#the way that only a rich woman could think it’s an affordable relatable to the masses attainable brand

[tabithatwo]

Courtney Eaton for Free People / May 2023

#no because something about free people being the MOST LOTTIE BRAND CONCEIVABLE #and everything about her screaming that aesthetic. the boho #the way that only a rich woman could think it’s an affordable relatable to the masses attainable brand #the way SIMONE KESSELL SAID THAT SHE SENT WARDROBE FREE PEOPLE PIECES FOR LOTTIE #anyway it’s scratching such a good itch in my brain to see courtney modeling for them #and she’s fucking beyond stunning holy goddamn hell #courtney eaton #lottie matthews #simone kessell #yellowjackets cast

[n3xii]

there is nothing esoteric about wealth

There is something profoundly cruel about telling people that the reason they're poor is because of their mindset- that the reason they can't afford basic needs like food, health insurance, transportation, mental health care, education, and etc is because they didnt think good enough.

not only because it's condescending, but because its nothing we haven't heard before: we have all heard that the reason poor people are poor is because it's a emanation of a personal failure. they didnt work hard enough, they didn't invest in the right stock, they didnt hold themselves accountable enough for their own spending habits. or better yet, the reason they are poor is because they lacked the intelligence, cleverness, and thirst for financial freedom that the wealthy has.

its always been especially menacing when they attach spiritual morality or exaltation- the reason you're poor is because you're faith is lacking, or you karmically earned your fate as a result of a past life, you didnt trust god enough.

whats new is that this this idea of poverty being a personal failure is being repackaged through the terminology of manifestation- you are poor because you manifested it. your mindset allows the reality of poverty to exist.

Yesterday I watched a video about how to obtain financial freedom at a young age. The woman in the video was herself, young, wealthy and free. she believes she achieved this freedom through and work and manifestation. (and totally not related at all, the video was sponsored by a very reliable and safe app that claims if you keep it running in the background for 24 hours a day you might make 30 dollars a month. that's totally not the impetus to making the video at all. )

her advice was the mundane, typical ''start an online business, do drop shipping, invest in real estate, become a landlord, stop saving money and invest it instead.'' but she centered the video around something interesting- she said: ''stop persisting in the poor girl mindset''- the reason we are poor is because we aren't affirming the right things, we're poor because we portion our paychecks each month to save money on the side, we're poor because lack the lucky girl mindset and therefore we have made ourselves unlucky.

how barbaric.

she then spoke a good lot of time discussing how doing our own work is a waste of time and money- instead, we could be paying employees to do the work for us while we sit back and relax as the passive income flows to our bank accounts. what she said was actually the lowkey version of ''your labor alone is not enough to produce sustainable income; you have to exploit the labor of a large group of people in order to achieve your desirable paycheck.''

The mass produced content of ''how to achieve financial freedom at so and so age'' is massively based on the metaphysical idea that you manifest your own reality, so- if you are poor then its because you believe you are. whats distinctly manipulative about this is that it shifts the blame from the systematic, hierarchal reason behind your poverty onto yourself. you are to blame- not the series of calculated, money-hungry decisions made by those who actually have power over you to keep themselves rich and to keep you poor. you are poor because your thoughts affirm you are, not because the people at the top have the ability to hoard their wealth and spend it stupid ventures that ultimately refund their own bank accounts. certainly not because capitalism is doing exactly what it was designed to do in the first place. no, thats not the convenient answer, thats not the repackged, pretty ''you have the power to change your reality in a broken system'' answer people want to hear. the truth is, the system isnt broken, its doing exatly what it was designed to do. you do have the power to change your reality, its just not the way they're willing to admit.

you want to be rich? you want to be in the top? thats determined by one factor and one factor alone: your willingness to exploit and fuck over large amounts of people.

thats it, thats all. there is no intellectual or metaphysical secert, there is nothing esoteric about wealth. the only quality the people have at the top that you do not possess is their ability to smile as they kill.

#i wrote this a few months ago and forgot about it #writing #capitalism #anti capitalism #manifestion #capitalist hell #late stage capitalism

[colorisbyshe]

I'm thinking about just how different it must be to be wealthy and consume media. Like, what do they think when a movie or a book is against rich people? What do they think when a cartoon or a tv show talks about the plight of the poor? Do they think "oh well I'm not like that!" And how do they relate to poor characters? If they do it at all. It's just so bizarre to me.

I know a few wealthy people. Not UBER rich but like... fairly wealthy. Maybe just "upper middle class" but wealthier than most people could ever dream of being. Relative to me, they're rich.

And the thing about rich people is they almost always frame themselves as not rich enough. If there is something they want but cannot afford, they aren't REALLY rich.

If they have a 6 bedroom home but can't afford a yacht, well, they aren't really rich. If they have a 6 bedroom home AND a yacht but can't afford a SECOND 6 bedroom vacation home, well, they aren't really rich. Or if they have that vacation home but their neighbor's house has .5 more bathrooms... it's like they don't even have a vacation home at all. (Note: None of the people I know are this level of wealthy, just giving examples.)

They know what it's like to suffer from not having the money for the things you "need."

And if they have things they want but money can't buy, well then they're time-poor, love-poor, whatever-poor which means it's just like being money-poor, isn't it? Those poor nepo babies didn't have loving parents, just like the rest of us. Only, y'unno, they went unloved with nannies, five play rooms, and designer clothes while the rest of us went unloved AND worrying about rent at an age where you shouldn't even KNOW about rent.

So they can't possibly be like the evil, greedy rich people in the movies because they don't have everything they want. They can't be like the evil, greedy rich people because they donate to charity (and then complain about taxes being used to help people in ways they don't get to control). They can't be like the villains because they work essential jobs like CEO. They aren't superfluous, they are the backbone of society.

And you know what... this happens across all types of privilege when consuming media. White people listen to Mitski sing about her struggles as an Asian American woman and relate to the alienation, not really internalizing... they are often the source of said alienation. Straight people watch a gay character get bullied and relate to feeling hurt by words but don't internalize their microaggressive comments about their gay cousin is the same shit the bully is saying.

People don't want to internalize that they are the bad guy in someone else's life, even if they didn't intend to be. To the rich, if they aren't spending money directly on hiring goons to stab poor people at random, they aren't the villains.

And, if they were ever poor before (or even just less rich), everyone is just jealous they made it out of poverty and no one realizes that they can still relate to the poor and therefore can't be taking advantage o them or anything like that.

[majaloveschris]

I still don’t get this whole sugar baby thing. Does anybody actually think he would spend money on a woman just to sleep with her? //

'the sugar baby stuff is plausible' is about her as an individual, not her situation with Chris. No i don't think he's spoiling her with bags and purses so she'll sleep with him etc BUT i don't think for a second that it's a coincidence that Chris is word for word the type of man who scamming sugar babies target.

Older, rich man with his own life (even better if they want to keep the relationship on the DL) - Foreign man so you only have to see them every once in a while - Someone who doesn't mind you bringing your friends with you etc are all things that are constantly parroted by sugar babies in their videos as "things to look for" in a sugar daddy. + Justin AND Joanna following the sugardaddy page that specifically posted Chris Salary (and funny enough, they're the friends she always brings with her wherever she goes) and the "Chloe we're going to Disneyland" finsta caption.

Maybe Alba was or will be somebody's sugar baby, but she is definitely not Chris's. Do you really think that this man would pay for her and even Justin's and Joana's vacation just so Alba could sleep with him? I don't get how people don't hear how ridiculous this sounds. This is the first time these kinds of assumptions have come up in relation to him. And the fact that Justin and Joanna followed that account doesn't mean anything. That account posted about a lot of people who have a lot of money. Those people would be good "targets," but that doesn't mean that those people would actually be in a "relationship" like that.

Let's assume for a moment that this is true! Why would they involve the public in it? Or did Alba blackmail him? If he wanted to have a sugar baby, he would go with someone who was not famous. And he pays for Bermuda trips, but she only needs to "see" him once in a while? So Chris pays for their Bermuda, Disney, and other trips so he can sleep with her "once in a while"?

The whole sugar baby thing is probably one of the least logical and possible possibilities. This is either PR or real, that's all.

I also don't get why people think Alba and her friends wouldn't have money to take a trip to Bermuda or to Disney. They can most certainly afford that. Even if she only had a smaller role in a movie, I'm pretty sure she earns more with those than most of us do in a year. She has money; her friends have money; and so does her family. That whole Disney thing was probably an indication of the start of this shitshow, nothing more.

And outside of his money, Chris would probably be one of the worst sugar daddy candidates. There is no way he would pay for someone's vacation or buy them expensive stuff just so they could sleep with him. If he wants to hook up with someone, he doesn't need money to do so. He doesn't even seem like someone who would be into anything like this; I don't get why even people consider this an option.

#majaloveschris #chris and alba pr #sugar daddy page #chris and alba sugar bullshit #cevans-love

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 9

Cw: use of ethnic slurs, casual anti-romani racism, anglophobia, cheating, fertility issues, offscreen suicide, cuckolding/old timey version of using a sperm doner , and drama.

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife @cljordan-imperium @call-sign-shark

June 1922

They go out to town, to some investors party standing for her company and his investment firm. Dressed to kill and walking in here like the sun orbited around them.

None of these English twats could hold a candle to them.

Paris had been fun, surrounded by eccentric rich fucks and exiles who Eva personally knew. Then when she came face to face with the girl who tried to kill her when they were sixteen, the witch proved she was as terrible as him.

The Witch smiled viciously as she settled on her next prey as they came face to face with Grace and the gangster Grace compared him too.

What’s her face had not died, but looked ready to croak once Evie was done with her. Jack cannot wait to see how she destroys the ungrateful broad who’d made moves on him while Eva tried her best to shove her onto Carrie’s group of sycophants despite Caroline hating her too.

“Dear me, does your husband know you’re back to your old habits, Mrs. Macmillan?” Eva wastes no time in embarrassing the married woman on the arm of a man who was not boring old Clive.

“You sounded taller in her stories of you, Mr. Shelby.” Jack looks down on the gypsy on the arm of the blonde who’d spent a year trying to snap up any blue blood that came near her.

He had known her type the moment he saw her, bored rich girl who only wants a man once he’s got enough cash to afford her.

Having been so curious about the man Grace sent letters too even after she married, they’d dug up everything you needed to know about Shelby and his family.

Thomas Shelby had taken longer than Jack to get where he was, but Tommy didn’t have the benefit of a man willing to teach him his tricks like a father would. But now that Shelby Brothers Limited was rising to the level of wealth Grace thinks she deserves, Tomm Shelby was being romanced in that cool way of hers.

The kind that makes you believe you are doing everything, and she is naturally coming to love you. Just like she did with Clive and this fool with her.

“Thomas, these are Mr. and Mrs. Jack Nelson. Friends of mine from New York.” She says pretending she’s not prey caught in the quarry.

“Friends of her husband.” He corrects letting him know how little they cared for the blonde who’s smiles tightly with eyes betraying the embarrassment she feels. “My wife and I were relieved when she handed in her resignation. She was my secretary at my Wall Street Office before my Evie caught on to her tricks, did she tell you that?”

If Eva’s game, they could destroy this relationship to make this boring party worth getting dressed for.

“Never heard of you, I admit, Mr. Nelson.” The shorter man admitted. He kept a cool head; one he’d gained from surviving France and everything that made people like them rise out from the muck they were born in.

Grace was a trophy, a ticket to the society that hates them, just like Eva had been. The only difference is that Jack can trust and love Eva to her bones and Tommy only loves the surface he sees because he thinks he can ignore the smell of the rot underneath the shiny surface as long as he does.

He knows all that because deep down he and this miserable fool are the same. Only difference Jack knows to vet his women before sticking it in them.

“Not surprised, Gracie here has a habit of keeping too many of them. Did you know their doctor suggested the MacMillan's find a man to make the baby and she agreed to it?” They had dinner with them a few days ago, Jack had learned that from Clive when they went out on the balcony to smoke.

Grace’s move is to deny everything, but Shelby is smart enough to see through it.

“Pray the boy takes after her, the MacMillans really hate Romani people, especially anyone related to Arthur Shelby. Your father relieved them of two hundred thousand dollars, or was it three hundred, Jack?” the witch continues grinding the blonde underneath her heel and leaving the best part unsaid, she’d seen her death.

A month after marrying the man of her dreams, she will die. A curse placed on her by Tommy Shelby’s own auntie to keep lovely Grace Burgess away from her family.

“Tell Clive we’re still on for brunch at our place before the Derby.” Jack said with a shark-like smirk and a condescending pat on Shelby’s shoulder. “Use a rubber, Shelby, the last thing you want is to get gipped.”

Her marriage to Jack has given new life to her mean streak.

Eva had struggled not being a bit mean or petty ever since she learned what fun it was to be an asshole to people she dislikes or tries any shit with her.

Grace was pretty prey, a little blonde mouse she and Jack toy with and discard for no other reason than just disliking her.

It was just something in her aura, this sense of entitlement, this innocence she claims when the people she hurts do not count as people to her, and now thinking she can have her cake and eat it too.

“We saw your darling Grace at the party last night, did she tell you?” Eva wastes no time in ruining the morning.

“Can’t be, she was at her aunt’s place for supper.” Clive answers thinking surely Eva is making a mean joke. She’s never been subtle in her dislike of her, warned him about the man she sent letters to behind his back when he went through with the wedding.

“Clive, I was hoping to do this somewhere private, but---” Jack dropped his napkin and gave her a look for making them do this now.

He wanted to preserve some of Clive’s dignity, but Eva craved chaos and destruction and seeing the woman who the universe predestined she loathe no matter what be publicly humiliated.

Maybe it was because she tried to seduce Jack away from her because she didn’t see Eva as her equal for being Mexican. Yes, it must be that, Eva hates bigots and bootlickers and Gracie was everything she loathed in a person wrapped in pretty designer clothes.

“Tell me they’re lying, that you haven’t been with that tinker you send letters to, tell me, Grace, tell me you aren’t the whore my mother thinks you are?!” Clive doesn’t shout and yet his voice is shaking and angry enough to carry throughout the café.

“Clive, I---” the blonde cannot lie, not when Tommy Shelby’s bastard grows in her womb.

She was pregnant, about five or six weeks. Got pregnant from the many times she went to the house of the woman whose husband she had imprisoned for being a Jew and a communist.

Six weeks ago, when the doctor’s fertility treatments for her began. She had wanted a child, just not with Clive. She wanted the love of the man she had in 1919, not Clive.

Tommy Shelby hadn’t wanted to continue this affair; she’d heard of May Carleton. May who trains his horse and was sweet on according to other guests she made them speak to.

It had been fun to see her learn that Shelby wasn’t hers anymore.

And now Eva was a giddy as child knowing Grace would never set foot near her ever again. Even better that when she dies in 1924, she will die knowing those who wrong Eva Nelson never live happily ever after.

“I’m sorry, Clive, I love him and I’m having his baby.” Grace admits the truth for once in her miserable life and all hell breaks loose.

Clive is found dead with Grace’s gun in his hand.

“Did you have to do that, I told you Clive was a weak man.” Jack asks as they meet the woman who cursed Grace Shelby and reveal the sordid affair her nephew’s been having with her.

Fine woman, just murdered her rapist and now enjoys her victory the way it deserves.

“She was going to tell him and make him kill himself anyways, I assumed she’d have her gun in her handbag like any sensible woman would.” Eva answered as she enjoyed the bubbly champagne, courtesy of Polly Gray.

Grace may have not shot Clive MacMillan in this timeline, but her killing him is something that will always happen. Just like her being shot a month or so after her wedding and just like Tommy Shelby destroying everything and everyone around him because he refused to let go of the Dulcinea he created in his head in 1919.

A shame it must go this way, but it has to. Don Quixote only regained his sanity once the fantasy brought him to his death.

#eva nelson #national anthem fic #jack x eva #jack nelson x oc #jack nelson x eva smith

[cat-buried-in-tall-grass]

All of them for Vesper......?

alright. cracks knuckles.

arsene: has your oc ever been wronged by those around them? how bad was it? does it still affect them?

yes, by their father. he was abusive towards vesper for most of their childhood and teenage years, forging them into a weapon, by which i mean traumatizing them into having an eating disorder and several heaps of trauma. they might never fully recover.

rest utc !!!

zorro: does your oc remember their past, if they have one? do they miss it? how do they feel about it?

they do, most of it. a few bit are blurry, and they don't wanna know why. it's a little messy, back when they were a kid, they didn't actually have any blood on their hands. but everyone around them was already shaping them into someone that would have it, so they'd... rather not relive it.

captain kidd: does your oc have any scars or injuries? where do they come from? have they healed? how do they feel about them?

yes! both scars from their work as a hitman, from overflow of their own magic, and a few from bartending. they don't really pay them any mind anymore, the magic ones feel like freckles at this point. and alee likes em, so-

carmen: what’s your oc’s relationship with their own body, in general? do they have any true confidence in their own appearance?

god it's BAD. they objectify themself fully, not only on a sexual level, but on an existential one. they're not a person, they're a gun. they know they're some degree of conventionally attractive, and they know they're a good gun, so in a way they do have some confidence; it's just completely misplaced.

goemon: is your oc partial to the arts? which ones? do they actually partake in them? do they see meaning in them?

they used to enjoy reading a lot, and they still do! they just don't read as much anymore. they know there's meaning in them, but they don't... fully seek them out.

johanna: what are your oc’s religious beliefs, if they have any? are these beliefs commonplace where they live? do they practice this religion?

they technically follow finalism on account of... being a sorcerer. and they've kinda absorbed the practices alee follows. but the mixtios could never afford to be finalists. they could never be kind enough. it's relatively commonplace not to practice anything, anyways.

necronomicon: is your oc skilled with technology? to what extent? is it appreciated by the people around them?

yeah?? like. average knowledge for a 26 year old??? people around them don't give a shit tho lol

milady: does your oc come from wealth, poverty, or somewhere in between? what’s their current situation with wealth? how’d their economic upbringing affect their current personality?

WEALTH. the mixtios GOT that bag. and they're not like. super rich right now, but they're pretty well off by virtue of being a hitman. they were, however, raised by a woman who wasn't exactly swimming on cash, so they managed to dodge the rich kid cloud. they're a little out of touch, but not due to money.

robin hood: did your oc have any childhood heroes, real or fictional? do they still look up to them now? why?

mamá... they still think she's... way stronger than they are.

cendrillon: what’s your oc’s relationship with sports? what affects it?

because of their upbringing they were always sorta athletic, they could manage, and they'd play ball with friends back in buenos aires, but they never really loved sports. it seemed... like the happier version of what was happening to them. it made them bitter.

azathoth: what formal education has your oc received? what other forms of education? do they have any relation to academia?

finished highschool! got extra ed. on mixology plus all the extra shit from their training. they fucking hate academia though. it took quinn away from them, after all.

satanael: has the system failed your oc? are they at a societal disadvantage? do they wish they could change it? would they? at what cost?

it has. the system has designated their family a place in which they're allowed and encouraged to kill and destroy others, ruining the lives of their own kin in the process. the system allowed and encouraged victor to abuse them, and to make them into a hitman. deep inside, they wish they could just... drop arms. but they wouldn't lead the revolution, should it come to it. they know they're not the one that should.

mercurius: does your oc believe in hope? in resilience? when everything seems doomed, what do they cling to, if they do at all?

in hope? they'd like to. each day beside alee, mieran, miya, everyone, it makes them believe in it a little more. resilience? they have to. if they're not resilient, they won't last another day, and they have to last. and when everything is going to fall apart? they remember that alee is waiting for them at home. that's enough to keep them going.

seiten taisei: does your oc feel indebted to anyone? who? could they ever pay that debt back? do they really have to?

alee, heidi, mieran, anyone who spared them a glance as anything other than something made to be used, anyone who helped, who helps. they could never pay them back enough. but really, they don't have to.

hecate: what’s your oc’s experience with sexuality? how do they feel about it? do they wish they could change it?

it is what you could call MESSY. sleeping around as a teen to discover themself as someone rather than something, sleeping around as an adult to give themself value. it's only when they settle down and attempt actual intimacy with someone they care about that it's something they can truly enjoy. they wouldn't change it though. it's shaped them into a more functioning adult, weirdly enough.

kamu susano-o: what’s your oc’s true passion? how do they pursue it? how did they acquire it? at what cost does it come?

right now? mixology. creation with no blood. they'll work overtime and spend a bunch of money perfecting it because it gives them so much joy, which is kinda ironic, because it only really started cause they wanted a job at a place safe for queer ppl.

anat: where’s your oc’s self esteem at? high? low? why? what, or who, does it depend on?

shawty got low low low low low low low......... again, machine to kill! depends on their utility to others, fully.

prometheus: how does your oc cope with guilt? with loss? with loneliness? are they able to reach out to others for help?

starve. work. do the job as perfectly as your body will let you. someday, they'll be able to reach out before their body forces them to. but that's yet to happen.

astarte: how does your oc feel about their bloodline? their parents? do they have a legacy to uphold?

poorly 😭 they're born to kill, almost bred for it. to keep up the legacy of the almighty mixtios, so, for most of their predecessors, they feel contempt. not for the younger ones, though. and definitely not for mamá. they love her.

loki: does your oc believe in revenge? in retributive justice? in punishment? at what cost? for whom?

yes, they have to, if they wanna sleep at night. they kill cheaters, rapists, killers, scum. sam taylor's drawn out death is proof; destiny has allowed them to shoot because these people deserve it. for their victims. for their conscience.

vanadis: has your oc ever lost someone they loved? an equal? how do they feel about this person? do they wanna go back to before the loss?

a young man that called himself quinn. destiny, academia, and darkness took him from them all too soon. and even though he's back, as sweet as the day they lost him, sometimes they wish they could go back, do something about it. they know it's no use, but at night, they still wonder.

adam kadmon: does your oc yearn for control? why? of what? do they have it, could they ever have it? should they be in control?

of their own mind. to wrestle it away from the cage and the pain it's been forced into. control of who they are meant to be. but they know that'll never be in their hands. someday, they'll make their peace with that.

#sparklers : asks #vessel : vesper mixtio

[archivelondonfalling-rpg]

Beatrice “Bea” Campbell ♦ Cis Woman (she/her) ♦ 44 ♦ Government/Media ♦ London Mayor PR Representative

The only person I can authentically be is me and I’m going to do a bloody good job at it.

The Campbell family were people in London who were not well-known but certainly well-off. Beatrice was the daughter of a general surgeon and a lawyer. They lived in Knightsbridge and as she grew up Bea certainly didn’t wish for anything. Perhaps it was that security that set Beatrice on the path she ended up in.

She was a ‘free spirit’ and in a family that was prim and proper she didn’t fit in. By the time she was 15 her elder brother was heading to law school, following in their father’s footsteps and instead she was barely passing high school classes and instead focusing on fun. She knew the time would come that she’d choose a profession and settle down but for now she wanted to enjoy things. She’d go out with friends, her boyfriend, do live art classes or late parties. She wanted to have some stories to tell before university.

That outlook changed her life. She was eighteen when the positive pregnancy test turned up. Of course Beatrice and her boyfriend were stunned, this certainly had not been the plan. But they loved each other and in their naive eyes that was all that mattered. Their bubble was quickly popped once their parents found out. Both pairs of adults were furious and absolutely adamant that if the pair wanted to have the child they’d have no support from either of them. So the pair made a huge decision. They would become parents, on their own. However, it didn’t stay as just the two of them for very long. The two of them were polyamorous and although they presumed that their partner would not want to continue a relationship after having a child involved it turned out they did. So Bea, her boyfriend and her girlfriend moved in together. The home that they could afford was very small, a one bed flat in a very different area of London to the one they were used to.

