he got you. After long months of chasing you, then giving you the space you needed to realise he is your best shot in this world, you’re finally where you belong. Next to him.

The familiar voice of his mother greeted him, warm and comforting.

“Eomma—” Jungkook said, his tone affectionate.

“Jungkook, dear! How is my baby?” His mother’s voice held a blend of joy and concern.

“I’m doing well, Eomma. I have some news to share,” he said, his eyes glancing toward the bedroom where Y/N lay, unaware of the conversation taking place.

“Oh? Do tell,” his mother replied, anticipation evident in her voice. Jungkook leaned back, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

“Y/N moved in.” His mother’s delight was palpable through the phone. Jungkook let her know the very moment he stepped into your office that he is very much interested in you. That he met the special one he wants to grow old with.

As he spoke, he subtly weaved a narrative of love and destiny, carefully crafting the tale of their supposed connection. His mother listened attentively, hanging onto every word.

“Are you going to propose over Christmas like you wanted, Kookie?” His mother gasped with excitement. Jungkook glanced at the bedroom once more, satisfaction settling within him. The diamond ring well hidden deep inside of the closet. But that’s given and final in his mind, there’s something more he selfishly wants. Not only will it make sure you won’t be able to leave him any more, it will give you reason to grow to love him back. After all, he would be the only person who you can grow old with.

“We’re trying for a baby, Eomma.”

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Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months

Text

The majority of censorship is self-censorship

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT in SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA (Saturday night, with Adam Conover), Seattle (Monday, with Neal Stephenson), then Portland, Phoenix and more!

I know a lot of polymaths, but Ada Palmer takes the cake: brilliant science fiction writer, brilliant historian, brilliant librettist, brilliant singer, and then some:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/10/monopoly-begets-monopoly/#terra-ignota

Palmer is a friend and a colleague. In 2018, she, Adrian Johns and I collaborated on "Censorship, Information Control, & Information Revolutions from Printing Press to Internet," a series of grad seminars at the U Chicago History department (where Ada is a tenured prof, specializing in the Inquisition and Renaissance forbidden knowledge):

https://ifk.uchicago.edu/research/faculty-fellow-projects/censorship-information-control-information-revolutions-from-printing-press/

The project had its origins in a party game that Ada and I used to play at SF conventions: Ada would describe a way that the Inquisitions' censors attacked the printing press, and I'd find an extremely parallel maneuver from governments, the entertainment industry or other entities from the much more recent history of internet censorship battles.

With the seminars, we took it to the next level. Each 3h long session featured a roster of speakers from many disciplines, explaining everything from how encryption works to how white nationalists who were radicalized in Vietnam formed an armored-car robbery gang to finance modems and Apple ][+s to link up neo-Nazis across the USA.

We borrowed the structure of these sessions from science fiction conventions, home to a very specific kind of panel that doesn't always work, but when it does, it's fantastic. It was a natural choice: after all, Ada and I know each other through science fiction.

Even if you're not an sf person, you've probably heard of the Hugo Awards, the most prestigious awards in the field, voted on each year by attendees of the annual World Science Fiction Convention (Worldcon). And even if you're not an sf fan, you might have heard about a scandal involving the Hugo Awards, which were held last year in China, a first:

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/science-fiction-authors-excluded-hugo-awards-china-rcna139134

A little background: each year's Worldcon is run by a committee of volunteers. These volunteers put together bids to host the Worldcon, and canvass Worldcon attendees to vote in favor of their bid. For many years, a group of Chinese fans attempted to field a successful bid to host a Worldcon, and, eventually, they won.

At the time, there were many concerns: about traveling to a country with a poor human rights record and a reputation for censorship, and about the logistics of customary Worldcon attendees getting visas. During this debate, many international fans pointed to the poor human rights record in the USA (which has hosted the vast majority of Worldcons since their inception), and the absolute ghastly rigmarole the US government subjects many foreign visitors to when they seek visas to come to the US for conventions.

