#Fear Bishops Fear Bishops F

[spiderin-space]

Sometimes you just gotta make a self indulgent crossover/au for Yourself and Yourself Alone

(Feat. @fanofthelamb ‘s Vitas in the last one)

[neuvilette-tea-party]

Un coeur en demi-teinte (part 1?) Yandere x F!reader

Yandere Priest character and art by @meo-eiru. I love that man despite any logic or survival instincts.

There will probably be 2 or 3 chapters total (maybe idk), this chapter is more to set the scene.

Warning : none... For now

Father Micah walks peacefully among the stalls of the market, politely smiling at the passersby greeting him with respect, sometimes even bowing their heads to him a bit. 

“Hello, Father.” They say. 

Micah pursues his groceries, occasionally caressing the heads of some children running to him in awe, following him around like a celebrity. 

He is a celebrity here, and Micah is deeply respected in this town. People come to him for his blessing, for his forgiveness, and advice. They come lost and destroyed but after a discussion with him, they leave the monastery rebuilt, new, serene... 

People look up to him each time they are in trouble and follows blindly his opinion. 

People were skeptical about this new technology called Phone Marty and some protested the installation of one in the town hall, descending the streets with signs, screaming that this object would bring decadence and destruction to the town. Micah intervened in favor of it and even agreed to put on a show to call the Bishop of the region in front of a public with a smile. He had a small speech arguing that this was the future and the town should follow, that he saw no ill in this piece of technology and the townies had nothing to fear about it. 

Micah was not in the least surprised of the townies reaction. He chosed this city for a very specific reason after all. 

The city is isolated between steep mountains and the first train station of the town is very difficult to access and was built 80 years later compared to the rest of the country. This city is like a bubble, blocked in the past and Micah saw an opportunity here. 

To rule unquestioned on a small bastion. 

With careful planning and politics, the young Priest carved himself a place in the town and gained immense popularity and influence over the population ruled by old rigid traditions. 

Micah calculates his move carefully, even going against the Church’s wishes sometimes to base his power over the entire town. He fought for mandatory vaccines for children, getting vaccinated himself as an example, and helped eradicate the smallpox from the town that took so many lives before.�� 

He fought for a mixed school for adolescents, choosing to trust them while their parents thought it would pervert an entire generation and the nation was distrustful of the process. He held the class in an isolated room of the Monastery, welcoming for free any young who trusted the project, allowing the young girls and boys to meet organically while the town slowly lost population due to low birth rates. 

His project was fruitful.  

A larger range of young earned their diploma and married soon after with their school sweetheart, bringing new babies to the town. The Mayor who did not believe in his idea and fought against him had to come personally to present his excuses and ask to work together for the betterment of the town 

Micah accepted as he won what he wanted. 

Power. 

Power to reign supreme over the town. 

Any new decision needed the young Father’s approval, any new Mayor needed his support to win. Micah decided what to do with the town, whom to accept and whom to ban from the town, which new law to install, and which one to repel. 

Micah could model the town at his will, making it his personal kingdom and Eden’s garden for his personal enjoyment. People believed any word he said and he earned that power. People followed his lead like a dog obeys its Master and he used this power wisely. 

Micah had everything to be happy. 

Or what he thought he needed to have to be happy... 

But as the years passed by, a growing hole appeared in his soul, devouring any sentiment he had in his heart. He felt dissatisfied and like something crucial was missing in his life. 

Until recently, that is! 

Until... 

“Father Micah?” A young woman’s voice pulls him out of his reverie before a stall. 

“Yes young Lady?” He politely smiles at her. 

She blushes hard and searches for something in her pockets, taking out an envelope that she hands him, the face bright red. He considers it for a second before taking it gently. The envelope smells like rose and lavender. 

Perfume cost a fortune in this day and age but this young woman still used it on her letter for him. 

She bows to him, still red, and runs away to a circle of other young women waiting for her in the distance. Surely her group of friends. 

Micah observes the envelope of a delicate pinkish color. 

A love letter. 

Another one. 

He turns away from the girls and crumples it in his fist, throwing it away as he leaves the Market for the Monastery. 

He has no use for this love or any love that came before it. 

Micah crosses the town until a paper pinned on a pole catches his attention. On it, the portrait of a young woman he knows very well is drawn, offering a large sum of money for her capture. 

“We still did not catch that witch?” Someone asks behind him. 

He turns to an old man, taking support on a cane to stand still. 