Beatrice left school to raise their child, her partners continued on at school so that he could get a better job for them. Up until her pregnancy progressed too far Bea had a job as a checkout assistant at the local shop. Throughout school her partners took on different jobs to try and provide.  The trio had a son and the little family became one of four.

Despite the difficulties with money the family got by and they were happy with the three adults very much in love. Over time Beatrice was able to return to college to get her qualifications and started looking into full time work once her son was in primary school.

It came to a surprise to most that knew her that she became interested in media and PR. She worked for an HR company in her twenties whilst working part time on a college course for a better qualification. From there she continued to make her way in the world of PR soon creating a good reputation for herself as she began getting involved with bigger, more prestigious companies. It was quite the riches to rags and back to riches story and although certain details of her private life were kept unknown she didn’t shy away from the majority of it.

Which is also how Bea ended up involved within the world of politics. PR and media relations were becoming more and more important. Press attaches were looking for PR representatives to work with different politicians. For a few years Bea freelanced but when Safiya was employed with Luis things changed once more. Bea trusted Safiya and more than that she was interested in the policies that Luis was suggesting as the mayor of the city Bea loved so much. Since then she has been working as a PR representative soon becoming head of PR for Luis Espino’s office.

At the moment Bea is very content in her life, she has two partners she adores, a son who is thriving and a job that she is continuously challenged by. What more could a girl ask for?

+/-: intellectual, quick thinking, passionate, caring, reckless, stubborn, loud, sarcastic

If Bea was to have done another job she’d have loved to be an illustrator, in particular children’s books.

She writes everything down in lists claiming that if she doesn’t she won’t do it. Those lists are also covered with doodles.

Being a mother is Beatrice’s proudest achievement.

She hates broccoli but adores cauliflower

Safiya is Bea’s cousin. Bea’s mother’s brother is Safiya’s father. He did his best to help her when she was starting in PR.

FC: Hannah Waddingham

#government #media #hannah waddingham #bea campbell #crime rp #semi appless rp #oc rp #skeleton rp #writtenbyc #taken

[snifflesthemouse]

There's a sense of freedom that comes with anonymity of online interactions. This sense of freedom only exists because of the fact it's difficult for the real world to catch up with you in your real life. Unless of course, you go after the wrong one.

When a person goes after someone else solely because they think differently or have a strong opposing opinion, they often do so with a false gusto and bravery that only exists in the virtual realm. Like many say online, "You'd never say that to my face." And that's true for most people... but not all people.

And because of this anonymity, that affords all internet users the freedom to say whatever, a real life concern spawns from a virtual world. This real life concern is often referred to as "doxxing" where one internet user uses what clues and resources they have available to "expose" another internet user's real life. This has happened to many people I watch on YouTube. Some have even had to involve the real life police, as well as uproot their entire lives and move because of doxxing.

For example, Murky Meg has been doxxed a couple times now. She's had her real life threatened by doxxing. Terrifyingly, she wasn't the only target threatened because the douche flutes also brought her children into it. Yes, the same people who worship the Montecito Madam and preach the mantras of "compassion and kindness" and "leave children out of this" have gone so far as to go after Murky Meg's real life and real life children. And sadly, the threats and attacks never really stop. Especially when articles like the one I wrote about make the rounds. But Murky Meg doesn't allow this all to silence her; she keeps calm and carries on regardless.

Another example involves Yankee Wally. She was targeted repeatedly over copyright infringement on her YouTube channel, as well as having her social media accounts suspended repeatedly over the last few years. And even though Yankee Wally has never pretended to be anything or anyone else than who she is in real life, people have attempted to use her past as a weapon to discredit her. Those attempts are futile, though, because Yankee Wally has always been open and honest about her life. She's also been very clear to the people watching her that she will fight back if need be.

Then there's According2Taz. While Taz has gone through the same ringer that so many others have gone through (from doxxing to threats, harassment, and verbal abuse), she has also been attacked financially. Especially when it comes to her supporting good causes. Some twat waffles have sent her £0.01 via PayPal with notes attached. Notes that are grossly abusive, calling her fat and ugly, and saying her husband is cheating on her. Others have sent requests asking her to pay them £100 with notes attacking HRH Catherine the Duchess of Cambridge and her book. Murky Meg got a similar request, as well. But the most heinous impediment coming from the Montecito Madam's extremists, involved charity. Once, when Taz was raising money for Australian wildlife affected by the wildfires; someone reported her PayPal account and those funds were held up for some time before getting released for the cause. Then, again, Taz was targeted when she was raising funds to help an elderly woman who got robbed. Yes, the very same people, who stand on custom-made soap boxes emblazoned with the Sussex monogram, did everything they possibly could to marginally disrupt charity. Yet Taz does not waiver; she keeps going.

As bad as Murky Meg, Yankee Wally, and Taz have had it, they're sadly not alone. No, they are only three examples from a plethora of examples. Of that plethora, one more example comes to mind. That example involves DanjaZone (Ashli).

Ashli, who started her YouTube channel before the whole Megxit ordeal as a way to keep in touch with family, was even the subject of a blind item from CDAN (crazy days and nights). You see, Ashli and her family lost everything they had in a horrible house fire. Rumors swirled around the fire, but the most heinous comments came from the Sussex Squad's more prominent loudmouths. Some accused Ashli of lying about the fire in an attempt to scam people for money. Others called her white trash and trailer trash. So while Ashli was going through the loss of her home and everything she owned... while she was grieving the loss of family pets and irreplaceable family mementos... while she was down and out on her luck and trying to cope with all the pain and loss... while she was going through all of the attacks from doubters saying she faked the fire or was lying, that she was trailer trash... the disciples of the Duchess were laughing and celebrating her pain as a win. Never once considering the fact that Ashli has been in recovery for years now, and the stress from the fire coupled with the heartless, feckless attacks, could in fact push her over the edge.

No, the very same people, who scream via CAPS lock on social media that critics of Meghan should "leave her alone", that her critics drove the Montecito Madam to "suicidal ideation while pregnant" could care less about Ashli's mental health. Yes, the very same people, who lodged over 50,000 OFCOM complaints against Piers Morgan because he questioned their beloved's outlandish attacks during the Oprah interview, previously found no issues with attacking Ashli during one of the hardest times in her life. Yet, Ashli picked up the pieces and never gave up or gave into their attacks.

Again, these four examples are just the tip of the hypocritical iceberg. There are countless more examples out there. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people who criticize Meghan's and Harry's behaviors can all relate. Nobody is safe or off limits from this iceberg; from Royal Rota reporters, celebrities, and politicians to regular people who aren't rich, famous, or in possession of a global platform.

Yet nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, in the media or in journalism ever cover any of this. You can find articles galore written with the intentions of exposing "Meghan Markle Haters". Articles like the one I wrote about attacking critics and reducing us all to the stereotypes of racist, misogynist, bigot, envious, etc.

What that does is send a clear, prominent message to the people who cling to every word of the Montecito Madam. The people who cling to the wind coming from her mouth, her "close friends" or fake "palace insiders" hear those dog whistles loud and clear. The dog whistles that say "It's okay, keep attacking and hurting people. They're evil, hateful racists. They deserve the abuse. You're on the side of good. Go harder!"

When in truth, the wind they cling to coming from their beloved's mouth or mouthpieces is actually falsehoods, lies, and manifestations of grandeur that is no more real than Netflix's The Crown. No, the wind they cling to really comes from the south mouth of their beloved. But God forbid anyone hold their little cult accountable.

We cannot have a society where sensationalism trumps truth. We cannot weaponize the press and use it against people simply because they criticize the Meghan Markles of the world. It is unacceptable for the press, media platforms, or anyone with a prominent influence on society, to celebrate defenders of the Meghan Markle faith without first acknowledging the truth.

The truth, which is often dream dashing and harsh, is that "Meghan Markle Lovers" could care less about compassion, kindness, charity, children, or community. The truth is, they could care less about forgiveness or loving thy neighbors. We don't have to look to their savior figurehead to prove this to be true. We only have to look at the comments section or Twitter.

Those of us who criticize or dislike Meghan and Harry because of their behavior know all too well the truth will never be written up on the front page of the Sun, the Daily Mail, or People Magazine. The mirage of us being the racists, misogynists, or detesting haters sells papers. And the papers don't want to be in that same category.

Maybe one day the press will tell the stories of people like Murky Meg, Yankee Wally, Taz, Ashli, and countless others in an effective way that exposes the real haters in the relationship. Maybe one day, the victims of the Montecito Madam's cult following will be doxxed, exposed, and sent a new message. A message that says, "We see you for the hypocrites you are. You may repeat the preachings of your Madam like it's the new woke gospel, but you don't practice it. You're a big reason why people loathe your beloved. You make her look worse. You aren't defending her, you are condemning her. Keep it up, because we see you and we will expose you!"

If only...

#murky meg #yankeewally #according2taz #DanjaZone #megxit

[midasinc]

canon era feuilly/enjolras

-feuilly comes to paris without a sous in his pocket and only the clothes on his back. he's worked little jobs here and there for his whole life and he's doing the same. at twenty-one, he's matured too much for his young age. when he secures an apprenticeship under a fanmaker, he's overwhelmed to find himself with a small room to stay in and a place to put his hat

-two years into his apprenticeship, he's given a real job under the fanmaker he's been spending most of his days with and it's the closest thing he has with a family, honestly. but now he can pay them for rent and has a real job and the first day he can afford something real, he buys himself this shiny, shiny green cravat and it looks incredibly tacky with his worker's clothing, all worn and yellowed with age and sweat and stain, but he loves it and he wears it all the time

-one day in the winter, he's walking home from a delivery and it's too fucking cold and he can't feel his fingers or his toes and his skin burns from how frozen he is because feuilly can't afford a coat, and he has to stop inside a cafe to ensure that he makes it home alive and there's this couple of rich-looking students whispering about a meeting as they head into a back room and feuilly is curious by nature, so he follows

-turns out, it's a super politically charged group with lots of talking over each other and speeches and arguing and he sits back and listens and he slips back out after an hour. at home, he thinks about it in bed. feuilly's been in many different places, he's seen so many people in pain. he's been in so much pain- starvation, loneliness, oppression, he's seen it all and he's felt it all

-he spends his free time reading books from the fanmaker's collection: his atlas, his novels, and more. mixed with both his opinions and his experiences, feuilly writes his ideas on government and politics and society on the back scrap of an old list of paints he'd been sent out to buy and he ties his green cravat as nicely as he can and he returns to the cafe

-there's no one there

-and he goes again

-and there's no one there

-and feuilly gives up for a few more days before getting up on a sunday and going once more- cravat tied and list in his hands- and there are students there. the same ones as before, maybe. maybe they aren't, he can't remember. but he's there and for a moment his hands are shaking and he's afraid that these rich students are going to make fun of him, but something possesses him to stand and-

-enjolras is twenty years old. he's studying law and dawns his hat and coat the same as he does every sunday. he's got a particularly long spiel planned about workers' rights and he completely ignores the women passing by and whispering about him because he always does

-enjolras has never been interested in a woman and he does not intend to be- the only thing he truly loves is his country

-he greets combeferre at the door and apologizes for running a bit late, but he sets his things down and momentarily notices a new face in the corner. enjolras thought he mightve seen him at the last meeting, but doesn't recognize him from school, or the area, or anything. the only noticeable thing about him is the incredibly tacky green cravat tied around his neck, shining in the candlelight.

-enjolras asks courfeyrac to greet him and starts the meeting

-he begins to talk about the situation of lower class working peoples and the life of factory workers and low-paid artisans and he's cut off. the man from the corner stands abruptly

-"have you ever worked?"

-for a moment, enjolras is like (oh my fucking god we have another grantaire) but answers truthfully that no, he's never worked. he's never had to

-the young man doesn't berate him, however, but he corrects him in explaining in more detail what people go through and the limbs they lose and the sores on their fingers and the soot that stains their skin all for what? hardly anything. he's surprisingly knowledgeable about lower classes, more than anyone else. courfeyrac returns to enjolras's side and murmurs into his ear that he's actually working class and actually their first member who isn't a student himself

-enj gets stars in his eyes because this is the actually the opening they needed- they need more of this demographic

-after the meeting, he stops the young man with the cravat and asks him for his name. the man is hesitant to shake his hand but does so anyway and introduces himself as feuilly. enjolras takes the time to ask him about himself and his relations to the working community and that's how feuilly gets his first task of asking around for new members

-once again, he's hesitant, but he says okay. enjolras gets starry-eyed again and shakes his hands and thanks him very much and leaves

-feuilly sneaks back into his apartment and loosens his tie and lays in bed, drumming his fingers and unable to sleep. his hand still feels warm from enjolras's firm handshake. he's probably the luckiest guy alive- enjolras is. he's rich, handsome, smart. he's sure to marry well and be successful and have sons who will be the same as he was. feuilly can't really think straight, so he blows out the candle in his room and forces his body to fall asleep

-for the first time in his life, he dreams of having friends and having people his age look at him like a person, and not just a face in the crowd

-come the next week, he's got another couple workers in tow and enjolras greets them just as enthusiastically as he did feuilly. his heart sinks in his chest, thinking that enjolras might not want to be his friend at all. feuilly sits next to the workers and listens through the meeting and tries not to feel melancholy about still being alone

-after the meeting, a hand catches his arm. enjolras is asking if he could stay, maybe, and talk with him about politics. it seems like a loaded statement, but feuilly agrees

-they discuss governments in other countries and political theories and he learns that enjolras is very politically charged for a young man with his status- more than any other possible person. when he talks, his brow furrows and his eyes refuse to stray from the person he speaks with and he talks with his hands. oh he talks with his hands. feuilly can't possibly look away. listening to enjolras talk is like getting drunk off absinthe.

-it's just as addicting to talk back. feuilly wants to debate with him and correct him when he's wrong and say everything he thinks. sometimes, enjolras agrees. sometimes, he catches enjolras by surprise by what he knows. he taught himself to read and write and he isn't stupid. feuilly's intelligent, even if he hasn't been fortunate enough to afford a real education for himself

-simple post-meeting conversations turn to other nightly conversations, ones at enjolras's student lodgings and at cafes with combeferre and courfeyrac and feuilly finds himself excited to see him. as he's painting throughout the day, he thinks about what he wants to talk about with enjolras the next time he sees him

-one day, the madame of the house asks him which grisette has him with such a smile on his face and feuilly laughs it off

-but that cannot defy the fact that he's thinking about that serious look on enjolras's face and the smile that curls the corners of his mouths when feuilly says something smart and he's reaching a hand into his sleep pants and screwing his eyes shut and

-ah. that's it.

-enjolras doesn't notice when feuilly gets a bit more reserved around him. he still pulls him aside and asks him for his input and gives him looks, prompting him to speak when somebody says something he knows feuilly could refute. feuilly is a bit more quiet, however, and it's only after a week that enjolras thinks something might be off

-finding out where he works, enjolras walks downtown to the fanmaker's shop and steps inside. he sees feuilly with his cap and his sleeves pushed up as he details a flower on a fan, hand steady and strokes delicate. he bites his lip when he's focused, enjolras notices

-"feuilly"

-feuilly startles, thankfully not messing up his fan. he glances over at him with wide eyes and then back at his work and then back at enjolras.

-"enj...olras." -enjolras steps up to the counter and asks him if he's feeling ill or if he's working too hard. he says that he's been quiet and off and wants to know if something is wrong

-feuilly pauses and shakes his head. he apologizes for being that way and invites enjolras to talk like they normally should. he says his lodgings are here and if enjolras wanted he could come over. his face is pink, when he says it and enjolras really does worry that he might be ill

-nonetheless, enjolras says he'll come over

-feuilly is fucking sweating bullets. he's worried that he'll say something awful and enjolras will find him to be a degenerate and throw him out of their socialist club

-he's still unsure of how to go about this situation and puts on his green cravat for when enjolras is over and neatens up his apartment as much as he can and by the time enjolras is there, he's apologizing for it not being much and probably being worse than enjolras expected

-enjolras is nice about it, though, and has his notes and books as per usual and doesn't seem to think any differently of him. they talk like usual and after a while, enjolras asks him about his work. he knows feuilly has no family and worked under this man for a while, but he's never seen him at work. he talks a bit about his painting and his commissions with fans and offers to show enjolras what painting a fan is like, but he doesn't have any good fans or paper and he doesn't want to ruin enjolras's notes. enj sticks out his arm, though, and says he could always paint on him

-once again- sweating bullets

-enjolras is glad when feuilly wants to show him his talents. with small pots of paints and a delicate brush, he murmurs to himself about styles and paints an example of popular designs with flowers and more

-feuilly's fingers are rough and warm against his arm and enjolras watches the tip of his nose as he paints, the flutter of his lashes and the splatter of freckles across his face. he finds himself very fortunate to have a friend like feuilly: one who's intelligent, credible where he stands on his opinions, and so very talented.

-hm

-after a moment, feuilly finishes an orchid and he sets down his brush, admiring the pale flower on enjolras's forearm. he doesn't mean to, but his hand lags behind on enj's arm, thumb gently stroking against the skin

-enjolras is watching him very carefully, he notices and thinks that he should probably let go and apologize at this point, but enjolras's feet are pointed towards him and his finger curls inward to brush against feuilly's other hand and his eyes flicker down to the area above his chin

-it's the same at that meeting, when something possessed feuilly to stand up and address an unfamiliar crowd. he leans forward in his seat and presses a very, very careful kiss to enjolras's lips. when he gets nothing in return, he momentarily considers hurling himself into the seine, but then enjolras pushes back forward and kisses him back and it's clunky and their teeth clink together for a moment before they figure each other out

-enjolras doesn't like women or men, he likes feuilly and he loves his country. he spends the night in his apartment- and they don't do much else but kiss. enjolras listens to feuilly talks about poland and germany and presses gentle kisses to his temples and the side of his mouth and his jaw because feuilly is intelligent, overwhelmingly so, and enjolras finds it very attractive

#they deserve smooches #aaaaaaaaaaaaa #les mis #les miserables #enjolras #feuilly #enjolras x feuilly #les amis de l'abc #les amis #canon era #les mis headcanons

[vroomvroomkachowboi]

The Gift of Magi

smut, fluff, angst: fluff ig

pairing: draco malfoy x reader (fem)

word count: 1.8k (1897 specifically) 

summary: it’s valentine’s day soon, y/n decides to sell something to get draco a gift, since she’s poor, she sells a valuable item to buy him something,  and draco’s gift relates to the item she sold  (this is based off of that one christmas story “the gift of magi”, except its valentine’s day and draco is obviously not poor)

warning: i think curse words, and i barely proofread my one shots so, and math sort of   

a/n: i hope y’all know what story i’m talking about because then it would be embarrassing for me lmao. (if you’re confused just search up mickey’s once upon a christmas, you’ll probably recognize it) omg the amount of math i had to do for this one shot is ridiculous,  but i’m actually really proud of this, also he won’t be very draco-like 

Valentine’s Day would be a lot sooner than later. The day of love would be here in 2 days and Y/n still needed to buy a gift for Draco, her boyfriend. Unfortunately, she was just as poor as the Weasley family. She felt bad, Draco loved to spoil her even on regular days, since the Malfoy’s were filthy rich. She just wanted for their first Valentine’s day to be perfect, she almost couldn’t send him anything during winter break. He, however, sent her many gifts that she wasn’t expecting. She just knew Draco was going to spoil the shit out of her for Valentine’s Day.

Thankfully it was Saturday, and she could go into Hogsmeade, and fortunately for her, Draco had to stay at Hogswarts to study for an important test in potions class, which gave her some time to go and look for a gift. The first place she’d go is to Honeydukes, she’ll buy him his favorite candy first and see how much money she’ll have left over and find him a suitable and cheap present.

When she arrives at Hogsmeade, she runs into Honeydukes and begins collecting all his favorite candies, she paid for them and left, trying to find a store that sold a good enough gift for her boyfriend. From the corner of her eye, she saw it.

The perfect gift for Draco.

Her friend had told her about a new jewelry shop at was right by Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. She walks over the window to get a closer look. On display, at the window, she stared at the ring. A silver snake ring. It had a real Victorian style, the snake would loop around his finger 3 times, each scale was defined from the tip of the tail, to it’s end of it’s face, and the snake had emerald eyes. It was truly meant for Draco.

Her heart dropped when she looked at the price. 150 galleons?! How would she afford the ring, she only had 20 galleons left, and she had to save it for a while, where would she get 130 galleons?

She began to fidget with her necklace. A habit she did when she was nervous. It was a gorgeous minimal gold necklace with a moon on it. She found it on the street when she was younger when she visited the muggle world as a trip. Draco loved it as much as she did.

Coincidentally she saw a sign at the window saying “We buy jewelry as well!”, the idea popped into her head at that moment.

She walked in and saw the beautiful jewelry around her, she never got to go into stores like these since she barely had any money, she became so distracted in the beautiful earrings on display, that she didn’t notice a middle-aged woman standing right next to her, not until the lady cleared her throat for her attention.

“Hello, young lady. How may I help you today? Looking for something in particular?” The lady spoke in her strong London accent. Y/n blushed in embarrassment. “Yes. I’m getting a present for my boyfriend. I saw the sign, and I want to sell this,” She said, unclasping her necklace, and handing it over to the lady. The lady put her glasses on, which made her eyes look twice as large, as she inspected Y/n’s necklace. With a wave of her wand, the lady tested for real gold in her necklace. The woman looked at her necklace for a good minute before looking back up at Y/n.

“It is real gold. I will give you 140 galleons for this.” The lady said. Y/n eyes widen. That was a lot of money! She didn’t even know that she had something so expensive hanging around her neck for so long. For a moment, Y/n thought about saying no, but she thought about how perfect the ring would be for Draco and said yes. The lady handed her 140, giving her in total, 160 galleons.

“Is that all I can do for you miss?” The lady asked. “Uh, I saw that snake ring in the window. I’d like to buy it please.” Y/n said to her. The lady opened up a cabinet on her side of the table. “Size?” She asks. Y/n tells her Draco’s ring size and pays her the 150 galleons. Leaving her with 10 galleons left over, she leaves Hogsmeade and goes back to Hogwarts to prepare Draco’s gifts.

Valentine’s Day finally arrived. Draco had his owl send Y/n a letter, telling her to meet him at Astronomy Tower after the end of classes. She waited all day to see her boyfriend, unfortunately, they didn’t have any classes together, but he did say hello in the morning, and they both pecked before telling each other “Happy Valentine’s Day”.

But finally, the end of the day came, and Draco and Y/n planned on eating their favorite foods and exchange gifts at the Astronomy Tower. She ran out her final class, and into her dorm. She wanted to get all dolled up for the date, she did her makeup and put on a cute and date-worthy outfit, since it was a date and Draco was always dressed up in one of his black suits. Finally, she put on an outfit she felt and looked good in and she knew Draco would also enjoy it too.

She went up the spiral staircase that led up to the tower, Draco was there, leaning on the railing, wearing his all black suits. She let her presence be known as she ran up the stairs, Draco saw his girlfriend’s head pop up and smiled.

Before they said anything, Y/n ran up to Draco, and threw her arms around his neck, embracing him in a bear hug, he returned it by wrapping his arms around her waist. One of his hands made it’s way up to pet her hair, “Hey love, happy Valentine’s Day.” He whispers. She let go of his a little to face him but connected her lips with his, which he immediately kissed her back, holding her face with one of his cold, large hands.

