muses: ceo!yoongi x heiress!reader genre: angst, smut, fluff words: 2.8k note: this was meant to be under 1k bc it’s supposed to be a drabble but. please forgive me for the upcoming ceo au’s
warning: sexual tension, oral, “get on your knees, yoongi.”
you knew him, not personally per se. but you might as well claim to with all the things you’d been hearing of that man. at the age of 22 he had graduated college and immediately got into the business. two years later, he’d earn his masters degree and his startup had been blowing up with established business pledging alliance and overpouring promising clients waiting to sign contracts of agreement before others waltzed in and stole the chance.
and yet, you refused to be one of the many that’d worshiped the ground he stood on. you detested the need to have him as an affiliate. you loathed having to put on the ivory, skin tight dress, wear your hair up and don yourself the bloodiest red on your lips. and you gravely hated having to sit across from the man who didn’t even bat an eye at you as though you were another pretty instrument he would keep within his chambers as your father discussed the terms of the agreement with cold sweat running down his temple - as if this man was beyond god. min yoongi - what a humble name for a god though.
“the things here all belong to you, you may do as you like, go along with your routine as before so long as you do your part in the contract - appear as my beautiful loving fiancee in public events.”
So I saw you mentioned in one post about how Dean and Castiel are paralleling John and Mary. Could you elaborate further on that?
Well… Dean has been mirrored to John for a long long time and since Mary has come back has been mirrored to HER, through bacon, food, throwing herself into hunting, the way they cope with things, it turning out that it was MARY who was into Zeppelin etc and the subtext is that John apparently listened to it because it reminded him of her
*cough the mixtape reminding Cas of Dean*
It kind of seems like John is his ‘dark’ or facade level mirror and Mary is his ‘light’ or repressed side mirror, which, well, it’s not that clear cut but I love the idea, especially as I have this wild headcanon that Mary is actually bisexual and that would allow him to more easily accept that part of himself, or if not, at least that Mary would accept it in him as an opposite mirror for John creating and supporting his facade, Mary bringing it down. John is a large part of why Dean has the facade in the first place and cannot accept himself as he is, has low self worth, is Sam’s parent etc. Whereas Mary since she has been back, whether purposefully or not, has absolutely been the catalyst to Dean’s arc of self acceptance, gaining self worth and feeling he deserves better, letting Sam go, that’s been her big role in Dean’s story, leading to 12x22, which I’m so excited about as this was always going to be her role, due to her being the extension of Amara who started this whole thing going by exposing these aspects of Dean, then sending Mary in to address them.
Then Mary was massively mirrored to CAS all season, they left at the same time, Dean worried about them both, looked at the mother with her kid who happened to be dressed like Cas in 12x03 as a “hey, look Mary = Cas), they both searched for Dean and Sam together, Mary led to Cas’ potential death… etc etc etc
Mary and John - Fell in love due to Heaven’s orders.
Their story is based on a forced pairing. At their first meeting she knocked him flat on his ass, he seduced her with Led Zeppelin…
Dean and Cas - Fell in love despite Heaven’s orders.
Their story is based on Free Will. At their first meeting Dean stabbed Cas, he later gives him a Led Zeppelin mixtape…
So… the meta analysis shows that they are a reverse mirror.
My speculation based on this is that we might see Dean become the ‘shell’ that he brought up John was in 12x22 and also try some bargaining as Mary did for John, that he also brought up in 12x22… it’s just… yeah, an interesting point that both these things have been brought up when Cas then dies in the next episode and these fit perfectly with the 5 stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance).