“The sheriff did not warn me that they did at least.” Micah explains, taking the paper in his delicate hand “So young... Who could have known such a monster was acting among us...” 

“That angel of death! I hope she burns in hell!” The old man spit on the ground. 

“This is a terrible thought, sir. Such desire could bring you down with her, be careful.” He warns. 

The old man sniffs, but ultimately nods. 

“Did we find new victims?” He asks. 

“I cannot reveal such information, sir. The Sheriff trusts me with it.” Micah retorts gently  

“You are the light of this town, Father. You should not let us in the dark like that, if even you start having secrets we are done for. Surely you know something!” The old man begs. 

Micah pretends to look around them before leaning to the ear of the old man and starts whipsering. 

“We think a recent death in the Monastery hospital might be due to poisoning...” 

“Hell! She found her way in the Monastery hopsital?! This witch has no limits! She deconsecrates the church and the souls of the victims!” The old man rages. 

Micah presses his finger on his lips. 

“Of course, this info is strictly confidential for the investigation. I would not want it to spread in the town and cause a mass hysteria, can I trust you?” 

The old man’s eyes start glimming mischeviously. 

“I will be as mute as a tomb, Father.” 

“Good. Go now, I must prepare for the Mass tonight.” Micah politely enjoins. 

“Of course father. Another mass to pray for her victims’ souls?” 

“I will hold as much as it is needed. Until we capture and judge her for her deed.” 

The old man nod and walk away. 

Micah smiles to himself. 

The old man lost three grandkids to that woman and his hate for her is deep. 

His hate for you... 

Of course, he is going to spread the word to the town, enraging the spirits even more, starting a new witch hunt in the Mountains and the forests nearby. 

Micah tears your poster off the pole and walks to the Monastery. He crosses it to gain his apartment, a small house in the garden of the Monastery, isolated and peaceful. 

His castle in his kingdom. 

He opens the door and locks it behind him immediately. 

“Rosebud? (Y/n)? I am home.” He announces. 

You open a door and come running into his arms, pressing you against his taller frame. 

“Father Micah...!” 

“Did anyone see you?” He investigate. 

“No! I remained hidden like you ordered me to.” 

“Good. You must not leave this house under any pretenses, you are not safe outside.” 

You part from him, sighing. 

“I know Father, I know... Did you talk to the Sheriff?” 

“He is busy with a new case, unfortunately.” He explains, putting down the groceries on the table, “I will plead your case do not worry. But the spirits are boiling and vengeful, a new victim has been discovered.” 

“I did not kill them! I did not kill anyone! You know that, Micah, don’t you?!” You beg with eyes wet with tears threatening to spill. 

“I believe you, (Y/n). I do. But you know how the town is, you know how they think. It will be hard to clear your name of any suspicion.” 

You lower your head defeated. 

“I see...” 

“I am with you in this trial, my child.” He takes your shoulder in his hand to squeeze it gently, a reassuring smile on his face. 

“I know... Thank God at least you believe me... If you did not, I do not know what I would have done...” You sob, “I would be lost forever...” 

“Dry your tears, my darling. I am working on it, do not fret.” He promises, pulling you to him to die his nose in your hair. 

You smell delectable, just as he loves. 

You press your feminine curves against his body in a desperate search for support, wiping a tear away. 

Micah smiles to himself again. 

Poor little lamb... So lost and fragile. 

So adorable 

So intoxicating 

His darling 

His rosebud. 

His... 

He cups your cheek to make you look at him. 

“Come on now. I must prepare for the evening Mass, do you need anything?” 

“Will you be gone for long?” You grab his hand desperately. 

“No. 2 hours at most, as always.” 

“Come back to me soon...” You beg, “I feel so alone in here.” 

“I promise, my darling.” And he kisses your forehead tenderly. 

Not your lips. 

Not yet... 

This is for later 

For when you will totally be at his mercy, under his power. 

Then he will break his vows and delight himself of your soul and body. 

He will eat you up 

Devour you until you beg for his mercy 

And maybe he will stop 

Or maybe not 

He is a capricious man and he is demanding. 

You did not know what kind of hell you entered when you got down that wagon train, when you entered that secluded town as an outsider... 

But you are Micah’s hell 

His obsession 

His rosebud 

His darling 

He will have you, wether you like it or not 

After all he reigns supreme. 

And unquestioned. 