“Come sit, darling. I brought you’re favorite, y/f!” He says and lets go of her. He sits on the large blanket he brought, and she sat on the opposite end, with their foods sitting between them. They talked and laughed for a while, until he brought up the topic of gifts. “Can I go get my present for you, my love?” She nods. He gets up and grabs something from a dark corner. He pulled out a huge teddy bear, a box of all her favorite candies, and a bouquet of all her favorite flowers.

She knew it. Draco did go all out for her, she can’t say she surprised. “Awe thank you, Draco! Wow, you didn’t have to get me so much.” She says. “But I wanted to darling. I love to spoil you, the look on your face is all worth it. Plus I don’t mind, I have plenty of money.” He says back. She gets up and grabs Draco’s hands, kissing both of them. “Thank you, I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.”

She saw Draco’s heart melt right there, she kissed him before he said something cheesy. As always, Draco puts his skinny pale hand to her face when they were kissing, something she always loved. “I love you.” He says as he pulls back. “I love you too, Dray.” She says, smiling at him.

He looks down at her outfit, “I forgot to mention, that I liked your outfit love. You walked in, and I thought I saw an angel.” She laughed at his words. “Thanks, baby. But enough with the cheesy compliments.” They both laughed at her words. “I didn’t get you as much as you got me, I only got you 2 things.” She pulls out her purse, pulling out all the sweets she bought at the shop. His eyes lighten up. “Awe love, you got all my favorites in here!” He thanks her and puts the baggie of candy down on the blanket with the food.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Uh, wait. I thought you said 2 gifts?” He questions. Pulling out the box containing the ring, she hands it to him. “I really hope you like it. I almost couldn’t get my hands on it. I saw it at Hogsmeade when you were studying for the potions test. I saw it at the window, and I thought, ‘that was made for Draco.’” She says, suddenly feeling nervous about Draco if liked the gift she got him.

Draco smiled as he pulls the ribbon, and opened the box. He gasped and looked at her, and back the ring. He grabs the ring and slipping onto his left ring finger. “Oh Merlin, Y/n. I love it! But it looks expensive, how much was it?” He questions, suddenly curious since he knew she was just as poor as Weaslebee.

“I sold my necklace for it. I didn’t even know my necklace cost 140 galleons! I wanted to make our first Valentine’s Day perfect...” As she rambled on about the necklace and ring, Draco’s smile dropped, and Y/n noticed it. “What’s wrong, Dray? I know you liked the necklace but I did it for you.” Draco didn’t say anything, only to pull out a white rectangular box from the inner pocket of his jacket.

He hands it to her, and she opened it skeptically. Now she knew why he was so upset. To match her necklace, Draco brought her gold star dangling earrings and gold charm bracelet with the planets. Y/n didn’t know whether to be happy or upset, she loved her gift, but now she felt dumb for using her necklace to buy his ring. “Shit, Draco. I don’t know what to say, I’m sorry.” She says, she couldn’t even look him in the eyes, just stared at the floor.

“Y/n, I understand you don’t have that much money, you don’t need to buy me expensive gifts for you to show your love to me. I already know you do, I would’ve been content with the sweets. I love the ring though, I was just really surprised.” He says and uses his hand to get her to look at him. Her eyes were watery, she was at the verge of tears. “I just wanted to make our Valentine’s day perfect. You spoil me so much, I just wanted to do it in return.”

He whispers a “It’s okay darling, come here.” And pulls her in for a hug. She returns it back, just wanting to feel his arms around her. “I was gonna gift you this,” She pulls back to pull out her wand and whispers, “Accio photograph.” In just a second or two, a framed photo landed in her hand. Draco grabbed it and look at it.

It was a photo of them two the first month they started dating, they made silly faces and laughed in the photo, Draco smiled at the memory. “Awe, darling, I love it!” He says, throwing his arms around her. She does the same and apologizes again. “Don’t you worry, my love. I’ll just buy it back, for you.” He whispers and pulls his head back a little to kiss Y/n. “I love you, happy Valentine’s Day darling.”

#Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy oneshots #Harry Potter #harry potter oneshot #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #draco smut #draco angst #draco fluff #lucius malfoy #narcissa malfoy #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #wizarding world #hogwarts #hogwart houses #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy x ravenclaw!reader #draco malfoy x gryffindor!reader #draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader #ron weasley #hermione granger #dramione

[dramaqueeenamby]

Waves: Quarantine

A/N: It's been way too long since I've done something for the Wavesverse, and I apologize deeply. I have a few requests related to this series to complete, but I couldn't knock this idea.

Words: 4K

Warnings: None

Tags: @babe-im-bi @notacamelthatsmywife @missyperle @queenoftheworldisdead @tashawar @valkryienymph @letsshamelessqueen-m @hello-therree @mani-lifes @liquorlaughslove @toni9 @koko-michelle @theequeenofcurses @taylortheeshowpony

Waves

Summer placed her phone inside of the mount and made sure that it was secured before she sat back in her bed, getting comfortable with the mass of pillows supporting her back, and smiling tentatively. “Hi, guys.”

Summer!

Someone tell me this isn’t a joke???? Please???

She lives!

Sis, blink twice if you need help.

Summer rolled her eyes. “Ya’ll better stop. I know it’s been a minute since I’ve hopped on live, but it hasn’t been that damn long.”

Summer continued to read the comments where more than a few people pointed out she hadn’t gone live on Instagram in over three months. Her mouth dropped. “Ya’ll lying. It has not been almost six months, has it?” She placed her hand over her mouth when people started dropping dates in the comments. “Okay, I stand corrected. Damn, I’m sorry, guys.”

Don’t be sorry, bestie. Do better!

Damn, ya’ll are so entitled. Celebrities have lives too.

What life? We all been in quarantine.

Rich people quarantine be different from us poor folks, I guess.

“So that’s actually one of the things I wanted to talk about.” Summer cleared her throat. “And I’m going to try really hard to make sure I word what I want to say as clear and as effective as I can, but I know this is still going to end up as a salacious headline. So, it is what it is.”

Oooh, Summer about to drop some tea.

I don’t see her wedding ring, ya’ll…..

I’m scared omg.

Watch this be nothing but a role announcement.

She shrugged and took a deep breath. “Okay, so a few days ago, I did the Buss It challenge, after being harassed by Sanda. And can I just say that filming was a challenge in and of itself? Not necessarily the movements but preparing? I’ve got two kids, twins, who are like the Tasmanian devil. I was literally up at 3 something in the morning trying to record it because my wild children won’t let me be great.” She chuckled. “Kids are something else.”

Summer truly jumped through hoops and was a damn near acrobat trying to figure out when she could not only get herself done up but actually record the challenge. Being the perfectionist that she was didn’t help, but the fact that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d put on makeup and dressed up was a whole other fiasco.

Quarantine definitely brought out her bum side.

“All of that aside, I truly was satisfied and happy with the final product when I posted it. In hindsight, I should have just left it that, but I wake up every day and choose chaos, so I decided to read the comments.” She blew out a breath. “One of the most frequent comments and really, insults, I’ve received my whole career. Primarily, since I was cast as Storm, revolves around how I look. I.e., my weight. I’ve been called fat, obese, out of shape, and so many other things.”

It was 100% true. The minute Marvel announced that she’d been chosen to play Storm, the racists came all out of the woodworks. She was too short, too chubby, too dark, too black. And Summer didn’t care, not a bit.

“Even,—and I’ll tell you guys this, when I first started my SS training, that’s what I call it, SS for Storm Shape, there was a—person who worked for Marvel at the time who came to visit me while I was training.” She smiled thinking back on that day. She could still recall it so clearly. “He basically was pissed because to him, I still looked the same, fat and out of shape.” She adjusted her top and shifted in her bed. “That same day, I deadlifted and bench-pressed over 200lbs” She paused for effect. “What I need for people to stop doing is stop fucking projecting—and I’m going to cuss in this, so if you don’t like it, oh well. I work for Disney, but I’m a grown ass woman, and I’m going to say what I want.”

I am screaming. Summer said we getting alll the tea today!

So, it’s wrong to point out that someone is physically unhealthy now, cool?

The problem is that no one wants to see a fat superhero. It’s not realistic.

^^^^ Tell me you have a small dick without actually telling me you have a small dick.

“I saw Lizzo, whom I adore, post a Tik Tok where she basically said that she workouts to have the body she wants not what ya’ll want, and honestly? Same. She said that her body type is no one’s fucking business, and that’s so true. Ya’ll love to hop on this internet and pick apart people you don’t even know and criticize bodies you don’t even have to live in and move around with. And for what?” She shook her head, slamming her fist into her open palm as she spoke. She was fully invested now. “I know we in quarantine, but damn, pick another hobby cause being a bully is not it, sweetie.”

I really needed to hear this today.

Using Lizzo as a point of reference makes everything you’re saying null and void. Lizzo is clearly overweight and at risk for diabetes, heart disease, just to name a few…..

I been saying this! You can’t look at a person and say they’re unhealthy.

Bodies come in so many forms, and all are beautiful.

“Now, I bring all this up because a lot of people were commenting on my Buss It challenge and pointing out the fact that I’ve gained weight, and guess fucking what? I have, and you know what else?” She leaned over to whisper while covering her mouth with her hands for focused effect. “I don’t care.”

Summer laughed and shook her head. “As others have pointed out as well, yes, we have a gym in our house. I 1000% acknowledge the fact that having the resources that I do as a celebrity and someone who has money puts me in a different category. Hell, my husband has a whole fitness app. I recognize that. If I wanted to keep up with my workouts, emphasis on wanted, I could have. I own up to that, but I just didn’t feel like it, and that’s okay. What’s not okay is to send and leave mean messages calling me all kinds of names.”

Summer had thick skin. She always had. Growing up with her family, who always ensured to feed her self esteem and make sure she knew that she was beautiful, definitely paid off. It was just a combination of quarantine and not having a lot of opportunities to keep herself busy with work that had her feeling some type of way.

“And that’s something else I wanted to bring up.” She blew out another breath and tried to gather her emotions. This was the subject she was almost certain she’d grow teary eyed discussing. “I love my husband to death. My children are everything. Christopher’s family is like my own, but— I haven’t seen my family, like my mom, grandma, brothers, etc in almost a year.” She paused, dwelling on that. Almost an entire year since she’d been able to physically hug and interact with the people who made her who she was. “And I’ve always made it clear how much I fucking love my family. I live in Australia. I can’t do a drive by with grandma so I and my kids can at least see her on the doorstep.” She quieted again, eyes darting off as she quietly cursed. “I’m trying really hard not to cry right now.”

Please don’t cry, bestie.

This is the side of quarantine that people don’t talk about enough.

Has this woman never heard of FaceTime????

I feel her pain. I live in Europe, and my family is in the states. This quarantine has been brutal.

My grandma died from COVID, and I couldn’t even go to the funeral. Summer is bringing up a good point.

“Damn,” Summer chuckled bitterly and wiped at the tears that fell. “I’m okay, I promise. I just bring this up because quarantine has also been very hard for me in that aspect. At certain points, I’ve been down, I’ve been in my head a lot, and I just was not, for the most part, in a space where I felt like I had to keep up my fitness regimen. And that’s okay. I put my mental wellbeing ahead of making sure my body is socially acceptable. Sue me.”

I really appreciate her honesty.

Summer never goes beyond surface level in interviews, so seeing her this vulnerable is really surprising.

Are we supposed to feel bad for her? She’s rich. She can afford whatever help she needed.

These comments are not passing the vibe check.

Ya’ll are all mental health advocates, but when a black woman is opening up about her struggle, it’s discarded?

“And let me make this clear too, I have an amazing husband who is so patient and so kind. He’s one of the best people I can go to when my anxiety hits, so I don’t want this to come across as me complaining that I’ve been alone. I have him and our children. I just miss the rest of my family. That’s all.” She dried her eyes and started to read the comments, unsurprised by the mixed reaction. She expected as such and was unaffected. At least until she saw one comment.

@ChrisEvans: ❤️❤️❤️

“Evans!” Summer wasn’t expecting to see his name pop up. It’d been such a task convincing him to join IG, let alone teaching him how to operate it. “Let’s go live.”

Not my husband and wife in my head about to go live!!!!

Imagine being able to call Chris Evans your best friend

I still say they smashed idc

It’s Christopher Jamal Evans hopping on this live for me.

^^^ I’m so sick of y’all with that shit.

“Let me try to add him,” Summer spoke to herself, scrolling through the comments to find his so she could request him. “Alright, I requested him. Let’s see if he answers.”

She wondered if she should have sent him a text asking if he was available when he appeared on her screen, effectively splitting it with her on the top and him on the bottom.

“Punk.”

“Kid.”

Summer smiled and greeted, “Hi, best friend.”

He chuckled. “How you doing, Summer?”

“Clearly not as good as the people watching,” she chimed. Summer saw nothing but heart eyes and hearts in the comments. “These people really love you. You truly are a manipulative bastard. He’s an asshole, guys.”

“Don’t be jealous, Summer. It’s so unbecoming of you.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Language,” he playfully reprimanded. “Where are the kids?”

“At preschool. Things are finally starting to open back up over here. Thank God.” She clasped her hands together. “Y’all, please wear masks. Don’t be Karen’s.”

Chris laughed, grabbing his chest. “We’re getting there, Summer.”

“The lies you tell,” she countered. “Don’t A Starting Point, me. Ya’ll are far from getting there, and I’m tired of it. I wanna see my family.”

He sighed. “I know, but how are you feeling today?”

“I got rid of the kids, so that’s definitely a weight lifted,” she answered honestly, laughing when she saw judgmental comments in the chat. “Listen, if you’re a parent, you know where I’m coming from. You love your kids, but my god, sometimes you just need some space.”

“As soon as this all blows over, I told you to send em’ by me for a couple of weeks.”

“Best friend, I already purchased their tickets.” He laughed. “As soon as I get the green light, they are all yours. Feel free to keep them.”

“You guys see how she is?” He pointed to Summer, leaning and squinting to read what was being said. “I do love kids, especially the twins, they’re amazing.”

“He is really really great with them, guys,” Summer added. “One thing about Evans, he’s patient as hell and really, just a big kid. Why do you think him and Christopher get along so well? 40 going on 4.”

“I resent that.”

“Is it a lie though?”

He hesitated. “No.” They both laughed.

I’m loving the dynamic between these two so much.

Is it just me or are they flirting with each other…..

Ain’t nothing inappropriate about this conversation. Ya’ll are reaching…

Ya’ll remember that blind item that came out years ago alleging Chris (Evans) was the biological father of the twins? Hmm…..

^^^^^This kind of bullshit is the reason we’re in a global pandemic.

As always, Summer and Evans ignored any foolery that was being dropped in the comments when she caught a comment that didn’t contain some ridiculous rumor.

“Yes, it is true that Evans and Christopher weren’t allowed to do press together anymore. Ya’ll, they literally could not stay serious for more than a minute. I felt so bad for the poor interviewers.”

“Hey, we were not that bad,” Evans protested, his Boston accent more prominent.

She gasped. “You guys were terrible, Evans, and you know it. I was so mad when they put me with ya’ll those few times. I could barely hear the interviewers over your laughing and stupid commentary that literally no one asked for.”

“We did not.”

“There’s deadass video proof, Evans.”

“Fake news.”

She opened her mouth but caught herself. “I was about to say something.”

He laughed and asked, “Do you remember how we all got drunk before the Infinity War premiere?”

“No, ya’ll got drunk. I was big and pregnant, remember?”

“No,” he dismissed. “You were drinking with us.”

“Evans, how was I drinking when I was pregnant?” She challenged and reminded. “I got drunk with ya’ll for the Endgame premiere, not Infinity War.”

“That’s right,” he remembered and chuckled. “You think we’ll get in trouble for saying this?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “You’re dead, Christopher never gets in trouble for anything, and I do what I want. I think we’re good.”

Kevin Feige watching this live right now like 🥴🥴🥴🥴

I never realized how arrogant she is……

LMAO. Not the whole cast showing up drunk to the biggest premiere of their lives.

Chris Evans is too damn fine to be approaching 40 and still single.

Their friendship is so goals omg

@ChrisHemsworth: Snitches

Summer’s jaw dropped as she caught the last comment, swiping up to click the name and make sure that she was reading correctly. “Christopher, what the hell are you doing on my live?”

Evans brows furrowed. “Hemmy is here? Shouldn’t he be working?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Summer supplied. “And how long have you been watching?”

@ChrisHemsworth: Long enough.

She smiled nervously and looked off to the side. “I feel weird now. I don’t like when he watches my lives.”

“Aren’t you guys married?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be shutting the fuck up?”

Evans lifted his hands in a defensive manner. “Touchy subject, I see.” They shared another laugh as he cleared his throat. “Why don’t you add him now? I’m supposed to be helping Scott cook.”

“My favorite Evans,” she gushed and furrowed her brows. “You, cooking? Since when?”

“Get out of here.” He waved her off and reminded. “I’m not the one who constantly causes near fires when in the kitchen.”

“So, you really just putting all my business out there like that?”

“Summer, it’s not secret to anyone that you can’t cook for shit.”

“Wow, it really be your own best friends.”

He chuckled. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, punk,” she blew a kiss. “I’ll text ya’ later.”

“Alright.” He smiled for the camera. “Thanks for having me everyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said jokingly. Evans and Summer said goodbye one last time before he left the live. She blew out a breath and ran her hand through her hair. “Baby, comment something so I can add you. It’s too many comments to wade through.”

Summer adjusted her phone and checked the time on the clock on the wall. It’d been a while since the kids were away at school, and she didn’t want to get so caught up that she was late picking them up.

@ChrisHemsworth: I can’t. I’m too drunk.

Summer released a mixture of a laugh and a snort reading his comment. “You are so damn petty.” She clicked his name and adjusted her outfit while waiting for him to answer. She almost cursed when it seemed like he wasn’t going to join, only for her to smile when his face appeared on her screen.

“Hi,” she greeted in a soft voice with a small smile.

“Hello, Sandcastle.”

“Did you just—I swear to god, it’s always something with you.” Summer rubbed her temples and shook her head. Christopher smiled in response. “Why aren’t you working?”

“I am.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re working, how are you talking to me?” She asked, sassily.

“Umm, a little thing called multitasking, ever heard of it?”

“Wow. You are an asshole.”

“That’s mean.”

“You’re mean.”

“Christopher, you are literally a child.”

“Does a child have muscles like this?” He flexed, and Summer stilled. Christopher stayed in ridiculous shape, but this was another level. He’d never been this massive, and she wasn’t too proud to admit that. Just not aloud.

She faked a yawn. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

They really just be roasting each other all the time, and I’m here for it.

Summer must be legally blind because this man is stupid fine tf

It’s gotta be steroids. That’s not natural.

^^^^^He’s the god of thunder.

Summer rolled her eyes at the typical nature of the comments. These were the reasons she limited her time on social media and especially stayed away from reading the comments. Her attention was redirected to the top of her phone. It was a text from Christopher asking her to call him.

“But we’re—oh, I get it.” She realized he wanted to talk to her, not her and her tens of millions of followers. “Alright, guys, I’m gonna get off here so I can talk to my husband, alone.”

“She just doesn’t want to share me with you all, that’s all.”

“Don’t even start, Christopher,” she lectured while he laughed and got serious, for a minute tops.

“Hope you all are taking care and staying safe,” he spoke honestly. “And we’ll talk to you soon.”

Summer waved and smile. “Bye, guys. Remember to be kind.” Summer offered a final smile before ending the live. Closing up the app, she moved to open FaceTime and called up Christopher. He answered almost immediately. “You know I hate when you watch my Lives. Now, how much did you see?”

“Enough to know you’re coming to see me tonight.”

She laughed aloud. “Funny.”

“I’m serious, Summer.” Focusing on him, she realized that there was no humor in his voice nor his expression. Summer also noticed that he didn’t have the Thor wig on yet, which was probably why he was able to go live with her. He was waiting to get into hair and makeup. “Leave the kids with Liam. It’s not like he’s doing anything.”

“Christopher!”

“What? Is he not a professional unemployed bastard.”

Summer’s smile remained as she shook her head. “You are so mean.”

“I’ll handle the flight arrangements. You, my beautiful wife, just make sure you get on the jet so I can handle you.”

“Christopher, you’re working. People with everyday jobs don’t just up and show up to their spouses workplace because they miss them or need a break from the kids. That’s how folks get fired.”

Christopher started to move around, walking somewhere, she realized. “What are you doing?”

“Hey, Tike.”

Summer’s eyes widened slightly. “Christoper!”

“Sup, man?” Taika asked casually, as Summer laughed again. Taika Waititi was such a character.

“You mind if Summer comes up for a few days?”

“Sure, man,” he replied almost right away. “Bring the kids and chickens too.”

“I am not bringing those damn chickens,” she immediately protested.

Christopher made a sound. “Ha, so you are coming!”

“I didn’t say that.”

Taika joined Christopher so that he was in camera. “Hey, Summer, why don’t you come on join? You can have a cameo. Chickens, too.”

She rubbed her temples. Taika’s and Chris’s friendship would never not make sense to her. They were cut from the same cloth. “One, hey. Two, I was already in Ragnarok. I’m good on the cameos. Three, what is with ya’ll and those creepy looking chickens?”

“Whoa, creepy? What did the chickens ever do?”

“Exist,” Summer answered dryly. She still hadn’t forgiven Evans and Christopher for convincing her to let the kids keep those damn things. Her home was becoming more and more of a farm with each animal that joined the household.

“Tough crowd, that one, ehh?”

“Always,” Christopher agreed.

“I can hear you both,” she reminded and groaned loudly. Summer would love to spend a few days away from the kids. Chris would be working, yes, but she’d at least get some time for herself. Even better, alone adult time with her husband. That had also been a bit tricky during quarantine because of her rambunctious twins. Still, she disliked using her status as a celebrity to gain things, and this would definitely be a case of using status for pull. “I don’t know….”

Deep in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized that Chris had walked away and returned to wherever he was prior to finding Taika, most likely his trailer.

“What if you only stayed a night?” Chris tried to bargain. “The flight is only an hour and a half. That will give you more than enough time to come here, let me fix you dinner, run you a nice bath, maybe get in the good ole’ horizontal tango—”

“You know I hate when you call it that,” she reminded quietly, admitting. “That does sound nice, though.”

“Or, I can come to you—“

“Absolutely not. Christopher, you’re already doing so much back and forth as it is.” One of the good things to come out of quarantine, to Summer at least, was that it forced many people to take a much needed break. Her husband was one of those people. Christopher had been working nonstop since she met him. Project after project, film after film, many of them Marvel films, which put a whole other layer of difficulty what with the strenuous physical requirements. Even now as he shot Thor 4, he was in the best shape he’d ever been, muscles nearly tearing the cotton of his clothes. He looked amazing, but it was what they couldn’t see that she was starting to grow a little concerned over. Christopher wasn’t as young as he once was. He had to slow down, eventually.

Summer realized this would be a perfect chance to have a conversation about just that with him, which all but led her to her final decision.

“Alright,” she conceded, finger up as she made her demands. “Three days, and I stay at the house while you shoot. We may be returning to normal, but we’re still in a pandemic. I won’t go around anyone except you.”

“So I get you all to myself? Hardly consider that a stipulation.”

“And…we talk.”

“After the horizontal tango—“

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop calling it that—“

“What was that, sweetheart? I wasn’t listening.” She saw that he had paused the screen, causing Summer to remember that she hadn’t even consulted with the babysitter. “Making flight arrangements for you.”

“Shit, let me text Liam and make sure he’s available.”

“He gets reception in the box?”