Also, lbr, Dean and Cas are mirrored to every canonically romantic couple in the show, so, well it was bound to happen, but they just added some amazing layers to make it even more blatant with Mary/John that I very much enjoy :)
“Prior to the modernist revolution, architects and builders have always used sacred shapes and details, in order to accommodate facade to facade, window to window and doorway to doorway along a street, and thereby to make that street into a public space. I think it is important to remember this when we address the question of how to build today. The modern city street is composed from forms that have never had a sacred use or played a role in consecrating the land. They do not bear the imprint of those primal fears and needs from which gods are born. The new city is a city in which glazed facades mirror each other’s emptiness across streets that die in their shadow. The facelessness of such a city is also a kind of godlessness.” — Sir Roger Scruton
Series Two is EMP: Mycroft Meeting with Moriarty and John
If EMP starts on
the roof or after Sherlock jumps: How does Sherlock know Mycroft
met with Moriarty in THoB?
present for the meeting between Mycroft and Moriarty at the end of
While Sherlock is
giving his explanation of the fall to Anderson in TEH, we get these
two parallels below:
The one on the
left is a flashback during Mycroft’s conversation with John in TRF.
And the one on the right is a flashback during Sherlock’s explanation
to Anderson in TEH.
If EMP began on
the roof or after, how does Sherlock know Mycroft met with Moriarty
in a cell? How does he have the same flashback? No one ever told
Sherlock. John never told him.
present for the conversation between Mycroft and John in TRF.
TRF, John told Mycroft that he gave Moriarty the perfect ammunition
to destroy Sherlock. In TST, the word ammunition
is used again by Mary. Mary also wasn’t present for the conversation
in TRF. We learn that ammunition
is really amo or
And later we are told Norbury used the code word love.
Norbury is love.
So love replaces ammunition in the scene from TRF. Norbury is John
and Mycroft. But is Norbury
Yes. Wasn’t it
actually Sherlock who gave Moriarty the ammunition? Didn’t Sherlock
give Moriarty love to use against him?
Yes. “I’ll burn
the heart out of you.”
name is love. amo, amas,
amat. “I love, you love, he
Mary’s death scene is a recreation of
TRF. Sherlock is a witness to his own destruction.
Norbury, or love,
is sent to prison. Sherlock keeps his emotions inside his own prison,
context destroys you every time.” - Eurus/Sherlock
Mycroft is suppose
to be a mirror for Sherlock’s cold mask. But because the mask is just
a facade, Sherlock subconsciously uses his brother to remind himself
of his love for John.
Mycroft is a
stand-in for Sherlock during the meeting with Moriarty in THoB, and
during the conversation with John in TRF.
How else do we know this?
Mycroft’s Meeting with Moriarty in THoB is Recreated in TFP
Mycroft meeting with Moriarty in THoB & shown in flashbacks in
TRF = Mycroft meeting with Moriarty at Sherrinford shown in a
Eurus meets with Moriarty. She takes the place of Mycroft meeting
Moriarty in a cell in THoB.
“Mycroft fed Moriarty information about me” = Eurus’ five
minute “Redbeard” conversation with Moriarty.
And if Eurus is Sherlock…
Then it’s actually Sherlock who takes Mycroft’s place in THoB. And
it’s Sherlock who takes over Mycroft’s place in the conversation with
John in TRF.
Sherlock is actually saying in TEH: “I fed Moriarty
information about me.”
And he did. However, Sherlock didn’t feed Moriarty information
about his reputation, he fed him information about his heart.
“New information. She’s out.” John in TFP. Eurus out of her
cell is love. Sherlock in love. Moriarty let out of his cell in THoB
is love unleashed. Sherlock believing love is dangerous, a weakness, ammunition
is what leads him to the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital.
The five minute conversation between Eurus and Moriarty is the
meeting at the pool in TGG. Is this where EMP begins? Sherlock, not
Mycroft, gave Moriarty ammunition. Sherlock gave him amo. He
gave Moriarty love to use against him. He gave him Redbeard.
He gave him John.
Eurus puts Mycroft in her old
cell = Sherlock puts himself/his love for John in his old cell. Eurus
only had one cell in TFP. The old cell they are referring to is the other
metaphorical one from ThoB/TRF where Sherlock fed
his heart to Moriarty.
“Do you have cannibals here?”
Who are the other three cannibals Sherlock fed his heart to?
Irene, CAM, and Janine? “Yes, you are.” “Look how you care
about John Watson,” “I know what kind of man you are.”