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #61] Jinxing It

warnings: (1) mention of toe socks, chess talk, showers, a lil bit of titty luvin, lots of kisses, oral (f&m), fingering, ass play (m), whimpery koo <3, a lil cum swapping, the starluvrs are v cute!!! lots of lil clues and hints about upcoming chapters!!

a/n: there's an authors note over on a03 so I'll you spare you my nonsense! but hi, welcome back!! sorry for the wait on this one <33 if you're only just discovering bd, hello---this is part of an on-going story and includes an established relationship, to be read in context with the rest of the story, it's not a oneshot ^^. for kofi subs, there'll be a BD 62 teaser in a few hours!

wc: 13.7K

bd total wc: 560k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Life dissolves with Jeongguk. Days merge into one. 

Like a tablet in water, or stardust into the atmosphere, time melts.

So does Jeongguk, though. He sinks into the bliss with you. Crumbles. Collapses. You’d go as far to say he turns into a supernova, like stars often do when they collapse. 

He lets himself merge into a shared identity that he’s certain isn’t normal of such a fledgling relationship.

Two weeks from the auction, and days have rolled on by without much fuss. Deals have been finalised on winning bids, and Jeongguk’s had meetings with realtors, Yoongi by his side every step of the way. Everything has happened without much thought. Life has just been accepted; new plans and opportunities integrated into the trajectory you’re on. No meteors to throw you off course nor cosmic calamities to falter your future.

Your name is on the interview list for Shinwon’s position, and Jeongguk’s due to be accepting the keys for the building tomorrow. Everything is as it should be.

It’s terrifying, in a way. 

You spent so long fearing the rug being swept from beneath your feet, but with Jeongguk’s help, carpets have been laid. They’re not budging.

And nor is he as he sits across from you, legs crossed, his chessboard keeping you apart. It’s a rarity to be on his bed not wrapped up in one another—but he’s almost as serious about chess as he is about you. Almost .

“You know what to do,” he grins, adamant that his crash course in the game was easy to follow. In reality, he’d moved a few pieces, said a few words, and promised with a smile that you’d be able to beat him. 

His belief in you is sweet, but entirely misplaced. You’ve not made a single move without his gentle encouragement, most times resulting in you giving the match up on a silver platter. 

The correct terminology evades you, and so do the rules. An app sits on your phone unused, a subscription running up a small fortune from a membership never used. It was set up back in the early days of knowing Jeongguk. You swore one day you’d be able to beat him—but life got busy, and quite frankly, chess is not your chosen way to unwind.

But spending time with Jeongguk is, and so you’ll take him in any capacity you can have him.

“Which one should I move?” You pout, utterly transfixed on the chess pieces. There’s a bewildered panic to your expression, brows furrowed over your glittery eyes, hand hovering to and fro over your side of the board.

You single in on the bishop. Look his way with hopeful, wide eyes. He shakes his head.

“Diagonals only,” he reminds you of how bishops move, at which point you realise it’s blocked in by pawns. Your hand moves to one of them, and he shrugs. “I mean… you can .”

“But should I?”

“You wanna capture the king,” he says, reaching across to dictate your movements. He secures your grip on the pawn, and gently pushes it up a single square to free the bishop’s pathway. “Shift this one up, just one space. Clear the diagonal if you want to move the bishop.”

You do as he says, putting the pawn back in its original position so that you can be the one to place it. Slowly, you repeat his instructions, pushing the pawn up the board while Jeongguk nods. 

And then he grins in such a way that you just know you're about to curse him out.

He lifts his strategically placed knight. Knocks your freshly moved pawn. Claims the tile as his own.

“Rule number one,” He smirks, lip ring flipping in the corner of his pretty little mouth. “Never trust your opponent.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” you whine, looking at him with a faux sense of hurt and a very believable pout. “You’re my boyfriend . You’re supposed to help .”

“No moaning,” he dismisses your stropping, knowing he’s lost brownie points for his deception. He also knows he’ll earn your favour back soon enough, so whatever. “Now, what's your next move, baby? Go on.”

You study the board, and assess how different the opposing sides look. 

This time, he’s going easy on you. Kind of. You’ve almost exclusively been guided by him for the last half an hour, over a string of short games, all of which have ended with your very quick and immediate defeat. 

Jeongguk is too competitive for his own good. Jimin never wants to play against him, ‘cause he knows he’ll lose, too.

This is an indulgence for Jeongguk. He ought not to waste the opportunity—or worse yet, convince you never to play against him again.