“Christopher! For the last time, your brother is not living in a box.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

“Goodbye, Christopher,” she prepared to end the call before smiling softly. “I love you, Christopher, and thank you.”

He winked. “I’ll always do anything for you, Summer. Anything.” A beat. “Don’t forget to leave the clothes. You won’t need them.”

“Christopher!”

#chris hemsworth x black!oc #chris hemsworth x black!reader #chris hemsworth fanfic #chris hemsworth fandom #chris hemsworth fanfiction #fic: waves

[lilisouless]

I´m gonna do a little reading experiment

Ok , so many of you are familiar with SJM , people here love her or hate her, i kind of want my opinion here and i can't give critics without taking a peck, so i´ll read the first chapters or both ACOTAR AND TOG , i´ve seen the plot and doesn't call to me.Also...SJM kind of writes like those "men writing women" memes except well, she is a woman.

My interest is maybe find if there are characters (the thing i mostly look for in a work) that can get my attention and make me keep reading, maybe one of this books turn into a guilty pleasure.

If i don't like then i´ll take this as an experience i´m sharing on here. My critism to SJM could only be limited since this is the first book on each series and maybe she got better there.

I won't be having all the books, i don't have the time or energy, the challenge here is seeing if i can get trought the first one and maybe like one of them.Who knows.

Let´s hit it: Throne of Glass

Celeana:

-She is weird, she is supposed to be a prisioner and keeps thinking if the people around her is pretty or not

-Prince here are tought to be...repugnant? what kind of weird ass worldbuilding is this? If this is setting up something interesting, i could be on board but right now is a really awkward way to setting Celaena (i won't always spell her name right) as having prejudice against royalty but this are the first pages,doesn't have a great impact

-Celaena´s narcisim and self image obsetion has to be her fatal flaw or i won't take it

-Like, i´ll take a protagonist with Celeana´s personality if it was well fleshed out, which i don't know if is the case here.But my great problem is: it doesn't quite fit an assasin. She is unsubtle, likes to be noticed,which could work from SOME assasin characters (Ex: that villain from The Nevers) but Celeana doesn't seem crazy ,why is she exactly an assasin?

-"No soy tonta, aunque cometí la estupidez de dejar que me capturasen" mija...te tengo malas noticias.

-Celinita celestina, creo que te has de haber graduado por palanca de la academia de acesinos.

-Enought with her, concensus?:

I don't "like" her but...strangely i may keep on with her as a guilty pleasure. Like those people who hate watch riverdale ( I don't i can't stomach it) Celeana doesn't strike me as a well writen character at first sight .BUT , i can take it as Dunyasha in another life, if i don't take her seriously i can have some fun reading her. My main problem is pretty much how much she doesn't make sense but,maybe i can live with that.

Celaena passes the test, unintentionaly and for the wrong reasons but she passes

-OHOHOHOH.I wrote too soon, she is a female mysoginist, of course she is. Yeah, i will never like her as a person,let´s cross fingers that i´ll take her as a character.

Dorian

-Alright, i did laught at him complaining about Celaena´s smell, is just funny how shameless he is.He is a stiff rich and privileged kid...i may like him

-Dorian...you sure you want to offer fredom to this girl? she is kind of nuts

-"esa" 🤣🤣🤣

-Unfortunetaly, his POV is not really the big deal, is just a paragraph on how beautiful Sar...ahem,Celeana is and that´s it, what a wasted change to expand him.

Chaol-

-I don't really have a lot to say about him, but i think he is fine

-He is a little generic til now and too serious but i actually like his banther with Cealeana and is a legit good contrast ,like those two and Dorian have a potential for a power trio

-No voy a mentir , el "¿estas casado? / yo tampoco😏" me mató

You know what? if nothing specially bad happens that makes me quit the book , i´ll may actually read it all for the fun,although i don't promise anything. Just the first one,the key is not taking it seriously.

Now: ACOTAR

Feyreh

-Ok, she likes painting, a hobbie is always something that makes a protagonsit a little more relatable

-Si,si mija ya entendí que eres tan pobre que no puedes ni prestar atencion

-But...her whole dylema with the arrow is conffusing, i am having trouble to get her personality , doesn't feel nuanced , it feels more,cultered

-YA DALE CON LA FLECHA O MÉTETE PA TU CASA PERO HAS ALGO C*ADOS!!!

-WithCindy and El geek are right, how is she soo poor but as soon as she can afford fcking food she buys a strange and expensive arrow,doesn't make sense

-If this is setting Feyreh as materialistic i´m on it, BUT make it with self awareness ,since right now it just seems convenient

-Alright, Feyre being a painter right now seem like an excuse for purple prose

-I really can't point her personality ,she is just ...blah,generic and i´m surprised since i´d asume SJM´s lead female would improve ,Celeana is not great at all but at least she is defined ,Feyre is just like any female lead in all fantasy lit

-Nope, sorry Feyre but ...nope, i don't hate you but i´m nowhere charmed by you and you don't make me want to continue this.Failed test.let´s see if you supporting cast saves your series

Elain & Nesta

-So one is mean and the other is dump

You know what? i´ll just skip to the most talked characters here

Tamlin:

-Not sure yet,he seems boring but maybe he is just quiet

-I kind of fell asleep thinking about this guy

Lucien:

-I like Lucien actually , the argument between Feyre and Tamlin is kind of generic banther but his interventions are kind of good

-Call her out Lucien

-Is official, i may not continue the reading but Lucien is my boy

-I´d root for him to be the main love interest (i know he is not, i know not even Tamlin is) but he deserves better than Feyre honestly

Rhysand:

-Since this guy went, acording to tumblr,some character growth later on, this is probably like the case of Zoya in S&B or Jamie in ASOIAF , anything i could say about him here may not apply to his character in later books.

-Alright, i am not charmed by him, he seems to have an interesting backstory, has more personality than Feyre and Tamlin

-But, his character type is a personal pet peeve, characters that are overall: hot. His whole personality and actions revolves on them being the author´s fantasy hot guy and...that never does it for me. This is a personal thing since most people would call it the female gaze but ,like i said: for me it´s a no.

-Me when Lucien interacts with Rhysand:

So...no, i won't continue ACOTAR , but Lucien it was nice to meet you.In my mind,you had a happy ending and that´s it.

#lili reads #this is too much negativity #little positivity #so the taggs shall be: #anti sarah j maas #or better #sarah j maas critical #anti acotar #acotar critical

[yoonjinkooked]

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien | Jimin

moodboard by the lovely and amazing @flajka, who was also my #1 helper and support through the torturous 10 month journey that this story was. 

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Strangers to lovers, smut, romcom

Warnings: explicit sex, slight exhibitionism (fingering, out in the open but not in public, boat sex, oral (f and m receiving) brief but gory painting description, a lot of cursing, Jimin will end you Word Count: 19k+  Summary: You keep meeting a handsome stranger in Paris. One coincidence after another leads to the most amazing trip of your life A/N: This shit took 10 months to write. Thank @flajka, Kehlani and Jimin’s sexy Paris photos.  Spotify playlists for this fic are: 1 / 2 / 3  - I had to separate them because you can’t put Edith Piaf on the same playlist as Ace Of Base.  Hope you enjoy! 

Looking up from the screen of your phone, you blink once, twice, three times – you are not where you are supposed to be and Google maps are the stupidest invention ever.

It took you two hours to find your Airbnb apartment yesterday, all because Google maps were not quite user friendly. Not to mention that your sense of direction was utterly pathetic.

Yet despite all of that, you were absolutely positive that finding ‘Shakespeare and company’ would be an easy task – after all, you were so close to it, having just spent 10 minutes mourning the fact that the Notre-Dame was still very much unapproachable. From there to the bookstore, the route should have been easy to follow but alas, it was not. Somehow, you have managed to confuse yourself even further.

Looking around in place, you breathe a sigh of relief when you see the green doors and a sign that tells you that perhaps your sense of direction isn’t as bad as you think it is – ‘Shakespeare and Company’.

There it is, the bookstore with such rich history, one of your must-see places in Paris, something that the ‘Midnight in Paris’ lover in you had to tick off the list – there it is, right before you and very much closed. You check the time, finding that it is almost nine – a quick Google search, which is something you should have done before leaving your apartment – tells you that it opens up at half past nine.

You don’t have time, you absolutely don’t have time to sit around and wait for it to open. It’s going to take you some time to reach the 7th Arrondissement and once you do get there, two museums await. Wasting time, waiting for a bookstore to open is not a luxury you can afford right now.

Perhaps you will have time before you leave. After all, you still have a week to spend in the city of light and although your plans are pretty strict and well-organized, you are aware that some changes are bound to happen. But you will leave that for the last day – right now, you only have a few minutes of your life to offer to a closed bookstore.

As you take photos of the famed location, you recall the comments your mother made before you left, about how a young woman shouldn’t travel alone in a foreign country. She had a point – one shouldn’t travel alone if they want to have at least one photo of themselves on the memory card. It sucks a bit but you don’t let it dampen your mood – you don’t need photos to preserve the memories. A selfie stick was always an option but it was also beneath you – something you’ve decided when they first appeared.

“Is it closed?” a voice asks from behind you, making you jump a bit, as you weren’t aware that you had company. The man looking at you seems to be about your age and a tourist, if the camera around his neck is anything to go by. The brief once-over you give him lets you know he is also unnaturally attractive.

“Yeah,” you tell him, offering him a compassionate smile when you see his expression sour. “It should open soon though – about half an hour, if Google is correct.”

“Thanks for the info,” he smiles, before he lifts up his camera and starts taking photos. You realize that the chit-chat is over, so you resume taking photos as well. Just a few seconds later, his presence gave you an idea.

“Hey, would you mind taking a photo of me?” you ask sheepishly, smiling when he nods his head at once. “I’m travelling alone and I just want at least one photo of me in the folder, you know?”

“I can relate,” he chuckles as he takes the camera from you. “How do you want to take it? Casually touristy, right in front of it or artsy, with you looking up at the sign in awe?”

“Artsy,” he laughs at your immediate response, to which you simply shrug. “When will I be artsy if not in Paris?”

“Touché,” he agrees, before directing you so that he can take a decent shot. “Turn a bit to the left.”

A few seconds later, it’s his turn. After settling your own camera around your neck, you take his and take a few photos of him as he stands in the same spot you did, looking up at the sign in fake awe. This gives you a chance to properly look at him for the first time. He is indeed handsome, insanely so. Dark brown hair swept away from his face, insanely clear skin and a jaw that could cut right through glass. Looking right at him is almost blinding and you rush to take the photos.

“All done,” you smile as you return the camera to him. “I think you have a few decent shots there.”

“Thanks,” he smiles as you adjust your backpack, ready to take your leave – Shakespeare will have to enjoy your company some other day. “Enjoy the rest of Paris.”

“Yeah, you too,” you smile back at the man, mumbling under your breath as you leave because it serves you right to meet the most handsome man ever half-way across the world.

By the time you finally escape the Parisian metro, you are dead tired. Musée Rodin was just as beautiful as ‘Midnight in Paris’ made it seem to be. You’ve spent the good part of the morning roaming it’s gardens, before finally moving onto Les Invalides, which housed the tomb of the oh so great Napoleon Bonaparte. That was arguably less exciting than Musée Rodin, with you actually giving up on it completely as soon as you saw his tomb. The comments you thought of while admiring the size of the tomb and him obviously carrying his complexes into afterlife were left to you alone, making you chuckle at random times and earning a few curious looks from your fellow tourists.

Your tourist escapades ended at Champ de Mars, with an impromptu picnic which included sitting on your jacket and eating a marvelous French feast made up from pre-packaged Starbucks caramel macchiato and salt&vinegar chips – mmm, so French it hurts. Originally, you wanted to wait for the infamous light show to start but after just an hour, you have already given up and made your leave, hoping not to get lost in the metro yet again.

Luckily, you didn’t. You were so tired by the time you got to the place you rented in the outskirts of Paris that you barely had the energy to shower. And tomorrow, with Versailles being your top priority, your day was bound to be even more tiring.

You are fuming, absolutely fuming, wanting nothing more than to curse out loud and stomp on the ground. You have been tricked and that was just the drop that made the glass overflow.

You woke up with a massive headache and after forcing yourself to eat a bit, you could finally drink medication. By the time you were ready to leave your rental apartment, the timetable you made for today was already long forgotten – you’re at least an hour late.

But that isn’t a problem. It’s not even the ever confusing metro, because somehow, with a lot of help from locals, you’ve managed to figure out where you should wait for the right ride to Versailles. All of it was a bit stress inducing but definitely not a problem. The real problem occurred when you were in front of the magnificent golden gates, which you couldn’t even see because of the massive line.

Clutching your fast pass ticket, you approach a smaller line leading to the entrance, hoping and praying that you weren’t wasting your time waiting there instead of in the massive crowd, hoping that your fast pass can actually let you pass, fast.

You were mistaken. Apparently, every single human being waiting in the long ass line also had the fast pass ticket. How long do people without a fast pass have to wait is a question you don’t even want to know the answer to. With a few huffs and puffs, you took your place in line, annoyed at anything and everything, starting from the stupid agency who sold you this worthless ticket, right down to your best friend who suggested taking this trip together, only to bail on you to let her boyfriend take her to Ibiza.

As if all of that was not enough to ruin your mood, rain had started to fall, damping your clothes enough so that they match your mood.  At least you were ready for it, having read up about the unpredictable early summer rains of Paris and making sure to never leave the apartment without your hideously yellow umbrella.

An hour and a half later, you finally put the damn fast pass into use and enter the extravagant home of some Louis – you’re not ashamed to admit to not know which one. After all, you were about to learn.

The inside of the magnificent palace left you with mixed emotions, in all honesty. On one hand, it truly is as grand and striking as you had always imagined it to be. On the other hand, the crowd was killing you. Teens running around and touching things they shouldn’t be touching, people looking at everything through the screen of their phones and cameras instead of actually looking… It all left you feeling a bit on edge and wishing you had a chance to attend a private tour or something. Knowing that you will probably experience the same thing later today in the Louvre wasn’t helping either.

Every time you would pass a window, you found yourself wanting to be outside and after an hour of torture and not being able to enjoy anything, you have finally given up – fuck the rain, fuck it all – most people are still inside to avoid the rain after all and you do have your trusted umbrella with you.

Stepping into the gardens of Versailles was the best decision you could have made and you regretted not making it sooner. There were very few people outside and even the light drizzle could not ruin the experience of such a beautiful place. It’s fascinating, really, to look from the balcony above and to not see the end to all the gardens, green labyrinths, with many fountains and statues placed at nearly every corner.

It was almost impossible for you to decide where to start, so you just decided to roam freely, with no end goal in mind. You don’t even bother with your camera much, once you reach the seemingly endless green maze. The view from higher ground is magnificent but as you walk around, all you see is green hedges, incredibly tall green hedges – a very literal maze of plants. The smell is comforting – a mixture of the familiar smell of rain and of plants – more specifically, grass.

You wander around, enjoying the peace and quiet. There are more people in the maze but they are far from you and compared to the crowd you were in just minutes ago, they are ignorable, unless they are heading directly in your direction.

You recognize him instantly – other than a few locals you’ve asked for directions, he is the only person you exchanged more than one sentence with – it’s the guy from ‘Shakespeare and Company’, walking towards you. Your fear of awkwardness makes you lower the umbrella so that you can pretend that you simply didn’t see him. You only lift the umbrella up when you see his feet walk by you.

It would be weird and awkward. What do you say to someone you recognize but don’t really know? Hey? What if he doesn’t remember you and you embarrass yourself for no good reason? No, this was completely ignorable, luckily for you.

You are not fast enough the second time. The next crossroad in the maze leaves you making eye contact with him, as he is standing parallel to you, with a solid distance in-between. Solid enough for you to still pretend you do not recognized him. The eye contact made you feel a bit uneasy because what if he remembers you too? The awkwardness you’ve wanted to avoid might have just doubled.

So you walk on, taking a left turn as soon as you find one, finding the first ‘hidden room’ of the maze and a breathtaking, extravagant fountain that all but begs for you to take photos of it. Consciously steering away from the direction he seemed to have been taking, you walk along.

Left, straight, left again, straight, a bit to the right – you even manage to lose track of your surroundings, hoping that you are heading towards the gigantic fountain you’ve seen from the upper balcony.

Yet somehow, you still manage to see him again and much to your dismay, make direct eye contact. He is standing parallel from you and before you turned around and started walking, you could see what looked like mild confusion on his face.

Crap. He must have recognized you to a certain extent and now you’re making it painfully obvious that you are running away from him. For no good reason, too. You could have simply said “Oh hey, I remember you from yesterday, enjoy Versailles” or something along that line and made your exit but no, god no, you just had to make a fool of yourself.

You’ve never taken pride in your title of awkward social potato and this little mishap has to rank pretty high on your list of embarrassing moments. Sure, weird eye contact isn’t that big of a deal but the fact that it could have been easily avoid it and wasn’t only makes it 10 times worse.

Surprisingly enough, as soon as you realize that you’re being ridiculous, you have a chance for a do-over.

By the time you’ve reached the grand fountain, with a very confusing yet majestic statue of horses in the middle of it, you see him again, standing right on the edge of it, luckily not looking your way. Once again you are reminded of just how good looking he is and it’s not helping you with what you are about to do, since insanely attractive men tend to make you nervous and tongue tied.

“Well, at least the Versailles was open,” you try to sound as casual as possible as you stand a few feet away from him, watching as confusion disappears from his face as he puts two and two together.

“I thought I recognized you,” he laughs and you realize that his laughter is as melodic as his voice. Damn him. “They opened yesterday minutes after you left,” he tells you and to that you shrug.

“Nine days in Paris aren’t enough – I had museums to see,” you tell him, watching as he nods in understanding, still smiling at you. “I hope you enjoyed it, though.”

“I did,” he tells you. “Since you’re here, would you mind taking a photo of me?” he sounds as sheepish as you did yesterday. “You’re the only stranger I’d trust with my camera,” he adds. He makes a simple sentence like that hit you like a full force flirt and by the time you actually take the camera from his hands, you are positive you are blushing.

You take a few photos of him, his insanely good profile in particular, hoping that you are not drooling all over yourself. “Return the favor?” you ask, lifting your own camera, to which he laughs and extends his hand to you.

Posing is always awkward, period. Posing to a hot stranger is borderline traumatic. You do it anyways, looking away from the camera because you’ve had enough “eye contact” with him to last you a lifetime. Awkwardly standing in front of him, you wait as he checks the photos before smiling up at you and offering the camera back to you. “Perfect.”

“Thanks. Enjoy the rest of Versailles,” you casually announce your departure, feeling relieved and regretful at the same time as you walk away from him, backwards. In all honesty, the kind smile on your face made you want to stick around for a while longer.

“Thanks, you too.”

You turn around and walk away, taking a deep breath to relax yourself. The Louvre awaits – hot strangers will have their turn some other time.  

Four days in Paris were enough for you to start your own list of unpopular, maybe even popular, opinions about the city. You were always interested in the city but never obsessed with it, like many are, so you’d say that your opinions are unbiased, at least to a certain extent.

For example, Parisians are nice and they actually do make an effort to speak English if you ask them something. Of course, not everyone has the same experience but the urban myth of them being condescending, rude and downright ignoring people who speak English was proven to be false.

Yes, the city is gorgeous but it has so much to offer beside a fairly tall tower.

And last, but certainly not least – the Louvre is overrated.

After waiting in rain, again (not the museum’s fault, obviously), you finally got inside, only to proceed and get lost four times. Actual four times, you had no idea where you were and where you were supposed to go next. You were nearly trampled in front of the Mona Lisa, all while watching in shock as the people were pushing each other to try and take a selfie with the iconic painting behind them. That was the first instance when you thought how much you hate people. The next one was when you saw a grown adult, a man in his 30s, grabbing an antique Greek statue by the balls.

It was at that point that the museum walking became torture to you. Paired with its confusing layout and the employees who either truly had no idea how to help you or simply didn’t want to bother with helping a pesky tourist, you ended up wandering aimlessly, looking at everything and nothing at all, wondering how much it would cost to get an exclusive, chaperoned, after-hours tour of the Louvre. Probably too much for someone who’s keeping cheap ramen in their rented apartment.

Muse d’Orsay, your present location, is something else entirely. It is painfully obvious that at least a third of the yesterday’s crowd only went to the Luvre because someone told them they should, you overheard a few say as much, and compared to that, the visitors of Muse d’Orsay came here on their own accord. It is decently full, but not crowded. The only place where you actually had to wait in line was in front of Van Gogh’s artwork, which was to be expected.

The entire place is casual, yet sophisticated, far less confusing compared to the gigantic mess that is The Louvre. You can take your time and go wherever, without having to consult a map and pray that you’re not confusing yourself even further. You can also sit and relax for a little while, which is something your tired feet are extremely grateful for but in a very unusual way, the people around you are making you feel uncomfortable. Most of them are casually sitting and sketching the gigantic clock, the centerpiece of Muse d’Orsay and while observing that is beautiful, it also remindes you that you are, to put it nicely, talentless in the same field.

So you keep on roaming, until you find your place on a bench set before an enormous painting. Definitely three times, if not four, your height, The Women of Gaul has your full attention. The piece is as eerie and hauntingly beautiful as it is confusing – like many times over the last couple of days, you’re not sure where to look first. What catches your attention, bizarrely, is the center character – a woman, standing tall and proud with an angry look on her face and holding a dead baby by the arm.

It appears as if she has killed the baby on her own accord – she’d rather lose everything she has than surrender. Admirable and scary at the same time. With all due respect to the masterpiece, she looks ready to bitchslap some soldiers.

“We meet again, stranger,” you only realize someone is talking to you when they sit a few feet away from you and you nearly choke on dry air when you realize it’s him – the Shakespeare guy, the Versailles guy, your unofficial photographer, in all of his ripped jeans glory.

“Wow,” you laugh. How big is Paris? How many people live here, how many tourists roam the streets every day? And yet three days in a row, you see him. “We keep bumping into each other.”

“Looks like our travel itineraries keep overlapping,” he chuckles. “I’m Jimin, by the way,” he adds, before the silence turns awkward. “It’s nice to officially meet you,” he offers you his hand, which you accept instantly.

“Y/N,” you shake his hand. “So, how’s Paris working out for you?”

“I love it,” he admits, looking away from you to focus on the much less friendlier woman in the painting in front of you. “I like it more than I thought I would, in all honesty.”

“Same here,” you admit, finding it quite easy to talk to him, given that you are usually definitely more apprehensive when it comes to people you don’t know. But hey, you know his name now – that counts, right? “From word of mouth alone, I thought it was a bit overrated but it has its charms. Plenty of them, actually.”

“Museums or city streets?” he asks, turning to look at you again. He has striking, dark eyes that have no trouble looking directly at yours – you, on the other hand, swallow a lump. “Which do you enjoy more?”

“A bit of both, depends on the day,” you sound way more casual than you feel. “You?”

“City streets,” he answers, focusing on the painting again. “Art is amazing but art is art, wherever you are. While cities… they’re all different. Each city has its own thing and as much as I enjoy looking at artwork, I’d rather pick… exploring the city, breathing it in. Polluted air and all.”

“Makes sense,” you agree, knowing just how right he is. A museum is a museum, whether it’s in Paris or the tiniest of towns. It’s fascinating but it’s still a building with four walls and a roof – outside, the streets, the people, the charm distinct to each city – that’s where all the fun is at.

“Have you seen the impressionism area?” he asks.

“Not yet, why?”

“Me neither,” he laughs, confusing you a bit. “Travelling alone is fun but at times it can get painfully dull. I thought maybe you’d want to look around the museum a bit more and then we can go somewhere?”