Whatever side of this debate you came down on, it couldn't be denied that the Chinese Worldcon rang a lot of alarm-bells. Communications were spotty, and then the con was unceremoniously rescheduled for months after the original scheduled date, without any good explanation. Rumors swirled of Chinese petty officials muscling their way into the con's administration.

But the real alarm bells started clanging after the Hugo Award ceremony. Normally, after the Hugos are given out, attendees are given paper handouts tallying the nominations and votes, and those numbers are also simultaneously published online. Technically, the Hugo committee has a grace period of some weeks before this data must be published, but at every Worldcon I've attended over the past 30+ years, I left the Hugos with a data-sheet in my hand.

Then, in early December, at the very last moment, the Hugo committee released its data – and all hell broke loose. Numerous, acclaimed works had been unilaterally "disqualified" from the ballot. Many of these were written by writers from the Chinese diaspora, but some works – like an episode of Neil Gaiman's Sandman – were seemingly unconnected to any national considerations.

Readers and writers erupted in outrage, demanding to know what had happened. The Hugo administrators – Americans and Canadians who'd volunteered in those roles for many years and were widely viewed as being members in good standing of the community – were either silent or responded with rude and insulting remarks. One thing they didn't do was explain themselves.

The absence of facts left a void that rumors and speculation rushed in to fill. Stories of Chinese official censorship swirled online, and along with them, a kind of I-told-you-so: China should never have been home to a Worldcon, the country's authoritarian national politics are fundamentally incompatible with a literary festival.

As the outrage mounted and the scandal breached from the confines of science fiction fans and writers to the wider world, more details kept emerging. A damning set of internal leaks revealed that it was those long-serving American and Canadian volunteers who decided to censor the ballot. They did so out of a vague sense that the Chinese state would visit some unspecified sanction on the con if politically unpalatable works appeared on the Hugo ballot. Incredibly, they even compiled clumsy dossiers on nominees, disqualifying one nominee out of a mistaken belief that he had once visited Tibet (it was actually Nepal).

There's no evidence that the Chinese state asked these people to do this. Likewise, it wasn't pressure from the Chinese state that caused them to throw out hundreds of ballots cast by Chinese fans, whom they believed were voting for a "slate" of works (it's not clear if this is the case, but slate voting is permitted under Hugo rules).

All this has raised many questions about the future of the Hugo Awards, and the status of the awards that were given in China. There's widespread concern that Chinese fans involved with the con may face state retaliation due to the negative press that these shenanigans stirred up.

But there's also a lot of questions about censorship, and the nature of both state and private censorship, and the relationship between the two. These are questions that Ada is extremely well-poised to answer; indeed, they're the subject of her book-in-progress, entitled Why We Censor: from the Inquisition to the Internet.

In a magisterial essay for Reactor, Palmer stakes out her central thesis: "The majority of censorship is self-censorship, but the majority of self-censorship is intentionally cultivated by an outside power":

https://reactormag.com/tools-for-thinking-about-censorship/

States – even very powerful states – that wish to censor lack the resources to accomplish totalizing censorship of the sort depicted in Nineteen Eighty-Four. They can't go from house to house, searching every nook and cranny for copies of forbidden literature. The only way to kill an idea is to stop people from expressing it in the first place. Convincing people to censor themselves is, "dollar for dollar and man-hour for man-hour, much cheaper and more impactful than anything else a censorious regime can do."

Ada invokes examples modern and ancient, including from her own area of specialty, the Inquisition and its treatment of Gailileo. The Inquistions didn't set out to silence Galileo. If that had been its objective, it could have just assassinated him. This was cheap, easy and reliable! Instead, the Inquisition persecuted Galileo, in a very high-profile manner, making him and his ideas far more famous.

But this isn't some early example of Inquisitorial Streisand Effect. The point of persecuting Galileo was to convince Descartes to self-censor, which he did. He took his manuscript back from the publisher and cut the sections the Inquisition was likely to find offensive. It wasn't just Descartes: "thousands of other major thinkers of the time wrote differently, spoke differently, chose different projects, and passed different ideas on to the next century because they self-censored after the Galileo trial."