Side note: In HLV, Sherlock tells Mary that he won the empty
houses of Leinster Gardens from the “Clarence House Cannibal” in
a card game. Mary is a mirror for Sherlock’s cold facade, the
sociopath he tries so hard to be. The empty houses are his
soul/emotions. The Cannibal is Moriarty. Sherlock didn’t win in the
game against Moriarty, he lost. “Nearly cost me my kidneys” =
Cost Sherlock his heart. The lie hidden in plain sight.
“Mycroft has been lying to you.” No. Sherlock has been lying
“You were upset, so you told yourself a better story.”
Why is Anderson wearing John’s sweater from ASIP in TEH?
Sherlock’s explanation to Anderson in TEH is a recreation of
Mycroft and John’s conversation in TRF. Anderson is suppose to be
John. And Sherlock is suppose to be Mycroft.
This is suppose to be a love confession
caught on camera.
“In the act!”
The sweater is amo…love. Both
Anderson and little Eurus wear the sweater because Sherlock keeps
trying to forget love. Love is manipulative (Eurus) and can rule your
head, make you crazy (Anderson).
“But he can’t stop confessing.”
This is also why Anderson’s scene interrupts the confession in the
train car carrying the bomb/heart. The bomb is a callback to John
wearing the bomb in TGG. It’s all about love, but because Sherlock
believes love is abhorrent and dangerous, he interrupts his own
narrative to deflect his emotions. Ironically, he envisions Anderson
in John’s sweater because he can’t escape the truth (love) no matter
how hard he tries.
“Once you’ve opened your heart, you can’t close it again.”
Last week I wrote about my metaphorical reading of ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’. But I left out the little case with the hiker and the boomerang. This incident doesn’t just start the story of the ‘woman woman’ … it features prominently two more times during the case. That’s interesting enough to take a closer look, I think. The sexual layer of 'the hiker, the boomerang and the car that backfired’ has been pointed out by LSiT a long time ago. Now, after S4, it looks like some new connections are floating to the surface. Evidence for another layer of this fascinating story? Maybe.
Some musings on boomerangs and special hair accessoris
As irritated as Reyes had made himself out to be whenever the outlaw had caught him unawares with such affections, it had been nothing but smoke and mirrors, a facade that neither of them had actually bought. From the first unexpected pounce right up until the very end of everything, when what they had going on had become a Thing Of Comfort and Accepted everything was fair game. Public or otherwise
But by far was the gunslinger the more affectionate of the two, especially when PDA was concerned.
And by far had the Commander secretly covet and crave every instance.
The mask he’d worn then could hardly belie his true sentiments. The scowls and glares, the hand that would shove McCree away and the flurry of threats spilling from him. More than once he had Jesse run laps until exhausted as punishment for copping a feel and stealing a kiss.
More than once had he joined his lover round that track and afterwards…
Theirs is a dangerous game they play, where the rules have changed and keeping up appearances entwine with a high level of lethal repercussions.
Behind closed doors and in safehouses, upon high peaks and in dark alleys, the rekindling of ruined hearts cache themselves away, reeking high of lust and desperation and denial.
But the kisses come in the din of dusty lighting and creeping shadows and the Wraith’s become more forgiving of surprise and sudden affections.
Where once he’d have to hide behind a mask carved for the public he now sports narrow-eyed amusement and a lopsided grin.
And arms that will fully embrace this travel-and-time-worn lover of his, gladly receptive of what little is left that’s shared between them.
We disparage ourselves endlessly, sometimes with reason… but more often, and more damningly, with a kind of black clarity of judgment that reaches right past all that we have or have not done, reaches past any insight or diagnosis that psychology can offer, and fingers us at the heart of what we are. Wrongness, call it. A stark and utter saturation of self:
God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me.
The poet Christian Wiman in My Bright Abyss; the final lines are from Gerard Manley Hopkins. “Self” here has a particular definition established in earlier chapters; it is a conception of individual existence which contrasts indifferently with the word “soul,”
a word that has become almost embarrassing for many contemporary people unless it is completely stripped of its religious meaning. Perhaps that’s just what it needs sometimes: to be stripped of its ‘religious’ meaning, in the sense that faith itself sometimes needs to be stripped of its social and historical encrustations and returned to its first, churchless incarnation in the human heart. That’s what the twentieth century was, a kind of windstorm-scouring of all we thought was knowledge, and truth, and ours —until it became too strong for us, or we too weak for it, and ‘the self replaced the soul as the fist of survival’ (Fanny Howe). Anxiety comes from the self as ultimate concern, from the fact that the self cannot bear this ultimate concern: it buckles and wavers under the strain, and eventually, inevitably, it breaks.