Oh. Okay. He wants your company. Surprising, yet flattering.

“I’d love to,” you find yourself answering, ignoring all the possible red flags you probably should have not ignored – after all, this is fairly similar to the plot of Taken, and you don’t have a Liam Neeson waiting to rescue you. Mr. Ripped Jeans Jimin has a point – travelling alone can be very dull. With how the two of you have been running into each other for days now, it seems like the universe wants you to have someone to talk to for a while. “Anywhere you’d like to go in particular?”

“Montmartre?” he suggests after considering your question for a few seconds. “The stairs in front of Sacré-Cœur are always a good idea?”

He isn’t wrong - Sacré-Cœur is very much on your bucket list – scheduled for tomorrow, right on time to see the sunset. But at the same time, you have no specific plans for this afternoon and Jimin does seem like he could be good company.

Why not?

“Sounds like a plan,” you agree, feeling a metaphorical punch to your gut when his face lights up once you agree with his idea. “Let’s see those impressionists first, shall we?”

The language barrier is quite something. Despite knowing a few basic French words and phrases, your pronunciation is so damn tragic, no transaction was possible without the use of English and sometimes, like right now, lots of waving and pointing.

Jimin was looking at you in amusement while you desperately tried to explain that you need one chocolate croissant. By the point the lady behind the counter understood what you wanted, you were more than happy to leave with whatever the hell she’d give you, even if it’s not your precious croissant.

“Do you want something? Are you hungry?” you ask, wanting to treat him to some food since he insisted on paying for the bottle of wine that is currently in his backpack.

He nods, proceeding to speak to state his order in what sounds like fluent French. “I got some for you too,” he tells you as he elegantly stands in front of you, taking out his wallet and smiling as he sees that you are about to protest. “No way,” he shakes his head. “I’m paying – I ordered more. Besides, if you are buying the chocolate croissant, you obviously have no idea what you’re doing.”

A comment like that could have sounded extremely condescending coming from anyone else, but from Jimin, with his kind smile? No way. “You did not just diss a chocolate croissant!”

“Oh, yes I did,” he chuckles as he rushes to offer money before you can – defeated, but a little glad, you return your wallet into the bag, thinking how maybe you will treat yourself to more than instant ramen for your lunch tomorrow. “I love chocolate as much as the next guy but the raisin one? Hell, even the plain one – much better,” he tells as he takes the bag and exits the bakery, leaving you to follow him.

“I’m all for experimenting but come on – it’s a chocolate croissant. It can’t be bad.”

“I’ve never said it was bad,” he laughs at you as you finally catch up with him and the two of you walk side by side. “I’ve just said others were better, which you will confirm once you try them. Now – do we walk or do we waste money on the lift?”

How can a question so simple be so complicated? Your feet hurt, you’ve walked more since you landed in Paris than you have the whole last month – of course you want to take the lift and avoid unnecessary stairs. On the other hand, stairs pretty much guarantee that you will have more time to spend with Jimin and so far, he’s been a decent companion.

“How about… we take the lift to go up and we walk on our way down?” you suggest.

“Deal.”

He didn’t have a chance to see Montmarte either, he tells you on your way up. Much like you, he had a schedule and he kept to it. Until today, when he spontaneously dropped his plans and invited you to spend the rest of the day with him. You did not have solid plans to begin with, so it wasn’t much of a change, save from the fact that you were in good company.

And good company he was – surprisingly, there weren’t many moments of awkward silence as the two of you tried to find a place that fits you both – that was a challenge, seeing as many people have gathered to enjoy the view, a nice drink and an impromptu performance by buskers. In the corner of the stairs, a little bit away from the crowd, the two of you sit and it’s a matter of seconds before Jimin is opening the bottle of wine with a swiss knife he pulled out of his bag – a bag that looks like it costs more than your monthly rent – not that you were paying any attention to it.

“So…” he starts, pausing to smile at you as he gives you your cup, before moving on to fill his own. “Tell me something about yourself. I only know your name and that we live in the same city.”

“And yet somehow we’ve met on a different continent,” you add, smiling when he ‘clinks’ his plastic cup against yours. “What would you like to know?”

“Anything,” he shrugs, nodding in approval at the taste of the wine. “Why Paris? Why alone? What’s your favorite color? An actor you hate but can’t explain why? Tell me anything.”

“Why Paris? Why not Paris? There are so many places I want to see, cities I want to explore and it all had to start somewhere. My friend had wanted to see Paris while I was pretty much up for anything. Of course, she then decided that Ibiza with her boytoy sounds like a better idea than Paris with her friend,” you add, sounding just a little bitter. It’s not the nicest thing she has done but you’ll get over it.

“And your boyfriend was not interested in the beauty of France?”

Now you are confused. His raised eyebrow and tiny, barely there smile, tell you that he is absolutely asking about your boyfriend for no other reason but to confirm whether or not you have one. However, this wouldn’t be the first time for you to completely misread signs and confuse flirting with casual conversation. You decide to play it safe and not waste time on reading between the lines.

“Don’t have one,” you shrug, looking away from him and focusing on the buskers. “It does get quite boring after a while. It would be nice to have a travel partner.”

“And if you don’t, you can always ask a random, kind stranger to take your photos for you?” you join in on his laugh, glad that you spoke up that day in front of ‘Shakespeare and Company’. If you hadn’t, chances are you wouldn’t have a conversation in Versailles, which then would not continue today.

If he can do it, so can you – the can of worms is wide open. “And what does your girlfriend say about you traveling without her?” you asks, before backtracking quickly. “Or boyfriend. Or one of each, really,” you add, making him laugh.

God, there really is no smooth way to ask about the relationship status of someone you barely know, someone you’re not even completely sure you like. If two are at a club, where the music is loud and they can’t even keep a conversation, ‘are you single’ is completely acceptable. And that setting is perfect for a rejection – if they say no, you just dance away to your drink or to the next person.

This? It’s a warm day in Paris and you are surrounded by people of all ages, families even. You have been talking about the city, travelling, art and now what, ‘are you single’ or ‘would you be interested in sleeping with me’ is the next topic of conversation? No, it doesn’t work that way. Especially when you’re not even sure what you want, much less what he wants.

“Well, I don’t have either of the two so I can’t really answer that,” is that a hint of a smirk you see on his face? Okay, you may not be a champion at flirting but it looks like things are heading that way.

“Interesting,” you mumble, earning an eyebrow raise from him. Shit. You panic and focus on the plastic cup full of wine, hoping that if you drink enough of it fast, the blush that is taking over your face can be attributed to the alcohol. It doesn’t help – you move the cup away and meet his eyes, only to find him obviously waiting for you to explain your comment.

“Are you going to explain why that’s interesting on your own or should I ask about it and force you to elaborate?” he asks and you immediately turn to your cup, making him laugh, loudly, in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and his whole body move.

“I’m awkward, please don’t make it any worse,” you tell him, a part of you hoping he won’t hear you.

“As you wish,” he is still laughing and you still want to die of embarrassment. That being said, him teasing you is a good sign, you think. Now, you’re fairly certain that you absolutely are in the flirting territory and while that doesn’t make things easier for you one bit, at least now you know you perhaps won’t make a fool of yourself if you are more straightforward. Or maybe you will. Who knows?! “Y/N, do you believe in destiny?” he asks and while you’re glad the topic is changed… really?

“That’s such a broad question,” you chuckle, pausing to think about it for a second. “I suppose I do, but you’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. What kind of destiny?”

“Okay… first, do you believe that it’s all planned out? Like, your entire life?” he asks.

“Hardly,” you answer immediately, having thought about that already, many times in your life. “I suppose that to a certain extent, it is destiny. Like… the situations that you will be put in. But your reactions to said situations are your own. Destiny can’t control how you, or the people in your life, react to something. So I guess… no?” you try to sum it up, laughing at your own rant.

“Makes sense,” he agrees as he leans back, now almost lying down on the staircase, propped on his elbow as he looks away from you and towards the magnificent view of Paris. You realize once again that he looks like a full course meal, skinny jeans and all, and you reach for your plastic cup for solace, again. “Some things are set in stone… like where you’re born, who your parents are, maybe even who you’re going to be in life. But not the tiny details… like what kind of friend you are, if you can cook or not, who will be your first kiss and so on… Is that what you meant?” he asks, suddenly turning his eyes on you and faced with them, you nearly choke on the drink you’ve been hiding behind.

Damn him and his eyes. And his smirk. And yes, his ripped skinny jeans too.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And what about us?” he asks, smirking your way again. “We’ve been running into each other all over Paris… that’s why I thought that there has to be a reason behind it… don’t you agree?”

“Could be,” you agree, knowing that no matter how skeptical you might be about the concept of destiny, even you have to admit that the amount of times the two of you have crossed paths this week is something unusual. “You think it was destined for two of us to meet and hang out on these stairs?”

“Why not?” he laughs, sensing the trace of skepticism behind your words, even though you mostly agreed with him. “I can accept that not every cute girl I meet is destiny playing its tune but we couldn’t have avoided each other even if we tried, could we?”

You’re cute. Okay. You can live with that. You can definitely live with that.

“What else does destiny want us to do?”

You’ll admit it, you feel bolder now, knowing how shamelessly he had admitted that he obviously thinks you’re cute. Sure, you’re not nearly as bold as you wish you were but… step by step?

“Well, there’s this party down at the 8th Arrondissement that I thought of going to. Nothing huge, just a regular club. We don’t have to, if you don’t feel like partying. If you do, we can sit here for a while longer and then take a cab down there or something?” he suggests.

First he thinks you’re cute. Then he wants you to go clubbing. Sure, he isn’t hitting on you per se, but he obviously wants to spend more time with you and knowing that makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. Maybe it’s the butterflies that you’re feeling now, after ages of them being MIA, maybe it’s the way Jimin looks at you, with the tiniest of smirks gracing his face, or maybe it’s just Jimin himself – you’re not sure and frankly, it doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, he wants to spend more time with you and despite you not really giving a shit about destiny, you do want to spend more time with him too.

“Sounds like a good idea.”

And then he goes and bites his lip, mid-smile.

Yeah, there’s no way in hell you’ll survive clubbing with him. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try.

It didn’t take you long to realize that Jimin is a piece of work, in the best ways.

He is confident when approaching strangers, whether it was you, earlier today, or a random person to ask if the two of you could join their table. He can handle his drink and he does, in fact, drink quite a bit. His behavior doesn’t change – he’s still smiley, friendly, his words never slurring, his walk as perfect and sexy as it was when he was 100% sober – the only real change in his appearance is that three tequila shots in, he’s red in the face.

You? You’ve stopped drinking one shot ago, not wanting to push yourself into the state of ‘please fuck me in the alley behind this park, Mr. Stranger’ because you do tend to turn clingy after drinking a bit too much. No, this time around, you’ve kept yourself tipsy enough to throw away some inhibitions but sober enough to not jump on the guy in the middle of a crowded club.

And lord almighty, it is crowded.

You would have never thought that Parisians and a couple of tourists would be this into 90s trash music but here you are, dancing the night away with a hot as hell stranger to the tune of ‘Be My Lover’. You’ve been dancing nonstop for what feels like hours, the only break happening when he goes to the bar to get the two of you drinks and you take that chance to lean against the wall to catch your breath.

You want to chastise yourself for trusting a stranger with your drink but after debating it while you were still sober, you’ve come to the conclusion that you’re going to trust said stranger. 

Taking a deep breath, you rummage through your bag, trying to find something to cool yourself down with, settling for a brochure you had picked up in Musée d'Orsay earlier today. You fan yourself, staying comfortably away from the crowd that’s dancing like their life depends on it.

It’s hot, it’s crowded, you’re tipsy and if you’re being completely honest, you’re turned on. Yes, in a tiny, dark, hole of a club, with a 90s eurodance song in Spanish blasting through the speakers, you can still manage to feel that way and it’s solely because of him.

For the past two hours, he has been flirting with you in ways that make you wonder if he’s actually flirting of he’s a hallucination of your deranged mind.

He hasn’t stopped touching you all night, but he does so in ways that are not… obvious. He holds your hand while you are walking through the crowd. He puts his hands on your waist while you’re dancing, but they’re positioned in a way that makes you think he just enjoys having a dance partner, not that he wants to fuck your brains out. He is close, but not close enough to make you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wants to kiss you. It’s driving you insane and you’re feeling hot – literally and metaphorically.

The song changed to something a bit more bearable for listening, but still trashy enough, when you finally felt your body relaxing and calming down after the onslaught of senses it has been through in the last two hours. However, the moment you think you’ll manage to cool your head, you see him.

It’s not that he is hot. Sure, he is hot as hell and nice on the eyes, which is something you see others noticing, as they turn their heads while he walks past them, drinks in hand. It’s not that he is so damn charming, although that plays a part too. What’s really getting to you is simply the way he looks at you.

Even now, in the crowd, as he makes his way to your little makeshift hideaway, his eyes are directly on you. He’s not even paying attention on if he’s spilling your drinks or not – nope, he is looking right at you. And despite the feeling of panic that causes, you can’t look away. You can’t hide from it, you can’t fight it – you just have to keep eye contact with him, even though you feel like weak prey.

You’d lie if you say that there weren’t moments when his eyes would look… elsewhere. Your lips, your neck or at the tiny trace of cleavage your shirt lets him see (is that one a blessing or a curse?)…  That you could deal with, as much as you were figuratively on fire. But a man with confidence to look you directly in the eyes, all the time? Yeah, you’ve kind of wanted die.

Especially now, with him sliding through the cracks between people, smiling your way, eyes burning into yours. With mere seconds to get yourself ready for him, you take a deep breath, thanking your lucky stars that he looked away, enough to put your drinks on the table next to you.

“I know you didn’t want anything, but I got you a cocktail in case you change your mind later,” he tells you and the only reason you actually understand every word he is saying is because you are staring at his lips. The music is loud, loud enough to make you want to come closer to him and ask him to repeat his words but at this point, you are a certified lip reader because good god, his lips.

“That’s okay.”

You wanted to say more, you really did, but the moment he put those drinks down, his hands were on your waist and he was close now, closer than he was before, with just an inch of space between your face and his. And even this close, even with a damn inch between the two of you, he stares into your eyes, directly into your eyes, as if he knows what he’s doing to you. And frankly, he most likely does.

“Let’s dance, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You let him take you down into the crowd again, not even noticing the loss of your precious brochure you’ve used as a makeshift fan. You let him stay close to you and you let him keep his hands on you at all times. You let him take over your entire mind, knowing that at this point, you can’t think of anything that isn’t him.

Where? Where are guys like these? Where are guys who are confident, funny, charming and sexy, without trying to get into your pants like desperate teenagers? He has the right amount of everything and a part of you wonders where are others like him? But with him in front of you, directly in front of you, with barely an inch of thin air between you, does it really matter?

You’ve given up, totally and completely. You let him eat you up with his eyes, sway your hips to the beats of bad music in any direction he wants, smiling back at him when he smiles at you.

He is closer now, even closer than before, your noses brushing against each other every other moment. He is closer and you feel like you’re going to faint if he doesn’t do something, anything really.

It’s a weird feeling to describe. You don’t know what you want but you want it, bad. And while in theory, it would be easy to take the last step and just kiss him, you can’t do it. What’s stopping you – you don’t know, you really don’t. Yes, he hasn’t explicitly said that he wants you to do anything but his actions speak enough on their own. You could close the space between the two of you and end the misery but you can’t. Something is stopping you and at this point, it feels suffocating.

All of it. Him, the crowd, the sweaty bodies all around you – it’s too much. You need fresh air. Right now.

“What time is it?” you yell at him and you can see he’s surprised – you’ve mostly been quiet, overcome with everything else to form rational thoughts. Not only that, but you’re asking about time, of all things.

“Almost 1:30AM,” he tells you, after glancing on his wristwatch, before returning the hand back on your waist. “Why? Do you want to leave?” he asks and for one second, one damn second, you see a trace of something other than pure confidence on his face. It’s not insecurity or worry, not even disappointment. It looks like a mix of all three and something else, but it’s all very faint and lasts for barely a second before he smiles at you. “It’s okay if you do. Truly.”

“It’s not that I want to leave,” you mumble, before remembering you’re in a damn club. So, you close the space between the two of you and put your lips to his ear, brushing his skin as you speak. “It’s not that I want to leave. But I need some fresh air. We can come back if you want to.”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks as you pull away and you nod. “You sure?” he asks, looking at you with worry in his eyes. He’s questioning it, if only a little bit, probably worried that you’re running away and he’s being pushy. Which isn’t the truth. You are running away, but not from him, not exactly.

“Yes,” you laugh, taking his hand, as if to show that you mean it. He smiles back at you and leads the way. You think he’d go back to your borrowed table, so that he can finish his drink but he doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he leads the way to the area where you left your bags in exchange for 5 euros.

Seeing as you are the only ones leaving this early, the exchange for your stuff is quick and by the time you are breathing in the cool Paris air, it hasn’t been more than a few minutes since you’ve expressed your desire to leave. And the cool air helps. Well, it’s either the cool air or the fact that Jimin isn’t attached to you at this moment. With a bit of distance between you, you can actually use your brain.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he watches you take deep breaths. “We can walk it off if you’ve had too much to drink? I can walk you back to your place if you want to leave?” he suggests.

“No,” you smile at him, feeling a little bit overwhelmed by how helpful he is, as well as worried. “I’m not wasted. I don’t even know if I’m tipsy anymore,” you tell him. Sure, you might not be tipsy from the alcohol but he is a different story – you are very much drunk on him. But you won’t tell him that. “I just needed a bit of air. Maybe we can walk? Then come back or something?”

“Sure, yeah,” he nods and you lead the way. “You know, we don’t have to come back here because of me. I’m perfectly fine with just walking around. We can go somewhere else or find a bench to sit on. I can call a cab for you if you want to go back to your place.”

“I’m enjoying tonight very much,” you reassure him. There are… so many other things that you’d like to say, about him and the way he makes you feel, but you just… don’t have the balls to do so. So you simply settle with reassuring him that you’re enjoying the night. “Let’s just walk around and then figure out what we want to do next. The same goes for you – I’m fine with doing whatever you want to do.”

“You know, the last light show of the night is at 2AM,” he tells you, glancing at his watch quickly. “We can still catch it, if you’d like to. Maybe we even have time to go to the tower itself but we can definitely make it to Trocadéro on time?” he suggests and even though you normally refuse to be such a basic tourist, a huge part of you is excited at the thought of seeing the tower light up.

“I haven’t seen it yet. You want to go?” you ask, continuing with the tradition he had started of questioning everything for whatever reason.

“Sure, let’s go.”

There are people roaming around the area – of course there are, it’s Paris, there are tourists in every nook and cranny of the damn city. However, the numbers are smaller than they were when you went here the other day. You were definitely not alone but you did manage to find a section of the fence where no one was waiting with their cameras ready. Which is exactly what the two of you are doing now, waiting to capture the perfect moment of the tower lighting up.

You’ve been fairly quiet since you’ve left the club but it wasn’t the negative kind of silence, not at all. It was the silence that comes after a slightly overwhelming moment. You’re not sure if Jimin feels the same and if he does, he sure didn’t show it, but he was quiet along with you, speaking up only when you do, smiling your way whenever you’ve felt brave enough to make direct eye contact. It was comfortable and it made you realize just how much you have let this total stranger get under your skin.

“Doesn’t this feel a bit like the New Year’s countdown?” you ask, adjusting your camera so that the tower is right in the center of it – as much as Jimin is overwhelming, you still want to capture a decent photograph. It’s a once in a lifetime event. At least for us, non-Parisian commoners.

“It does,” he chuckles. “Ah, here we go!”

It’s impossible not to laugh at all the sighs of wonder you hear coming from around you. Yes, it’s a beautiful sight but… come on! It’s not a natural phenomenon; it’s a tower with lights on it! You sense Jimin reacting to it the same way you do, laughing a bit at the amazement of everyone around you but still taking a photo and enjoying the moment.

“Wait, let me take a photo of you,” he tells you and to your surprise, he doesn’t ask for your camera – he simply steps back with his. You don’t say anything and you try not to think too much of it but at the very least you are now expecting an exchange of social media or emails, knowing that you now have a perfect excuse of contacting him. Unable to hide a smile at the realization, you try to strike a casual pose, all while feeling like a complete idiot because he is looking at you again. “Wait,” he suddenly says and walks back up to you, reaching his hand closer to your face. “May I?”

You nod, not even sure what exactly you’re agreeing to here. Gently, he runs his hand through your hair, similar to the way he runs it through his own hair a few times a minute, messing it up a little bit. You don’t exactly have a mirror on you right now, but you imagine it’s the cute kind of messy, not the messy kind of messy. Why would he want you to look like shit for the photo? So, you let him, trying to ignore the way your pulse races because of him being so close. “There,” he steps away from you, smiling.

“Messy enough?” you joke, laughing when he does.

“It’s not messy, it’s sexy,” he tells you and yeah, your stupid heart is in overdrive, the butterflies in your stomach wilding and your face absolutely blushing. “It’s cute, natural. It’s more you than the preppy pose you’ve just tried to pull off,” and now he kind of insulted you.

“Hey!” you snap back, unable to keep a straight face when he starts laughing again. “You’ve known me for a few hours, how do you know preppy poses aren’t my thing?”

“I just know,” he shrugs. “Now act natural. Smile.”

You wanted to fight him back in a passive aggressive way and remain preppy but you just can’t – not with him making you smile. So you smile and giggle, pretending like he doesn’t have a camera in front of his face. If he wants you to be natural, you’re going to be natural.

After a few shots, he moves the camera away from his face and gives you the most blinding smile he had given you so far.

“Your turn,” you order him, unsure how you can even talk anymore. You feel like jelly on the inside and it’s actually quite worrying, seeing as you haven’t felt like this many times in your life. Of course, you liked people, you dated people, hell you’ve even loved a guy or two! But god good, they’re not Jimin. The guy has it all and all of it is affecting you in ways you didn’t know you could be affected.

You swallow a few lumps as you try to focus on the tower too, and not just him, because yes, it kind of needs to be in the picture too and that is the whole point of this, isn’t it? It takes you a few tries but you end up with a good shot. No matter how tonight ends, you’ll have a palpable memory of Jimin saved in your camera and you’d be lying to yourself if you say that doesn’t make you feel a bit more at ease.

“How can something be so tacky and so breathtakingly beautiful at the same time?” you ask while walking back towards the fence, letting the camera dangle around your neck as you stand next to Jimin.

“It really is amazing, isn’t it?” he chuckles. This time around, you are the one shamelessly staring – he is too preoccupied with looking at the tower. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it’s Paris, or just tonight or maybe even you, but everything feels so… I don’t know, honestly,” he laughs, shaking his head as if he’s in disbelief. “I guess I’m just… really enjoying tonight.”

Here he is, this… beautiful, hot, kind, charming stranger, right next to you. Just a few days ago, he was no more than a fellow tourist. Just a few days ago, you didn’t think much of him. Today was a different story. Today, he didn’t let you push him into the back of your mind. Today he had made himself the focus of your day, night and quite frankly, this whole damn trip.

You don’t have to see him ever again if you don’t want to. If destiny keeps messing with you, you might run into him back home but by then, enough time would have passed for you to be able to keep your cool. If it goes good… it’ll go good. And if it goes bad, you can go back to pretending like none of this ever happened, and that your whole Parisian escapade was not Jimin centric. It might be easier said than done but you’re a tough cookie. You can do it.

Why not go for it? Seriously Y/N, why not go for it?

So you do.