This is direct self-censorship, where people are frightened into silencing themselves. But there's another form of censorship, which Ada calls "middlemen censorship." That's when someone other than the government censors a work because they fear what the government would do if they didn't. Think of Scholastic's cowardly decision to pull inclusive, LGBTQ books out of its book fair selections even though no one had ordered them to do so:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/06/books/scholastic-book-racism-maggie-tokuda-hall.html

This is a form of censorship outsourcing, and it "multiplies the manpower of a censorship system by the number of individuals within its power." The censoring body doesn't need to hire people to search everyone's houses for offensive books – it can frighten editors, publishers, distributors, booksellers and librarians into suppressing the books in the first place.

This outsourcing blurs the line between state and private surveillance. Think about comics. After a series of high-profile Congressional hearings about the supposed danger of comics to impressionable young minds, the comics industry undertook a regime of self-censorship, through which the private Comics Code Authority would vet comings for "dangerous" content before allowing its seal of approval to appear on the comics' covers. Distributors and retailers refused to carry books without a CCA stamp, so publishers refused to publish books unless they could get a CCA stamp.

The CCA was unaccountable, capricious – and racist. By the 60s and 70s, it became clear that comic about Black characters were subjected to much tighter scrutiny than comics featuring white heroes. The CCA would reject "a drop of sweat on the forehead of a Black astronaut as 'too graphic' since it 'could be mistaken for blood.'" Every comic that got sent back by the CCA meant long, brutal reworkings by writers and illustrators to get them past the censors.

The US government never censored heroes like Black Panther, but the chain of events that created the CCA "middleman censors" made sure that Black Panther appeared in far fewer comics starring Marvel's most prominent Black character. An analysis of censorship that tries to draw a line between private and public censorship would say that the government played no role in Black Panther's banishment to obscurity – but without Congressional action, Black Panther would never have faced censorship.

This is why attempts to cleanly divide public and private censorship always break down. Many people will tell you that when Twitter or Facebook blocks content they disagree with, that's not censorship, since censorship is government action, and these are private actors. What they mean is that Twitter and Facebook censorship doesn't violate the First Amendment, but it's perfectly possible to infringe on free speech without violating the US Constitution. What's more, if the government fails to prevent monopolization of our speech forums – like social media – and also declines to offer its own public speech forums that are bound to respect the First Amendment, we can end up with government choices that produce an environment in which some ideas are suppressed wherever they might find an audience – all without violating the Constitution:

https://locusmag.com/2020/01/cory-doctorow-inaction-is-a-form-of-action/

The great censorious regimes of the past – the USSR, the Inquisition – left behind vast troves of bureaucratic records, and these records are full of complaints about the censors' lack of resources. They didn't have the manpower, the office space, the money or the power to erase the ideas they were ordered to suppress. As Ada notes, "In the period that Spain’s Inquisition was wildly out of Rome’s control, the Roman Inquisition even printed manuals to guide its Inquisitors on how to bluff their way through pretending they were on top of what Spain was doing!"

Censors have always done – and still do – their work not by wielding power, but by projecting it. Even the most powerful state actors are not powerful enough to truly censor, in the sense of confiscating every work expressing an idea and punishing everyone who creates such a work. Instead, when they rely on self-censorship, both by individuals and by intermediaries. When censors act to block one work and not another, or when they punish one transgressor while another is free to speak, it's tempting to think that they are following some arcane ruleset that defines when enforcement is strict and when it's weak. But the truth is, they censor erratically because they are too weak to censor comprehensively.

Spectacular acts of censorship and punishment are a performance, "to change the way people act and think." Censors "seek out actions that can cause the maximum number of people to notice and feel their presence, with a minimum of expense and manpower."

The censor can only succeed by convincing us to do their work for them. That's why drawing a line between state censorship and private censorship is such a misleading exercise. Censorship is, and always has been, a public-private partnership.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/22/self-censorship/#hugos

#pluralistic #ada palmer #worldcon #hugos #china #science fiction #fanac #publishing #censorship #systems of information control during information revolutions #scholarship

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