My Bright Abyss is dense with such astute and precise humanity —in its poems, both Wiman’s and those he quotes, and its prose descriptions of lived experience— that one’s own lack of religiosity seems hardly important, no more important than faithlessness in a cathedral of tremendous beauty or incredulity amidst Buddhist monks quietly and carefully transcribing their texts. It is certainly the best introduction to poetry I’ve read, but also the most universalizing account of belief:
To have faith is to acknowledge the absolute materiality of existence while acknowledging at the same time the compulsion toward transfiguring order that seems not outside of things but within them, and within you, not an idea imposed upon the world but a vital, answering instinct. Heading home from work, irritated by my busyness and the sense of wasted days, shouldering through the strangers who merge and flow together on Michigan Avenue, merge and flow in the mirrored facades, I flash past the rapt eyes and undecayed face of my grandmother, lit and lost at once. In a board meeting, bored to oblivion, I hear a pen scrape like a fingernail on a cell wall, watch the glasses sweat as if even water wanted out, when suddenly, at the center of the long table, light makes of a bell-shaped pitcher a bell that rings in no place on this earth. Moments, only, and I am aware even within them, and thus am outside of them, yet something in the very act of such attention has troubled the tyranny of the ordinary, as if the world at which I gazed gazed at me, as if the lost face and the living crowd, the soundless bell and the mind in which it rings, all hankered toward—expressed some undeniable hope for—one end.
Quoting any part of the book is acutely frustrating; as Andrew Sullivan wrote after confessing that he read it “in a great rush of exhilaration” that kept him awake into the night, “It is no exaggeration to say that I’ve waited my entire adult life to read a book like this. It is impossible to summarize or even categorize.” And so it is. Perhaps the clearest thing I can say about it is that it seems to come from a time before the degradation and quiet collapse of art and literature, before noncommercial and nonsocial meaning itself was rendered absurd. Sullivan compares it to Simone Weil’sGravity and Grace, and Weil —a hero of mine in every sense— also seemed rather like an emissary from a vastly more serious and honest time. The introspection on which Wiman and Weil alike base much of their work has nothing of the performativity that ensnares our introspection, to note one difference among many. Sullivan again:
If I were to suggest why, whether believer or not, you should read My Bright Abyss, it would be because Wiman asks the most difficult questions I can imagine about life and death with unflinching honesty.
For me, the caliber, depth, and intensity of his honesty is a bracing artistic achievement rare if not absent among contemporary writers, into whose most intimate prose creeps a pathetic public deference, a political sort of compromise, as though while making love they are wondering how their form will be judged, pretending to enjoy that which they do not. They are oppressed by the imperative to conform to a zeitgeist which insists it is not fashion but moral truth, as though any era is anything but transiently mistaken, soon to be misunderstood by generations who judge it ethically wanting, intellectually primitive, socially disgraceful. Do you think you are not a slaveholder, in your way? Do you think you will carry the approval of your peers with you into the dark earth?
I peer at Wiman’s sentences, trying to determine how he managed to get off stage in order to think and write just so, how he managed to create without hearing the carping of the crowds we all now carry. I will never not hear them, never not seek to anticipate them and defend myself. Wiman quotes Rilke’s Seventh Duino Elegy, which I read and ignored in school:
Truly being here is glorious. Even you knew it, you girls who seemed to be lost, to go under –, in the filthiest streets of the city, festering there, or wide open for garbage. For each of you had an hour, or perhaps not even an hour, a barely measurable time between two moments –, when you were granted a sense of being. Everything. Your veins flowed with being. But we can so easily forget what our laughing neighbor neither confirms nor envies.
It is hard to keep a sense of oneself, but even in the filthiest streets of the city our veins flow with being. My Bright Abyss helps me remember what matters and what does not.