You step closer to him and reach your hand out, putting it on his cheek and turning him to face you – he doesn’t have enough time to react properly but you can see the flash of surprise on his face. There is no time for him to say or do anything, because you lean in and press your lips to his.

Fuck it. Seriously, just fuck it. You’re here, he’s here and with doing practically nothing, he’d made you feel more than you’ve felt in months. As tacky as it is, you truly do only live once and you know yourself well enough to know you’d end up regretting not doing this.

You might regret it anyways, who knows. But you’d eat yourself away if you hadn’t gone for it.

You’d be lying if you said that the kiss is magical. Really, it’s awkward. Your lips are not much in comparison to his beautifully plump ones and while that could be overpowering, he technically isn’t moving. What you thought would be a kiss that would rock your world, ends up being nothing more than one slightly longer peck because he isn’t moving.

You can feel it – you’ve fucked up. You went for it and in hindsight, you shouldn’t have. Feeling absolutely mortified by his lack of response, you pull away, feeling even worse when you see the way he’s looking at you – no awe, no surprise, no excitement. He doesn’t look pissed either, or confused. It’s difficult to describe it but he’s almost… scowling at you.

You’ve fucked it up. But that’s okay. At least you won’t wonder about the ‘what ifs’.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking away from him quickly. As much as you’re trying to reassure yourself that it’s better to know than to wonder, you’re absolutely dying on the inside. If there’s a hole near here in which you could hide, right this second, you’d go there. Alas, you’re out in the open and have to deal with the mess you’ve made. “I guess I’ve misread the signals. I-“

With his hand on your back, he pulls you smack into his chest, not leaving any room between the two of you whatsoever. All that you see is him leaning into you with his eyes closed.

It’s not a peck – it’s anything but a peck. His lips guide yours to open and not even a second later, you feel his tongue moving against yours. He pulls you even closer to him, your bodies practically stuck together, with your hands squished between you. You feel him run his other hand through your hair, turning your head a bit towards the side so that he can have more access to you, as if he hadn’t had enough to begin with. His tongue is relentless and you’re absolutely sure that you’re about to faint, knees barely managing to keep your body standing.

You have never been kissed like this. Definitely not in public.

He pulls away slowly, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth as he goes. He’s not scowling like he was moments ago, but he’s also not the cute, smiley Jimin he was for the better part of the day.

And you? You’re honestly struggling to breathe. A kiss is a surprise itself but a kiss like that is not something that’s easy to survive. You’re well aware that you’re practically panting because of him but it’s hardly something you can hide. You’re affected and you’re going to be affected, no matter how embarrassed you are about it.

“If you’re going to kiss me,” his voice is low, much lower than before and it’s not helping your situation at all. “You should kiss me like you mean it.”

Fuck everything.

You grab his shirt and pull him towards you once again.

Life works in mysterious ways. Just this morning, you were a regular tourist, doing regular tourist things, sticking to your itinerary as you try to cram all of Paris into one week. And now? Now you’re pressed up against a wall of a random building in a part of town you haven’t ventured into before, making out with the hottest guy you have ever met, who is also pretty much still a stranger.

You don’t even care about how uncomfortable you are in this position – him kissing you makes it all better, very literally. He is a marvelous kisser – hungry, but not overpowering, with lips for days. He smells of cologne you have never smelt before but somehow know you won’t be able to forget anytime soon. Even the soft cotton of his white shirt that your hand is digging into feels heavenly.

Jimin, Jimin, Jimin. All you can focus on is Jimin, to the point of even almost managing to ignore a whistle directed towards the two of you.

You’ve had it coming, really – almost dry humping in the middle of the street. When Jimin starts to pull away, probably because of the wolf whistle, you still chase after him, desperately trying to keep your lips stuck together. He still moves away but not too far – he nuzzles into your neck, leaving you gasping for air at the feel of his lips attacking your neck.

Is it too far? Maybe. But too far is the exact direction in which you want to go.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” you suggest. You’ve never directly propositioned sex to someone you weren’t in a relationship with and while you were internally panicking, you also know he probably won’t refuse you. Unless the thing you’re feeling against your thigh is his phone and not him being happy to see you. “My airnbn is a bit far but we can go there?” you suggest, not wanting to be too direct and invite yourself to his place. Honestly, you’d even go into a public toilet at this point, but you’ll keep that bit of information to yourself.

He doesn’t respond immediately and you would have worried about it, if he wasn’t preoccupied with biting your neck, with enough force to leave marks and make you want to crumble. You shudder, actually shudder with pleasure as you feel his tongue run over your skin. “The place I’m staying at is just a few minutes away,” he finally speaks up, stepping away from you for the first time in what feels like forever. “Do you want to go there?” he asks.

The way he looks at you tells you he’s asking you more than to just go over to the place he’s staying at. You know it, he knows it. Even though it was your suggestion, he is still checking in with you, despite probably already knowing that you’d agree to pretty much anything. You laugh at his question.

“Jimin… I’m… I’m more than fine with going to your place, yeah,” you settled for that. Letting him know that you’d let him fuck you in the middle of the street, right here, right now, might be a bit too forward of you. Incredibly accurate but perhaps too forward.

The beaming smile you get from him when you agree serves like a confirmation to yourself that no, this is absolutely not a bad idea. This is everything you’ve hoped for but didn’t think would happen. This is the brief romance that novels are written about, a story you might remember when 30 years from now, your 20something-year-old daughter goes on her first trip to Paris and you remember him. Jimin will be your story, one that you might revisit often, depending on how the night ends.

Taking your hand in his, he leads the way and you follow blindly, enjoying his touch even during simple handholding. You want to do more, so much more, but if you do, you’ll never get to your end destination. Jimin must have sensed that, because the two of you are walking faster than you did this whole day – now you actually have a goal in mind. And what a goal that will be.

“Not to bring the mood down but we could have been going to your place a lot sooner if you’d kissed me back in the club,” you admit. Maybe that was a little bit unnecessary but you want to break the silence between you – and if you can compliment him in the process, why not?

“Hmm, maybe,” he sighs, suddenly letting go of your hand, only to hug you around the waist and pull you into his side, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re not the only one that was worried about misreading some signals. I wanted to be sure, so I consciously waited for you to do something.”

“Thank fuck I did because that was a close one,” you laugh in disbelief, amazed to know how close you were to this simply never happening.

“Not gonna lie, I was worried,” he laughs too, giving you another quick peck. You’re positive that you’re blushing again. Every time he kisses you, your stomach does somersaults, excited at the thought of him wanting to kiss you as much as you want to kiss him. Which is a lot. More than a lot. “I’m glad you mustered the courage to kiss a guy that’s quite obviously wanted to kiss you all afternoon.”

“For future notice – be more direct,” you warn him through laughter. The lucky girl who gets to experience him next deserves to be spared the inner turmoil you’ve went through. He spent the entire night dancing on the line between being very direct and not direct enough. One step in either direction would have settled your dilemma, so hopefully the next person will have more luck.

“I’m a bit preoccupied with you right now, thanks,” he chuckles as he sneaks his hand down to your ass and squeezes it shamelessly. You jump up in surprise but don’t feel particularly troubled about being in public, seeing as there is no public around you, at all. It’s just the two of you, walking along the river, the boats moored along the way seemingly empty. Feeling brave, braver than you ever remember feeling, you’re the one who initiates the kiss this time, making sure to show him how much you want this. You move slowly, enjoy the feeling of taking the lead and the lazy movements of your tongues, interrupted only when you feel the need to bite his bottom lip, which is way more often than you’d be willing to admit. Somehow, you once again end up being sandwiched between him and the half wall behind you. Seizing the opportunity, you sit on the half wall, pulling Jimin towards you by the belt – his hands find their way to your waist as he situates himself between your legs. This time around you’re sure it’s not his phone you’re feeling. It’s a very prominent bulge, noticeable enough to make you salivate at the very thought of what’s hidden. You’re not the only one acting braver – for the first time tonight, Jimin’s hands find their way under your shirt, eliciting goosebumps on your back almost immediately.

It’s when his fingers move to the front and graze your bra that you remember the two of you are still very much out in the open. And while at this point you wouldn’t particularly mind letting him have you here and now, the last thing you want to add to your Paris story is being arrested for indecent exposure.

“If you keep kissing me like this, we’ll never get to your place,” you warn him and contradict yourself immediately, attacking his neck with bites that make him sigh and shudder.

“Thank fuck we’re already here.”

You reluctantly detach yourself from his neck, looking around in confusion – you don’t see a house around you, at all. There’s nothing but the walkway and the park across the street. And as much as you like Jimin, you’re not going to fuck him on a bench which he sleeps on. He sees your confusion and nods towards the river. It takes you a bit too long to connect the dots.

“You’ve rented a houseboat?!” you ask in surprise and he gives you a quick kiss, pulling away with a smile.

“Of course,” he chuckles. “Hotels are boring. Boats are awesome.”

“Who even rents a boathouse?” you ask in wonder, all the while feeling slightly pissed at yourself because why the hell didn’t you think of that? It sure would beat your tiny airbnb, with a building that has no damn stairs – nothing but an elevator. Why would you be locked in such a claustrophobic space when you can have a damn boat? Lesson learned.

“I do,” he smirks at you. “And tonight, I’m going to fuck a very beautiful girl on that boat. So I guess it was a good call. Don’t you agree?”

“Yep. Wholeheartedly. You win.”

You know you’re going to die of embarrassment when he realizes just how wet he’s made you but you’re past the point of caring. With the words he says and the way he kisses you, you and your pussy never stood a chance.

Before you can kiss him again and prolong the wait, he takes your hand and leads the way, first down a set of concrete stairs and then towards the second houseboat in a row; it’s close to the ones on its side, but not too close for comfort. Climbing up the stairs that lead to the impromptu balcony on the boat, you immediately realize the appeal of choosing housing like this – once you can take your eyes away from Jimin’s ass, that is. No, once you are not looking at it, you can appreciate the view the boat has – you can even see the Eiffel tower, a bit down the river. The deck has a huge table, a few chairs and way more plants that a boat deck needs. It looks comfortable, beautiful and with how easily accessible it is, just a bit dangerous. All the words you can use to describe the man who is now kissing your neck, standing behind you as you reach and lean yourself on the boat rail, hoping it is safe.

“I see you’re an exhibitionist,” you laugh when he pulls you back so that your ass is right against his crotch and good god, you can feel how hard he is as he rolls his hips against you.

“No. Maybe just a little,” he chuckles. You laugh too, until you feel one of his hands leave your hips and reach for the button on your jeans. You gulp, eyes widening and as if he can sense your alert, he doesn’t unbutton them immediately. “You?” he asks. God, consent is so fucking sexy.

You’ve never dabbled in it, never really thought about it either but now, in this predicament? “Maybe just a little,” your voice is low as you give him permission. You weren’t joking when you thought that he can do anything he wants, were you? It doesn’t matter, because you said yes and holy fuck, his hand is going down your pants.

You jolt immediately and how could you not, when he went straight for your clit, right off the bat. Jimin does not play around, that much is obvious. You can only pray the fence is secure enough to keep you out of the water.

“Didn’t think you’d be this turned on by foreplay in public,” he laughs directly in your ear because the moment he ran his fingers against your slit, you threw your head back to lean onto him more, afraid of your legs actually turning into jelly because of him. “I’m proven wrong.”

“You don’t know me well enough to assume my sexual preferences,” somehow, you manage to laugh and remain sassy, thought that is cut short the moment he returns his attention to your clit, circling it very, very slowly. “But I suppose you found out some.”

“And I have the whole night to learn, don’t I, Y/N?”

“You do,” you bite your lip to hold back a moan because he started rubbing his fingers against you, the sudden change from slow to fast catching you off guard.

“You don’t have to keep quiet baby,” he presses a quick kiss against your neck, pushing you more into the rail as he rubs himself against your ass in a manner that almost has you begging for more. You are, internally, but not aloud. Not yet, at least. “I don’t think anyone could hear you down here. And I know I want to.”

“Duly noted,” you moan out because he presses his fingers into you harder – with the pressure and the speed, you know you’re going to fall apart way sooner than you’d though.

There has to be some flaw, right? He cannot be this perfect, no human being can be this perfect. If you were to stick around long enough, maybe you’d find a personality trait of his that makes him less perfect than what he is now, in your eyes, but you won’t be staying long enough to find out. For tonight, you’re more than fine with letting him be your little perfection.

“Let’s go inside?” he suggests as he drags his hand away from you and that is by far the worst thing he had done the whole night. You never want him to stop touching you, but that can be arranged at a more appropriate location. You nod, or so you think you do, unsure of your movements and thoughts, and you let him pull you by the hand and towards the door, pausing to fumble with the keys.

He opens the door and you stumble inside as he puts his bag on a hallway table – you choose to throw yours on the ground, waiting for him to turn on the lights. The moment you can see him clearly, the passion takes over you.

Driven by it, you all but slam him into the wall, almost laughing as his eyes widen in surprise. You don’t though – you don’t laugh, you don’t say anything. You simply reach for the hem of his shirt and lift it up slowly, making sure that your fingers cross every inch of skin you uncover. Seeing him shiver is worth the torture you’re putting yourself through, because a part of you wants to drop to the floor and start unbuckling his belt. You fight your own instincts, wanting and hoping to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure he had given you just moments ago.

Soft to the touch but very well defined, his body is a work of art that could rival those that you have spent the last few days observing. The tattoo you discover on his ribs serves as a perfect imperfection, a blemish on the canvas that somehow looks so right. Gulping, you let him take off his shirt and as soon as he does, you’re against him, kissing those lips of his again.

You don’t stay there long – slowly traveling under his chin, down his neck and all over his chest, staying there long enough, pressing soft kisses and licks until he is properly panting. When his hips roll, subconsciously looking for any kind of friction, you decide to move further down, slowly kissing a trail down his stomach, looking up at him, enjoying the sight of him so visibly… distraught. The moment your eyes meet, he closes his. And now you know you’re doing it right, if for the first time he is the one afraid of eye contact and how deadly it can be.

“You’re killing me,” he chuckles nervously, his voice breathless. And you simply smile, slowly unbuckling his belt and pushing the pants down to his knees as slow as you possibly can. You want to offer a remark about how he’s clearly enjoying it but his cock is one major distraction, in the best way possible.

He’s hard and ready, the sight filling you with instant pride because you know that you did that. You made him like this. A little bit pliant, a little bit breathless and very much not ready for what’s about to come. He’s hard, twitching under your gaze, making your mouth water. You still take it slow, enjoying the pace set to tease him – slowly licking the tip of his dick, smiling as you watch his Adam’s apple bob from above you – he still can’t look at you.

“I love how you’ve been staring me down the whole night and now you can’t handle looking at me,” you admit as you slowly drag your hand up and down his cock. Of course, now he opens his eyes and looks down on you but the lump he swallows shows you that even though he responed to your challenge, he is still very much affected and you’re living for it.

“I see you like to tease,” is what he says, making you smile.

“Very much,” you nod, giving him a quick lick that is followed by another muffled curse coming from him. “But I can be kind too,” you conclude, before finally taking him into your mouth properly.

It’s a bit of a challenge but you are more than happy to take it, slowly sinking your mouth up and down his dick, enjoying the symphony of noises that is coming from him. Every sigh, every curse, every moan – it all just makes you even more adamant to give him the best head of his life.

“Fuck Y/N,” he barely manages to say, moaning as you speed up your movements. He gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slowly starts guiding you faster, eyeing your reaction, despite being momentarily distracted by the sight of you taking all of him into your mouth. “Fuck, you look so… You’re gonna make me come,” he lets out a slightly panicked laughter, gently pushing you away from him, to which you pout. Despite not being that big on blowjobs, giving one to Jimin felt somewhat like a privilege and you wouldn’t admit that lightly. Not wanting to stop completely, you squeeze him in your hand, slowly moving up and down, watching as he goes through another crisis. “Y/N,” he laughs in warning, making you stop, albeit reluctantly.

“Isn’t it the point to make you come?” you ask but still stand up when his hands grab yours by the elbows and he lifts you up to stand next to him.

“Absolutely,” his eyes don’t leave your lips and he gives you a quick kiss, biting into your bottom lip hard enough to earn a moan. “But not like that, not before I fuck you. Not before I have my way with you.”

The smile on his face looks sinister enough to make you even wetter than you were moments ago. He doesn’t sound like a man who makes promises lightly and you get your confirmation as he puts his hands on your hips and starts pushing you back towards the room behind you. You’re too fucked out to notice anything other than the fairly modern design of the furniture around you. Before you can notice anything in particular, your ass slams into a hard surface and you jump up, letting him settle between your legs again and kiss you even harder than he did all night.

You’re the target now, and good god, you’re loving it. His lips alter between being gentle and harsh, kissing you with so much passion before biting, as if he wants to show you that he’s the one in charge. And you let him. By god, you let him.

He takes your shirt and bra off quickly, not wanting to drag it out like you did, but the moment you’re half naked before his eyes, he slows down. If him staring you down made you feel nervous before, you are positively burning right now because he is eating you up. He doesn’t even have to touch you – just the sight of him, looking like he’s about to ruin you is enough to cause goosebumps to form all over your body. He comes closer, attaching his lips to your chest. You are losing your mind because he is purposely slow, kissing you all over before finally attaching his lips to your nipple, taking it into his mouth and slowly rolling his tongue against it. You swear you can feel him smiling, but you’re too far gone to check – especially not when his hand reaches for your other breast, squeezing it shamelessly. You’ve been able to control your noises for a little while, but the moment his teeth come out to play, you’re a goner. With his fingers and lips moving at the same time, you can only moan, reaching towards something, anything to hold and settling for his hair. You grip it, perhaps a bit too harshly if his moan is anything to go by – but he doesn’t stop you. In fact, he simply sucks harder, making you arch your back towards him.

He’ll ruin you. He will absolutely ruin you and you are perfectly fine with it.

After what feels like an eternity, he detaches his mouth away from you and your eyes meet. He truly is a sight for sore eyes, especially now when he looks so blissfully fucked out. His hair is a mess, his lips red from all the kissing and sucking, his torso a work of art. He looks so fucking hot, you moan. At the very sight of him, you moan. He’s not touching you, he’s not teasing you, he’s not doing anything but looking at you and that is enough to make you moan, moan and rut your hips in his direction, looking for friction which you find in the form of his thigh. He lets you, he lets you move against him. Your moment of pleasure doesn’t last long, because he steps back, fumbling to unbutton your jeans. You lay down, ignoring the cold of the table against your naked back, lifting your hips to help him undress you completely. Unlike the slow, sensual moves that you used on him, he is quick, taking them off as fast as he possibly can. When you’re left in nothing but your underwear, that is when he slows down again, crouching down out of your sight.

“Fuck!” you gasp in surprise when you feel him nuzzling his nose against your clothed center – you can feel how wet you are and you know, you know he can smell it, feel it, see it and you absolutely do not care. In fact, you’re even more turned on by the thought of it – he clearly is enjoying it and you want nothing more than to let him know how good he’s making you feel.

He doesn’t torture you for too long and other than a muffled curse, he doesn’t comment on how wet you are for him. Instead, he goes right down to business, using his fingers to move your underwear to the side and he immediately attaches himself to your clit, sucking on it harshly, with the same fervor as when he was sucking on your nipples.  

“Fuck, Jimin!” you moan out, gripping his hair with all the strength you have, knowing that that must have hurt – again, he shows no signs of having a problem with it. Fuck, he probably even likes it.

“What is it baby?” he asks, not waiting for your response and instead choosing to lick up your center. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, fuck yes,” you manage to reply, momentarily distracted by the feel of his finger sinking into you.

“If you let me, I’ll eat you out for hours tomorrow morning,” he tells you, pausing to bite on your thigh, a bite that you know will leave teeth marks, but you don’t protest. “As much as I’d be willing to do it for hours right now, I really need you on my cock.”

“Yeah, okay,” you laugh, biting your lip at the feel of him sinking another finger into you, slowly dragging them in and out as he stands up, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. You say nothing more – you couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You move your hips in time with his fingers, riding them like you would, and hopefully will, ride his dick in a matter of moments.

“Bedroom?” he suggests as he stops his assault on you. You nod, somehow managing to sit up, nearly laughing at the sight of him. Half naked, with his jeans still hanging right above his knees, his member standing up proudly. How he could wobble you towards the table in that state is beyond you. You don’t have a chance to ask, too distracted with the sight of him licking his fingers, all while looking directly into your eyes. He’ll be the death of you, that’s for sure.

You stand up, leaning against the table as he loses the last articles of his clothing – you barely have the time to take a few deep breaths before he starts kissing you again, his tongue overpowering yours as you moan at the taste of him. You don’t bother opening your eyes, letting him lead you towards the bedroom, trusting him that you won’t end up overboard, hoping that if you do, you wouldn’t be too turned on to notice. You hit a wall and a door on your way there, giggling by the time he is pushing you onto a bed, finally letting you breathe. Standing above you, he somehow manages to look both menacing and hot at the same time. His eyes tell you to wait, which you gladly do, watching him as you settle yourself on top of the covers. You choke on your own breath when you notice his ass, for the first time without the barrier of skintight jeans – it’s a sight, alright. You watch as he fumbles through his suitcase, smiling at him when he turns around, waving a condom at you.

No matter how much you’re into him, there’s no way he’s fucking you without protection. You’re glad he’s on the same page, not even stopping to suggest going bare. While you’d like that and you’re guessing so would he, it’s simply not happening. He walks towards you, not putting the condom on immediately, instead choosing to give his member a few strokes, enjoying the view of you on his bed, naked and waiting. Though your lip bite was an unconscious reaction at the sight before you, he is affected, grunting at the sight – the moment the condom is covering his dick, he is rushing to get on top of you, finally letting you feel his whole body against your own.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he tells you before kissing you passionately, flicking his tongue slowly as he settles between your legs. He doesn’t enter you immediately, instead choosing to grind onto you, making the both of you moan into the kiss. You’re the one who pulls away, if only for a moment.

“Please,” you moan out, enjoying the feel of his dick rubbing against you, pushing you closer to the edge – too close, considering you didn’t even have a chance to feel him inside of you. “Please just fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he gives you a quick kiss before finally sliding into you. Slowly and with ease, he fills you up in a way that makes you moan – louder than you did the whole night, feeling absolutely shameless. You don’t care, you don’t care where you are or who can hear you, if anyone – he feels that damn good.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you gasp, taken by surprise with him slowly rolling his hips into you. It’s as if he can tell you need no more time to adjust to him, he starts moving a bit faster with each roll of his hips, making you curse out as you grab onto him, your fingers digging into his skin. It seems he enjoys you being rough with him, showing him how good he’s making you feel because he isn’t complaining and you know it has to hurt. He wastes no time, dipping down to take your nipple into his mouth, never stopping his dick from moving in and out of you in the best of ways.

“God,you’re so tight baby!” he grunts as his thrusts become harder and faster, so much so that you faintly notice the sound of the bed thumping into something, most likely the wall. You don’t care, you really don’t – you pull him closer to you, blindly reaching for his lips, enjoying the way he overpowers your senses, even smell - he smells like sex and expensive cologne, the most mouthwatering scent you’ve ever had the pleasure of smelling. The moment your lips touch, you feel his hand graze your clit, eliciting a particularly loud moan for you. Unable to focus on anything, you give into pleasure and let him do whatever he wants with you, the onslaught on your senses killing the little sanity you had left.

You dare and think it can’t get any better than this and right as you do, he delivers a particularly hard thrust, pinching your clit between his fingers at the same time. You weren’t ready – you weren’t ready for it at all and with his actions catching you by surprise, you lose the little control you’ve had, coming hard. The orgasm washes over you stronger than any orgasm in your recent memory, making you gasp and moan, holding onto him with all the strength your body has left. He is losing his cool too – his hands give in and he’s pressed up against you completely, lips grazing your ear. “Just like that, come all over my cock,” he urges you through your high, his words making it even harder for you to calm down.

Body shivering, you somehow calm down your breathing – it’s a challenge, seeing as he still hasn’t stopped moving completely. He slowed down enough not to send you in complete overdrive too soon. Even his consideration is a turn on – almost as strong of a turn on as him using your body to pleasure himself, still rolling his hips into you and moaning softly, directly into your ear, the moan turning more high pitched when he feels your nails running up and down his back.

Turning your head towards him, you search for his lips. He kisses you eagerly, stilling himself inside of you for a moment, as if he wants to focus on the kiss and kiss alone. Slowly, he moves away from you and leans back, running his hand up your thigh. He raises his eyebrows as he pushes your leg up, asking you for permission. You nod, moaning as he moves your leg towards the side. Quickly, you turn to your side completely and judging by the moan he lets out, that’s exactly what he needed you to do.

You want to do more, you do. You want to ride him till you can no longer move but he is so damn overwhelming, all you can do right now is just… take it. And you’re not complaining. Slowly but surely, the pleasure builds up again and you realize there’s a strong chance you’ll come again. Suddenly brave again, you look at him, directly at him, as you put a hand between your legs and start rubbing yourself. The moment he realizes what you’re doing, he looks down, lifting your leg up so that he can have a better view. “Fuck,” is all he says, followed by the sexiest groan you have ever heard a man make.

“I’m so close,” you warn him, wanting to feel all of it again but somehow not wanting it to end.

“Come on baby, come for me again,” he urges you on. As much as you want to, you really don’t want it to be over anytime soon - the buildup was so damn hot and you simply don’t want to stop. Thinking about his earlier promise about eating you out for hours is what pushes you over the edge. Feeling Jimin and think of the dirty words he whispered in your ear is enough for you to come again, your entire body shivering with pure pleasure. Looking up at him, you notice the way his face scrunches, the way his voice is deeper and his moans never stopping… he takes over you again.

“I’m going to come,” he warns you, making you remember that he can’t come inside of you and fill you up, which is something you would really, really like. You settle for the next best thing.

“Come on me,” you tell him, moving your leg out of his still firm grip, and spreading your legs as much as possible, now having a perfect view of him slamming into you, much faster than he did before. “Come anywhere you want,” you urge him, biting your lip as his hips lose rhythm at your suggestion. In the speed of light, he slips out of you, leaving you empty and wanting more, more of him, more of his dick, more of anything he’d be willing to give you. You watch as he takes the condom off in the speed of light, still rubbing yourself and ignoring the overstimulation you are feeling, absolutely urged by the hottest sight you have seen in your entire life: Jimin, stroking himself with a firm grip, moaning loudly as he closes his eyes, his face scrunched in pleasure.

You watch in awe as he finishes all over you, the streaks of his cum reaching all the way up to your breasts. You have never, never in your entire life, experienced anything hotter than this. You know now, there is nothing hotter than watching Jimin orgasm. And you have never in your miserable life had sex nearly as good as the one you had now.

Jimin’s body gives up and he falls directly on top of you, making you chuckle. Your hands roam his back, as if you are comforting him through the aftermath, completely ignoring the fact that his now softening member is still rubbing against you. Both of you are sweaty, your bodies covered in his cum but you don’t care and neither does he. Once he is finally able to move, he simply leans a bit to the side, just so that he can look at you. And he does. With the brightest, sweetest smile that shouldn’t belong to a man who fucked you as hard as he just did.

“Hi,” you speak up first, shocked at how rough your voice sounds. Perhaps you were a bit louder than you thought you were. He smiles and you feel yourself melting again, accepting that you are whipped for him, way more whipped than you should be for someone you barely know. He doesn’t make it any easier on you when he leans in for a kiss, his lips slow and lazy and yours following suit, ignoring the butterflies that are going berserk in your stomach again. You ignore it all, shutting your brain off and enjoying the post sex glow that he is radiating with.

He pulls away but not before caressing your face and pushing hair behind your ear – a very sweet action for someone whose mouth can do all those dirty, lovely things.

“That was… wow,” he admits and for the first time since you’ve met him, you think you see a blush on his face – a blush that isn’t caused by alcohol, that is. Is he suddenly shy? Is it the post sex blush? You don’t know and you don’t care, as long as you can keep looking at him.

“Wow seems appropriate,” you agree, joining in his laughter. He is still chuckling as he nuzzles into your neck, giving you a few quick pecks before pulling away.

“Do you want to stay the night?” he raises his eyebrows, giving you a way out if you don’t want to take him up on his earlier offer. “I could call you a cab or even walk you back to your place. I’d like you to stay the night though.”

“Good, because I don’t think I can use my legs at the moment.”

It wasn’t supposed to be such a funny remark but for some reason, he laughs hard and after fighting it for a few seconds, you can’t help but join in. If you look past his hotness and the ease with which he communicates with people, he really does have a comfortable aura around him – if he laughs, it’s contagious and you don’t mind joining in.

The two of you calm down and after a few moments of silence, he runs his hand through your hair again, pushing it away from your face as his eyes focus on different parts of it – first your eyes, then your lips, then your cheeks. It looks as if he is trying to memorize you and to that you can relate because this is one night you’d never want to forget, not one part of it. And not one part of him. “Let’s go and get cleaned up?” he suggests.

You’ve lost count of how many times you have let him take you by the hand and lead the way for the both of you. You are yet to regret those decisions, gladly letting him lead the way now, knowing that wherever he takes you… it’s going to be good.

You wake up feeling content, well rested and sore, all at once. With a dumb smile on your face, you giggle and bury your face in the pillow – it smells of him, making your memories of the night before even more vivid.

His promise of devoting hours to you and your body this morning did not wait until dawn. It all occurred the night before, with you still kissing one another by the time sun had started to rise and the birds had started chirping.

It all comes back to you in flashes, the bath you took together, the way he caressed your skin as he was washing you up, before his hands went a bit further south. Both the sweet words and the dirty talk are engraved in your mind forever, just like the way he made you feel all of last night.

You knew it before, you’re sure of it now – he has ruined you. He has absolutely ruined you, in the best way possible. And you don’t want it to end.

You knew it had an expiration date. This is a trip romance – short, sweet, steamy and memorable. It had an expiration date the moment the two of you shared the first smiles in front of ‘Shakespeare and company’. While the thought of it does leave a bitter taste in your mouth, you’re a big girl and you can live with it. Smiling, you decide to enjoy the morning, or early afternoon, with Jimin. You’ll deal with the negative side effects later.

“Afternoon, beautiful,” you hear him, turning around towards the direction his voice is coming from – he is leaning against the doorway, smiling at you, looking too hot for his own good with gray sweatpants, a white shirt and a part of his dark hair pulled back in a makeshift bun. “Did you sleep well?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” he smiles as you close your eyes and shamelessly yawn, remembering a second too late that you should put a hand over your mouth. You open your eyes just in time to see him sitting down on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on your naked thigh and slowly moving it up and down your skin. It’s not as sexual as his touches were last night – in fact, this feels more comforting than anything else. “How long was I out? Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I slept like a log. And it’s 2PM now, so you’ve had a few hours.”

“2PM?” you’re shocked to realized you’ve already lost half the day. It was very much worth it, though.

“You have somewhere to be?” he teases you, probably unaware how he makes the butterflies in your stomach go nuts. You have a sneaky suspicion that he’s not aware of your dilemma – do you go, do you stay? Does he want you to go or does he want you to stay? What are you even supposed to say now?

“No, not really,” you shrug, cowardly throwing the ball into his court. You’ll admit it, you’re a whimp and you are more than happy to let him decide if you should be on your way or stick around a bit longer.

“Well, I’ve made us some quick lunch. I wanted to order something but wasn’t sure if you’d want to stick around for food… so I figured I’ll make something and eat both portions if you bolt,” he admits through laughter and you’re immediately relieved – you weren’t the only one uncertain about everything.

“I don’t have to bolt. And I’m also kind of starving,” you admit, shuddering when you remember that the last thing you ate was a croissant almost a full day ago – you’re absolutely starving.

“We can eat on the deck if you want?” he suggest, before breaking out into a sudden smile.

“What?” you ask, confused with how he’s looking at you. You either have something on your face or he’s going to make this whole thing 20 times more difficult and you’re afraid the second situation is more likely.

“Nothing. You’re just beautiful like that,” he shrugs as you let him run his hands through your hair.

“Half-dead and messy looking? I’m sure I am,” you roll your eyes.

“Not messy. Sexy,” he corrects you, the same way he did last night. With a sigh, he pulls away and stands up. “I’m starving too, so you’d better hurry up if you don’t want me eating you up instead.”

“I don’t think I’d mind that, to be honest,” you admit, hiding your face in his pillow, knowing that you no longer have the dark to hide the blush that appears whenever you say something a bit more straightforward.

You expected him to say something or maybe laugh – you absolutely didn’t expect to feel his teeth on your right ass cheek. You jump up in surprise, nearly hitting him in the head when your leg jerks, but that only makes him laugh. You’re smiling way too wide for someone who’s just been bitten on the ass and you decide to scream into the pillow once he’s away enough not to hear it.

“Your clothes and underwear are dry and clean but feel free to steal that shirt from me,” he winks at you. “I’ll wait on the deck.”

With that, he leaves you alone to get dressed, try to gather your thoughts and maybe, just maybe, control your emotions a little bit. It would have been a lot easier if he was the ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of guy but surprise, he’s not! No, he fucked you like a full-fledged sex god, giving you the best night of your life, while caring enough to throw your clothes into the washer and drier and even wanting to feed you the next day. Nope, still no flaws in sight for Park Jimin.

You wash up quickly, slapping yourself a few times for good measure, hoping to calm yourself down enough to be able to turn around and leave very soon. You still don’t know if it had worked but your bag is packed and you join him on the deck, dressed in your jeans and the shirt he wore yesterday that he generously let you sleep in and steal for good.

He doesn’t notice you immediately, leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed. The sight of him sitting like that, with his dark hair pulled back and tied, his neck in full view and all but glowing in the sunlight makes you want to cry. The man is actually so goddamn pretty it almost brings tears to your eyes. It doesn’t help when he notices you and smiles at you, pointing at the two bowls set on the table.

“I know it’s just noodles but honestly, I’m too pretty to know how to cook,” he explains as you take a seat. You burst out laughing at his comment.

“Cocky yet very true,” you nod in appreciation. “Don’t worry, I love ramen.”

“It’s lame but I at least I’ve added poached eggs,” he tells you, looking oh so proud about adding an extra ingredient.

“Nothing beats instant ramen,” you reassure him. “It smells of youth, not having enough money and artificial flavoring. I’ve never felt more at home,” this time around, it’s he who laughs, wishing you a good meal as the both of you dig into the food. You weren’t lying when you said it’s more than okay – you just need some food in the belly and it’s not like you’ve expected him to greet you with a full course meal. It’s the thought that counts and it’s more than enough. Actually, it might even be too much.

Halfway through your lunch, the silence between you turns slightly uncomfortable. It isn’t anything that either one of you did – it’s just the entire situation. The clock is ticking, the both of you know it and neither one of you is quite sure how to act about it. You can’t stay here for another day, even if you wanted to – your stuff and a huge chunk of your money is back at your airbnb. Even with that little detail aside, you’re not even sure if you want to say – not to mention, if he wants you to stay or not.

But it feels… wrong. It feels wrong to leave just like that, pretending like he hadn’t given you an amazing night. Not only was the sex mind-blowingly good… even before that, he was a perfect travel partner yesterday. He’s good company and knowing you’ll be saying goodbye to all of that… it doesn’t sit well with you.

Despite avoiding eye contact for a few minutes now, you fail and the moment your eyes meet from across the table, you know you’ve reached that page of the little novella the two of you wrote. He knows it too, setting away his chopsticks, sighing as he leans back into the chair. You say nothing, watching him as he stares you down, slowly shaking his head.

“I don’t want this to end,” he admits. You stay silent, following his suit as you put away your own chopsticks and lean back into the chair, completely shutting down the rest of the world – you no longer hear the birds or passing boats. You don’t see the tourists walking along the river, you don’t even feel the subtle waves that gently sway the boat you’re on – you can only focus on him, on his face, on the way he looks bothered by this. “It feels wrong to end this but at the same time, doesn’t it feel like the only proper way to go about it? Am I making any sense?” he asks, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“Yeah,” you nod immediately, assuring him that you do understand it. “It feels good, it feels right, like it would be a shame to walk away from but… what else can be done?”

“Exactly,” he agrees, leaning towards you. “It feels equally right and wrong. What are we going to do?”

You can go back to get your stuff and spend the rest of the trip here with him. You can exchange numbers and meet up back home. It could lead to something beautiful, a continuation of a marvelous chapter one, just as easily as it can lead to a complete disaster. Life’s unpredictable and you don’t know if it’s worth it to possibly ruin this amazing… encounter.

How can you even find an answer to that? Not like this whole thing hasn’t been…

“You believe in destiny, don’t you?” you ask him, suddenly putting two and two together, smiling at the confused nod he gives you. “We met here so many times. Different days, different times, we somehow ended up together. Who’s to say that won’t happen again?” you ask.

“What are you suggesting here? To… see if we meet again?”

“Exactly,” you nod, feeling proud of the solution you’ve come up with. “You believe in destiny and I don’t. If we meet again, I’d be willing to question that belief. We go our separate ways. If it ends up being a onetime encounter, we’ll remember it with smiles on our faces. And if we meet…”

“I don’t let you walk away again,” he smirks at you. You don’t say anything as that smirk turns into a genuine, real smile. He means it, he actually means it. And if you meet him again… you will too. “What happens if we run into each other back home?” he asks.

You remember how you talked last night, realizing that the two of you were hanging around the same places before, perhaps even at the same time. It made you wonder how many times you have passed one another, without a second glance, thinking of other things, of other people. Running into him back home seems more likely than seeing him again here in Paris.

“Then we say hello and see where that takes us,” you answer adamantly.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

He offers you his hand from across the table and you shake it firmly, suddenly a lot more hopeful than you were moments ago. No, you don’t believe in destiny but if there’s someone that could make you question that, it’s Park Jimin himself.

“Fucking hell,” you curse under your breath as you wrestle your way through the crowd – for the first time since you’ve arrived in Paris, you were stuck in the metro during rush hour and you have never felt so many backpacks smacking your face in such a short amount of time.

Trying to get Google Maps on, you make your way up the stairs and into fresh air, taking a deep breath when you do. If your phone is correct and based on your previous experiences, it’s probably not, you’re a five minute walk away from the Luxembourg Gardens.  A perfect way to end your last full day in Paris – outside and hopefully away from any kind of crowd.

You walk in the direction your navigation deems right, checking every few seconds if it had started spinning out of control like it did yesterday – there is nothing more stressful than your GPS telling you to turn right and once you do, immediately telling you to take a sharp left.

It’s the smell that makes you take a detour – it’s always the smell. Sure, you could continue to sheepishly follow your navigation but when the smell of freshly baked pastry smacks you in the face, you know where you’re heading. The bakery is fairly empty and you test your poor French as you order a plain croissant.

Damn him and his plain croissants. Something that should be so simple and so irrelevant now irks you, almost to the point of you changing your order to a chocolate one. You don’t, already knowing that you’re nowhere near proficient enough in French to explain your change of heart.

The lady behind the counter is a bit of a bitch, not waiting for you to put your wallet away before she hands you your meal, giving you a dirty look when it takes you a second too long to take it from her. Offering her a sour, kiss-my-ass smile, you take the pastry and head towards the door, now trying to juggle your food, phone, wallet and the door handle, all at once.

You’ve just managed to close the door behind you and turn around, nearly avoiding a collision.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasp, gripping your phone and the pastry harder, stopping them from flying out of your hand.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!”

Your heart stops at the sound of his voice. You slowly look up, scared of both confirming and denying your suspicions, unsure which one would hurt more – him being here or him being a product of your imagination. You know that voice and you know it well.

It’s him, looking panicked and checking if you have a hold on your things. “I’m sorry, I…” he goes mute once his eyes meet yours and he realizes it’s you.

Jimin stares at you, not saying anything. One second before the encounter turns uncomfortable, you watch in amazement as he grins at you, a grin so wide and genuine your heart skips a beat.

“I… I could have dropped my croissant.”

He huffs a small laugh at your horribly timed Vine reference, pursing his lips as he tries to hide his smile – why, you don’t know and don’t care to find out because he can’t do it. He can’t hide his smile and it’s evident that he’s happy to see you. So are you, thanking and cursing at destiny at the same time.

Taking your empty hand in his, he says nothing as he intertwines your fingers and starts walking, slowly leading you away with him. You follow him, desperately thinking of what to say, of what to do but somehow too panicked to actually do anything. It feels like one of you should do something and apparently, he thinks the same because he suddenly stops and turns your way.

He puts his hands on your face, pulling you in for a kiss. The moment your lips are pressed against his, you remember how much you’ve wanted to do this since the last time you’ve kissed him, before walking down the steps of his boathouse. The relief that fills you as he deepens the kiss makes you a reluctant but firm believer in destiny.

No words are needed, you know that now. So when he leans away and smiles at you, you smile back, reaching for his hand again. He leads the way and again you follow, knowing you’re definitely not going to regret it this time either. THE END

#jimin smut #bts smut #jimin scenario #bts scenario #jimin #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts au #jimin au #park jimin #jimin writing

[mehreya]

regret

↬ wc: 3.9k

↬ pairing: bokuto kotarou x fem!reader

↬ genre: angst, fluff, soulmate au 

↬ summary: you’ve always viewed the concept of soulmates negatively, or even indifferently, but bokuto kotarou quickly changes your mind.

-- send an ask to @/seraee to be on my gen taglist or fill out my form in navi!!

As life progresses, regret, you learn, is the absolute bane of your existence.

You are born in 20th century Japan, near the end of the Shōwa period, and you grow up during the Heisei period. The soulmate legend has become increasingly well-known by then; but you are raised in such times where people, although they know of the soulmate legend, refuse to believe it, or to accept it.

Your grandmother is the one to recount the soulmate tale to you, not your mother. Your mother, a few years after she’s had you, leaves you in the hands of your grandmother, too scared to be trapped in motherhood, too scared to end up like her own mother; trapped in a loveless marriage, forced to be a mother at the age of 20. Your father stays with you and your grandmother, but when you turn eight, he passes away; taken away by weary thoughts and the liquor he so loves.

You are thus left alone with your grandmother, who, though she does her best to support you, is not enough. You have to take on three other jobs at the age of fifteen just to make sure you can pay for your high school education. The idea of taking on even more jobs just to be able to afford university tires you immensely, and you decide you cannot go to university. You just can’t.

Why do you have to work so hard to go to university anyway, when you can just pick up a few years later, when you have enough money? At that point, you are convinced that because of your bad luck, you won’t be meeting your soulmate anytime soon. You’re not even sure if you want to meet him; all your friends are planning to leave to Tokyo to engage in wild partying and one night stands; none of them want to be tied down by something as fickle as love. No one wants to be like their Shōwa mothers.

You decide you do not want to be like your mother; someone who abandoned you. But you don’t want to end up like your grandmother either. Caught between a rock and a hard place, you ultimately decide if you meet your soulmate, you will try, but until then, you want to live your life the way you want to. You want to go with your friends to Tokyo and party and be free, and just not worry about financial, emotional or other materialistic problems.

So with a kiss to your grandmother’s cheek and a last look at the house you grew up in but never loved, you leave for Tokyo the minute you turn eighteen.

Tokyo is bright lights and loud noises; a rush of color and sound and everything in between. Your friends seem to enjoy it; glad they are free from the restrictions of the old village you lived in. You try to enjoy it as well, and for the first few weeks, you really do. You relish in the feeling of letting loose in clubs, dancing to your heart’s content, throwing back shots, meeting new people. It is a rush of excitement and exhilaration, and you are completely drunk on the feeling.

Three years pass just like this, full of wild nights and random strangers and drunk parties. And then one day, a realization hits you. You wake up like normal, in some unfamiliar person’s bed, your garments thrown to the side haphazardly. Feeling the urge to vomit, you slide out of bed carefully, but one look back at the man, and you know he’s out cold. You hurry to the bathroom and vomit out last night’s contents, sighing as you wash your face with cool water after you’re done.

Slipping out of the bathroom quietly, you take in your surroundings and realize you are in a penthouse. You get dressed as quickly and quietly as you can and swipe as much cash as you can carry from the rich man’s wallet, which lay near your clothes. You’re just about to head out when light peeking in from behind curtains covering the floor-length window catches your eye.

Padding over to the window, wanting to see what the view is like from the highest floor of a building, you pull open the curtains and quickly step in front of the window, closing the curtains behind you. A soft gasp leaves your mouth as you take in the sight in front of you.

The sky is a beautiful pale blue covered by white wisps of clouds, intertwining around emerging rays of sunlight peeking through. It looks so beautiful; just like the sunrises your grandma used to show you. She used to bring you up to the hilltop and used to braid your hair at the top and sing you a lullaby as you watched the sunrise with her.

This is the first time you’ve thought about your grandma in years, and tears gather at the corner of your eyes at your thoughtlessness. Is your grandma doing well? Is she taking care of herself? Is she even alive?

You twist out from behind the curtains hurriedly, gathering your belongings and practically running to the elevator, barely holding in sobs as you do so. You must have looked very strange to the people in the elevator with you, but you cannot bring yourself to care.

The second you hear the ding that signals the elevator doors are opening, you rush out, scurrying to the nearest sheltered curb you can find. And you sit down, bury your head in your hands, and you sob.

A few weeks later finds you on the train back to your home town. You’re nervous; it’s been a long time since you’ve seen your grandmother. The remorse and the regret had piled up for years, and you’d just pushed them away, but now; now, you decide it’s been too long. Too long since you visited the woman who practically raised you, too long since you talked to the one who’d loved you and cared for you when your own parents hadn’t.

And thus, you’re resolute in your decision, even though every cell in your body is screaming at you to run away. The slowing down of the train, and the hoot of the train horn alerts you to the fact that you’ve arrived at your destination. Somewhat hesitantly, you step off the train and breathe in the familiar air. Though it didn’t truly feel like home, it felt good to be back.

You grab a cab, anticipation thrumming through your veins. Reaching home, you swing open the rusty white screen door and step inside gently.

“Obaa-san?”  You call out softly, taking off your shoes and putting them beside the door. She calls out your name, surprised. Her voice is a feeble croak, and sounds incredibly weary, as if she might collapse any minute. Heart clenching in worry and fear, you follow the direction of her voice to her bedroom door.

Swinging it open gently, you freeze as you see the weakened figure of your ailing grandmother. Her skin is incredibly pale, and she is barely breathing, so faintly you didn’t even realize she was until you looked closely. She beckons you closer, and you step forward weakly, tears blurring the edges of your vision. “Obaa-san.” You breathe out softly, regret clogging up your throat.

“Child,” she takes a shuddering, wheezing breath, and then closes her eyes completely, too weakened to even attempt anything other than talking.

“I’m glad you’re home.” You’re crying now, but she can barely move her arms to comfort you, and that makes you cry harder.

“There, there. My time has come, (Name). My last and only wish for you,” she wheezes, and the lines on her face slowly go slack. “Is I wish you would go to college, and end up being someone successful. I hope for you to live a happy, successful life.” Her voice fades in the end, and she goes completely still. You cry out for her, but she doesn’t respond, and you spend the rest of the day mourning by her side, lamenting the fact that you were too late.

To honour your grandmother’s last wish, you enrol in Tokyo University as soon as you can. The first two years of college pass by surprisingly easy, the cash you’d accumulated from your nights out, along with the money your grandma had left you, pays well for your tuition. You still haven’t aged a bit; no grey hairs visible. That changes in your third year of college though; in the first semester of your third year of college, you meet your supposed other half.

“(Name), you are to be partnered with Bokuto Koutarou for this assignment.” Your English professor intones monotonously, before clearing his throat and reading out the next pair, leaving no room for further instructions or debate.

Having never heard that name before, you glance around the lecture hall curiously, hoping your partner will come to you instead of you having to go to him. A flash of black and white catches your eye, and you see a black-and-white haired boy walking toward you, a cheerful smile on his face. His eyes are rather unique, you note, brilliant gold with a black slit for the pupil. He kind of reminds you of an owl, at first glance, and the cautious walls you always have up are lowered slightly.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He greets cheerfully, one hand reaching out for yours in a high five, to which you comply, slightly unnerved when he slaps your palm and then pumps it up and down excitedly. “I’m Bokuto Koutarou, but you can call me Bo!” He grins cheerfully, and since you usually tend to keep to yourself, the excited greeting from someone you don’t even know makes your heart warm a little.

You greet him back quietly, smiling a little as you tell him your name. He grabs a nearby chair and sits down next to you, practically bouncing in his seat. “SO,” he begins loudly, and you lean away a little, not wanting your eardrums to be blown out. “What theme are ya thinking about?” He asks, leaning toward you a little.

“I was thinking…since it’s Romeo and Juliet, we could do the easiest and most central theme, love?” You say a little uncertainly. Though you have little to no experience on the subject, aside from your grandmother, it is one of the most obvious themes of the play, and you’re sure you can make something up. The assignment basically entails analysing a theme and relating to it, then displaying it to the audience; nowhere does it say it has to be truthful.

“Sure!” He agrees cheerfully, head bobbing up and down eagerly. “Great.” you smile back. The bell is going to go in a few minutes, and you realize you still haven’t packed up your things. “Do you mind going and signing us up?”

“I gotcha!” He stands up abruptly, almost knocking into someone behind him, who just stares at him a little disgruntled, and walks away.

Before he can start walking off though, you need to set a time and place for your meeting to discuss more on the assignment. “Um, Bo-san?”

He turns around, eyes sparkling, “Just Bo is fine!” He says with a thumbs up.

“Right…Bo-kun?” you say slowly. “Man, you’re just like Akaashi!” He pouts a little. You perk up, Akaashi and you are somewhat good acquaintances; did he by any chance, know Bokuto too?

“You know Akaashi-kun?” You ask curiously. “Yeah!” He says, pointing to himself proudly, “Me and Akaashi are roommates!”

“Ah…Then, to discuss the project, we could meet up at your place?” You trust Akaashi to an extent and Bokuto seems nice enough, so you figure there’s no harm. Besides, it’s much better than your cramped little apartment. Bokuto agrees, as you expected, and then the bell rings, and you say your goodbyes.

You stare at the door in front of you, re-checking the number plate and the address Bokuto had scribbled down and shoved into your hand hastily, when you’d reminded him that you didn’t know where you lived.

You knock twice, and the door swings open to reveal an excited Bokuto. “Hey, hey! So, how long do you think this will take? Do you think it’s gonna take long? Please tell me it doesn’t take long!” You’re bombarded with questions as Bokuto hovers in front of you. Someone nudges him out of the way, and then you are met with Akaashi’s face, “Bokuto-san, please give our guest some space.” He says with a sigh.

“Oh!” Bokuto makes a face in understanding, “You’re right, Akaashi!” Akaashi shakes his head, and then looks toward you, bowing his head a little in greeting. You greet him back before stepping into their apartment, arranging your shoes by the door neatly. Akaashi murmurs something to Bokuto quietly, and you look away respectfully. You only look back when there’s a shuffling sound to see Akaashi leaving.

He notices you looking, and says politely, “Well, I’ll be off then.” There must have been a confused expression on your face, because he shifts a little uncomfortably before explaining he’s off to see his girlfriend. Oh. You didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. He nods to you one last time, and then leaves after directing a stern look toward Bokuto.

“C’mon then! Let’s do this quickly!” Bokuto pumps his fist in the air excitedly. “May I ask why you’re in such a hurry, Bo-kun?”

“Ah, I wanna go play volleyball! Volleyballll!” He exclaims as he bounces down onto the sofa. “Oh, you enjoy volleyball?” You follow him, taking out your binder and notes from your bag. “Yeah!” He leans toward you eagerly, so close you can smell the peppermint on his breath. You shift away subtly, but you don’t think he would have noticed either way.

Bokuto bounces on the sofa impatiently as you begin the discussion. “Um, so… love…where do you think it can be observed in the play, and what form does it come in?” Bokuto stares at you blankly as he pauses, “Huh?” Facepalming, you sigh. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

Your meetings with Bokuto don’t go too bad surprisingly; once you bait him with the promise of playing volleyball with him (a trick you learned from Akaashi), he pays a little more attention, and takes down notes dutifully as you discuss (although analysing his writing is a task in and of itself, you’re glad he’s being productive). Hesitant acquaintanceship slowly leads to friendship as the months progress.

Akaashi can only watch silently as he sees you open yourself up a little and as he watched Bokuto wait in anticipation for your visit each day. He thinks the both of you are a little too oblivious; but then again, he doesn’t know you too well. Being kindred souls, both you and Akaashi liked to sit quietly in each other’s presence, but with Bokuto’s loud and excitable nature, he sees you open up a little. Akaashi can only hope that whatever is forming between you and Bokuto leads to something good.

You’re standing in front of your mirror one day, combing through your hair when a strand comes away in your hands. You’re about to throw it away mindlessly when you notice it’s not (h/c); no, it’s grey.The tell-tale sign one has met their soulmate is when they start aging, and that’s signified when their hair turns grey.

You sink down onto your bed slowly, processing the fact that one of the people you met this past few months was your soulmate. Well, you’ve only really interacted with two people, Kasamatsu…no, you’re sure it’s not him; you’re sure you would have felt something. Then…it’s probably Bokuto, you realize.

You’d decided you would try for your soulmate; try for love when you met him. But now that you know it’s Bokuto...you can’t do that to him. You can’t do that to Bokuto, who’s always so excited about everything; who’s always ready to help you; who always makes you feel like you’re better than who you really are. Bokuto deserves better. Better than you, who’s been with so many other while he’s been faithfully waiting. He deserves so much better, you think.

You have never regretted your life decisions more than you did at that moment. Regrets, you realize, are the absolute bane of your existence.

The same day, you have a meeting with Bokuto to wrap up some final ends of your project. The door to their apartment is open, and you let yourself in, the weight of your realization a few moments prior is heavy as you greet Akaashi.

He smiles at you softly in greeting; you and Akaashi had gotten closer as a result of Bokuto’s extrovertedness.

Bokuto bounds toward you excitedly, pointing toward his hair, which, now that you notice, looks more cleanly done than it was before, “(NAME), HEY, HEY, HEY!” He greets you as you laugh, “Hi Bo, what’s up?”

“Akaashi redyed my hair today, and guess what!”

“What?” you humour him, humming as you go through the motion of taking off your cardigan. “There was a grey hair in between my black ones!”

You freeze, unable to respond. How coincidental that on the same day you discover Bokuto is your soulmate; he finds out he has one too. You don’t notice Akaashi watching you observantly from his post right before the hallway you and Bokuto are in.

You’ve never been great at lying; you know this. You also know that if you run like you so want to, you will give yourself away. So you decide to try to keep a straight face, now painfully aware of Akaashi’s gaze boring a hole into the side of your head.

Bokuto is grinning proudly, both hands on his hips, eyebrows cocked, golden eyes sparkling. “Akaashi and I were making a list,” he chatters, not noticing as your straight face falls. “And (Name),” he turns a bit bashful now, pink visible on his cheeks as his eyes find yours, “We think you’re my soulmate!!” He’s grinning widely at you, albeit a bit more reserved than usual.

He’s clearly nervous. You play with your sleeves anxiously, deciding to let him down gently. You want Bokuto to lead a better life, and you’re sure he can find it with someone, anyone that isn’t you. You open your mouth to tell him no, but something won’t let you. Maybe it’s the way Akaashi’s eyes are drilling into yours from behind Bokuto, telling you not to do what he thinks you’re going to do; telling you not to let him go. Maybe it’s the way Bokuto’s face falls as you keep silent; the way his whole body seems to droop, the way the light that had been shimmering in his eyes dims.

And maybe it’s the crestfallen expression on his face; that’s how you know you can’t do this to Bokuto. You could never break his heart like that. You just hope that when he knows of your past; you just hope he won’t be hurt. You’ve lived with the weight of your life decisions for a while now; he is yet to find out. You regret not being there for your grandma; but you want to be there for him if he’ll let you.

“(Name)?” Bokuto’s quieter than usual voice snaps you out of your anxiety-ridden thoughts. “I-” You hesitate, but one look at his eyes, and you know you have to tell him, “I am your soulmate, Bokuto.”

He perks up almost immediately, throwing his fisted hands into the air triumphantly, “I knew it!”

“I-” You shuffle around anxiously, “But I need to, um, tell you something.”

Bokuto falters as he takes you in, finally realizing you have something important to say. “Sure.” he nods, glancing toward Akaashi, who slips into his bedroom, shutting the door quietly, but not before one warning look back at you. You and Akaashi are friends; but you know Bokuto will always come before you.

You turn your attention back to Bokuto, who’s looking at you confusedly. “So what’d ya want to tell me?” He asks, golden eyes softening as he looks at you, sleek silver eyebrows knitting together uncharacteristically gently.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat, but you swallow it down, remembering the way Bokuto had looked a few minutes ago. He needs to know, and then he can decide whether or not he wants you.

You proceed to tell him the whole story, and his reactions are displayed on his face, clear for all to see. When you get to the part about your life in Tokyo, his lips quirk downward a little, and you wince.

“Bo, you – you deserve so much better.” You finish softly, eyes looking down. It’s quiet for a little while, Bokuto’s silence is unnerving and you wish the earth could swallow you.

“I don’t think so.” Bokuto’s voice makes you look up slowly, (e/c) pools hesitantly meeting his own golden ones, which are burning fiercely as they look at you. His arms are crossed and his face is pulled into an intense thinking expression.

When he notices you look up, he leans toward you with resolve. “You may have done all that, but that was before we met, before I was even born. What matters is that you picked yourself up, and you worked hard to come here and stay here.” You nod hesitantly, a little surprised; Bokuto’s acting very maturely, but then again, you suppose he always has been, a little bit. He just never showed it much.

“Besides,” Bokuto continues, a smile settling on his features, “You had that one moment, right? The moment where people realize they love someone. I had it.” He says unabashedly, “That’s how I know I don’t care about your past.” He says proudly, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“So you don’t mind that I-”

“A little.” He admits, but he flashes a determined smile at you as he says his next words, “But if you’ve felt that moment, then I know you’re not going anywhere.” He says, and you search his golden orbs for any signs that he’s lying; but there’s none.

He loves you, you realize. He doesn’t care. The moment he’s talking about; you’ve felt it. You feel it every time you’re with him. You love him. The last realization has you throwing yourself across the sofa and into his arms. Bokuto catches you easily, strong arms winding around your frame as he laughs. You can feel his laughter as the rumbles in his chest, and you are hit with an overwhelming wave of affection.

“I’ve felt that moment too.” You mumble into his chest. He laughs again, and you imagine those golden eyes crinkling at the corners, and the whites of his teeth showing beneath a wide smile. “I love you.” You say quietly, but he hears, and his arms tighten around you.

Regret, you think, is the bane of your existence, but it’s also what pushed you to tell Bokuto the truth, so maybe it’s a little helpful after all.

(You and Bokuto get an 89 on your Romeo and Juliet project. The final version turned out much better than what you’d had before – Bokuto had a lot to do with that. When you find out your grade, he peppers your face with small, happy kisses, his hair tickling you as you chuckle gently, and weave your hands into his hair, smiling at him.)

#bokuto kotarou x reader #bokuto x reader #mknet #haikyuucreations #haikyuu x reader #fukurodani #bokuto fluff #soulmate au #haikyuu soulmate au #bokuto x you #bokuto koutarou #bokuto kotarou #raeyn writes #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #hq x you #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu writings #bokuto #angst

[naomana]

Just something new I've been thinking about for a while, encouraged by M.

It's not slash and it's not directly M2 related but it is Mafia

1951 Chicago

Bad news always travel faster than fire spreads across the dry land. The bigger and more unbelievable the news are, the faster the process is.

Every radio station broadcasting about the unfortunate, or maybe fortunate, events. Newspapers mass producing tons of copies everyday with every sick detail possible, if only the information would be accurate.

It was ludicrous but wasn't the whole world like that? People only recieved the information some higher power wanted them to know. The whole society based on how much money somebody could turn around. Hierarchy was a concept only rich people could afford and rich people decided who was worth place within the sick world.

And reality was, nobody cared how somebody made the money, whenever it was dirty laundry or clean as sheet of paper. Money was money.

The ladder still had limitations. Skin colour or gender being the biggest factor in ones success. Highest chances coming to white male, concept a lot of people agreed with and didn't try to change a thing. But voices of reason coming in different forms. Anybody could break out of given box if they were strong and smart enough to do so. Times constantly change and what was impossible years ago could be the new reality in the near future. Who knew, maybe the new era was just behind the corner.

"No offence, sweetheart, but I'd rather wait for your boss." Hazel brown eyes stayed locked with bright grey (with tint of tale) eyes, hidding behind pair of glasses. Neatly painted nails stopped tapping against the sturdy wooden desk and blank expression was exchanged with annoyance.

"Suit yourself. You might be waiting a while." She responded and her mood dropped even more with the next words coming from the mans mouth.

"Why don't you bring me cup of coffee? Make yourself useful, will ya?"

Perfectly coloured red lips clenched into thin line, she had to really bite her tongue not to say anything. The man was unwedded, she could tell and not only because of the lack of wedding bang on his nasty finger. The way he spoke to a woman was everything she needed to know to act on it.

"Of course." Polite smile as she stood up and moved her curves to the door, ignoring the look of interested she received.

The click-clack of her black heels resonated through the corridor before she reached the staircase and her eyes met with her loyal associate, Miki, who was just on the way upstairs to inform her of the news unwrapping outside the city borders.

"How did the meeting go?" He asked and stopped on the bottom step, looking up at her as she gave him sour look. "Oof, that bad?"

"He asked, well that is exaggeration, he demanded cup of coffee."

Miki raised his eyebrows and couldn't help hiding amused grin on his lips, making his partner in crime ever so outrages.

"Why don't you make the coffee and bring it upstairs?" She almost snarled at him, making him back up with apologetic look.

"You'd trust me with that huh?" He asked sheepishly and she dropped her shoulders. Rude prick made her take the anger on the wrong person, just another reason she wished to throw him out of the window right away.

"You go upstairs and talk to him. I will bring the damn coffee." She gave him her final answer and walked around him, heading to the kitchen to make the coffee. Miki was looking after her until her back, clothed in designed dress, disappeared and his attention turned to upstairs office. Sigh, making his way there to play the stupid games he hated so much. He, without a doubt, would be more than happy to open the window, although throwing somebody through the glass pannel seemed as more fun. Not his house, not his rule.

#Naomi's writing #it's mafia but just oc's

[aestheticaxolotl]

V.I.L.E Headcanons

- Graham “Crackle” Calloway grew up in the poorer slims of Sydnee Australia where his parents struggled on a day to day basis to provide food for their 4 kids, Graham, being the oldest son felt the absolute need to help his parents provide for his three younger siblings. Doubling down in school, and getting the best grades he could (B’s and low A’s) and then diving into work as soon as he got out. -Graham started with small odd jobs until he got a part time gig with a rather cranky old electrician who had no love for anyone in his life. But he took Graham on as an apprentice because the stupid kid wouldn’t leave him alone. To his chagrin, the kid took to the job like a house on fire. This became important when he joine V.I.L.E -Tigress came from a troubled home to say the least. Her mom was an alcoholic and her dad was a blue-collared working class man who would gamble and chase after his dreams while squandering all the families money She resented her parents for these reasons and acted out as much as she possibly could, whether by robbing small stores or beating up younger kids on the play ground

-She started out trying to make a quick buck to help her momma pay the bills, not because she was showing kindness to her mom, but because the land lord had threatened to kick them out one too many times, and kept making lewd comments and suggestions that even Tigress would not allow her mother to take.

-El Topo’s story isn’t the happiest, seeing as his mother moved into America when he was very young, unable to afford to bring her husband and son with her at the time. Of course, El Topo’s father was not keen on being left behind and took his 12 year old son, attempting to smuggle him into America. Sadly, this would not end well seeing as El Topo’s father was shot and killed, and he was placed in foster care, unable to contact his mother.

-El Topo got out of the Foster care system when he was 18 and was homeless for a long time. He lived on the streets in Georgia, the last place his mom was having known working. He did everything he could to find his mom and was devastated to learn that his mother had moved to New York, remarried and had a daughter.

-Le Chevre’s mother died giving birth to him in Paris, France. His father being left alone to raise their one and only son, they had married young and had a baby younger, leaving the young father devastated and entirely loving of his young son. Le Chevre’s young life was full of music and love. His father worked as a caretaker in a French Theater, working up with the lights and the set pieces.    -Young Le Chevre wasn’t as fascinated with the acting as he was with being high up and above the actors, it gave him a feeling of power and meaning while his father proposed that he take lessons to play instruments for the plays. HE did for about a week to please his hard working father, but took the gold star in thievery. To this day he still leaves large amounts of money on his’s father’s doorsteps as thanks for such a wonderful upbriging.

-Dash Harber grew up with a love of fashion and the stylistic life of the rich and famous. His parents, both very wealthy and distant from him, showered their son with gifts and money for doing nothing but existing. His parents ended up sending him away at the age of 15 (At his request) to his aunt “Cookie Booker” so that he could have a better, proper upbringing. 

-Through his ‘Aunt Cookie’, he met the Dear Countess Cleo, who he took a major liking to the Countess, having a childhood crush on her. Cleo found the young gentlemen quiet endearing and took him under her wing, giving him the life he had know that he’d desired at a very young age. This came to bit him in the but when he started working for V.I.L.E. His parent identifying him during a caper and he had to go into hiding for quite a while. (His parents minds were wiped after this incident, as far as they are concerned now, they never had kids).

-Paperstar’s mother was a prostitute in Japan, and gave birth to her from an unknown father. Paperstar was devoted to her mother, even if she was not devoted to her daughter. She was usually there when her mother brought a man home, covering her ears when ever, what her mother called ‘Business work’, started.

-Young Paperstar started stealing from the men who her mother brought home when she was seven, doing this for many years before one man noticed and turned both Paperstar and her mother into the police. This enraged her mother and she disowned Paperstar, leaving the girl alone and vengeful, only wanting to look out for herself. (She might have killed her mom too, I’m still thinking on that one)

-Mimebomb was born in Ireland with their twin brother. When they were young their parents moved them to France. This is where they saw their first ever Mime, their mother had stopped at a shop and 3 year old Mimebomb had wandered off and stopped to watched a man with paint on his face act on a street corner. They realized they were lost and the Mime just... Scooped them up to help them find their mom and twin brother. This REALLY enforced in them that Mimes weren’t scary or freaky. (Their WHOLE family disagrees to this to this day)

-Spoiler, Mimebomb grew obsessed with Mimes and this really worried their parents. They sent him to a Psychologist, one Professor Maelstrom who was doing freelance work. Maelstrom found the phenomena rather interesting and kept track of Mimebomb for a very long time, it was Maelstrom who brought Mimebomb to V.I.L.E and showed them what their true calling was.

-Boris and Vlad.... I don’t have much for them but what I do have is rather... Boris and Vlad grew up in a very unwelcoming community. Russia at the time was very hostile towards outsiders and while their parents (They are not related, family friends in my eyes) had both of them in Russia, they were still not well accepted by their community, often bullied and beaten bloody by other kids, who forced them to clean up the mess after they finished beating them.

-This horrible childhood instilled a rather off form of PTSD and OCD in both of them that leads them to see every mess that a V.I.L.E operative made was something they had to clean up. Somehow, it was their fault and they had to fix and clean and pretend nothing ever happened.

-Cookie Booker is the Aunt of Dash Haber, she ADORES her Nephew and spoiled him rotten when he was a child, basically taking him in when he asked her too. She took great care to raise him the best she could, never having been able to have children herself, an event that let to her husband leaving her and marrying another woman.

-Cookie was also the woman who introduced Countess Cleo to Professor Maelstorm, a very monumental occasion in V.I.L.E history.

-Neal the Eel was just Neal as a kid. His mom and dad were performers in a Circus, a Magician and his Assistant. He used to adore the circus and wanted to be part of it as a contortionist/escape artist. He was bullied for his hypermobility ( similar to double-jointedness, but if it is progressively more serious it can create more problems for someone.) Causing him to end up resenting his upbringing and parents.

When Neal was 16 he began to break IN to prisons and then BREAK BACK OUT with a TON of the criminals inside. This quickly put him on V.I.L.E’s radar and they decided that they really wanted to recruit him. They made the offer and he vowed that he would never be seen as a joke like he was with the circus.

-MooseBoy was not the brightest kid in school, often picked on for being slow or stupid when he was really just a friendly kid with dyslexia. He almost flunked out of school and would have if not for this dorky looking kid who called himself “Otter”. Thus, a tense and rather abusive friendship formed.

-Otterman was the only reason that Mooseboy was able to graduate Highschool. They were a team, he was the brains (Still is) and Mooseboy the brawn (Still is). HE hated the fact that he was smaller and weaker and really took it out on his partner. Their first crime together was breaking into the school and stealing the principal’s desk on a dare.

-Spinkick and his half sister Flytrap have the same father, and different mothers. Their father lived a double life with his paramours only six miles from one and other. This affair was discovered by their moms and the two women ended up murdering their children’s father and then (unironically) falling in love with each other.

-Flytrap and Spinkick’s mothers moved in and the two kids were forced to get along, they ended up really caring about each other and watching each other’s backs and defending each other in school. Their mother’s never got caught by the way, just think about that.

-The Troll never had friends as a kid and met all his good good friends online, including Player (Plot twist?). Player and Troll got along like peanut butter and jelly, becoming a tag team in learning to hack and work with the internet system. The Troll became invested in trying to figure out how to lock down security systems like banks or Jail facilities (Seeing as his father was put in jail for robbing a back and killing a man who tried to stop him).

-This took Player aback and he began to back away from his friendship with The Troll. This didn’t matter to The Troll, he managed to shut down the security system where his father was being kept. This ends sadly due to the fact that his father doesn’t escape, but ends up dying in the break out. This caused him to draw back from people and remain in his room for a very long time.

Thanks for reading my ramble about V.I.L.E Operatives, I’ll be posting one for the Faculty soon!

#carmen sandeigo 2019 #carmen sandeigo spoilers #crackle #graham crackle #tigress #el topo #le cherve #dash haber #cookie booker #papersta #paperstar #boris and vlad #the cleaners #mime bomb #neal the eel #flytrap #spinkick #otter man #moose boy #the troll #vile #vile operatives #headcanon #please help me #I'm obsessed with this show