He likes the idea of chess being an heirloom; the kind of skill he’ll teach his kids in the future. It’s integral to the very depths of his brain—how he works, and how his logical mind can jump and switch sometimes at the flick of a button—yet he rarely shares it with anyone else.

It’s only apt that you’d get an all-access pass.

Hovering over your now-free bishop, you narrow your eyes as you glance towards him. 

He nods. 

And so you move a pawn instead.

“I don’t trust you,” you tell him, because he told you not to. In a way, you are trusting him—just trusting that he’s a bullshitter. 

What you don’t realise is that you’ve just moved the very pawn that’s been protecting your King, and preventing Jeongguk from getting an easy win.

“B,” he sighs, looking helplessly at the move you just made. 

He couldn’t love you any more if he tried, but— fuck —he’ll never understand your brain.

“What?!”

He picks up his queen. Places it diagonally across from your exposed King. There’s nowhere for your King to go, other than in the direct line of his queen. He’s gone and fuckin’ done it again.

Check. 

Mate .

Groaning, you realise what's happening and flop down onto your back. Your brain is fried. There's no way Jeongguk actually enjoys this. 

"Not again," you whine, pretending to sob a little as you look up at Jeongguk's ceiling. It's without birds these days, but there are a few rogue strips of tape that remind you of your history within these four walls.

"B," Jeongguk laughs, clambering around the board to flop down with you. His arm rests over your tummy as his face aligns with yours. Might not have any birds above you, but the way you melt into his touch is just as deadly as it was the first time. You'll scorch a hole through his sheets with even the most innocent of encounters. His lips are a little pouty, smirk prevailing as he teases, "What did I tell you, huh? Protect your king."

"I tried!" You insist, your over-dramatic, distressed expression far too cute for him to care about playing anymore. He enjoys chess, but he enjoys you more.

"You left him wide open for me to take!"

"You could have gone easy on me!"

"I was!" He defends with a laugh, adamant that he could have taken you out in, like, two moves if he really wanted. "I swear you didn't listen to a single thing I told you—"

"I did! Listening to you is how you got that stupid pawn in the first place," you huff, putting your hand against the bottom of his throat to stop him from getting any closer. He doesn't deserve niceties in times like this.

He'd argue that the feeling of your sharp nails against his throat is incredibly nice.

He ignores your moaning. "I'll make you a deal."

"Go on."

"Strip chess."

"Pervert."

"For every move you make, I'll take an item of clothing off," he suggests with a glint in those starry eyes of his, ignoring your remark.

You assess the situation. Mentally make a checklist of his clothes. Sweats, a shirt, a (toe)sock on either foot, and underwear — that's only five moves, but then again, Jeongguk normally has your king trapped by that point.

"I think you're just trying to get me naked."

"I'm always trying to get you naked, B," he shrugs into his sheets, before tearing himself away and getting back into position on the opposite side of the board. "So are you gonna make it a challenge or not?"

"What happens if I take out one of your pieces?"

"If you do that," he hums, as if he's contemplating it. "I'll let you do that goddamn paper plane you wanna try out so bad."

Instantly, you sit up, like a puppy with a treat being teased in front of its snout. Your eyes are wide, smile incredulous. 

It's been a while since Jeongguk made those paper planes in your bedroom. Only one has ever been done, and quite frankly, you think it might have been the catalyst to your friendship's demise, because how you could ever go back to 'just friends' afterwards was beyond you. 

It's not like you didn't try to remain totally neutral about cock warming with him, but the way your heart swells whenever you do it now just goes to show how your bodies were made for one another. Like a turning of tides, or the cyclical rising and falling of the sun to make way for the moon, it's just as nature intended. He was made for you, and you him.

With a glint in your eye, you lean over to the chess board and swipe up one of his pawns at random. With a gasp, and a smile twitching at your lips, you exclaim, "Oh look! I won!"

"B," he laughs, but your expression remains entirely serious despite the light nature of it all.

"Lemme fuck your ass," You grin now, pleading ever so softly. "A deal is a deal."

"You didn't win."

"Says who?"

"Anyone who has ever played chess?"

"I've played, and I think I won. C'mon," you grin, positioning yourself on his lap. The chess piece is still in your hands as you lean down to nudge your nose up against his. "Face down, ass up for me, baby."

"You're in my way," he says.

"You could throw me across the room if you wanted to. I'm not stopping you."

"And I'm not throwing you across the room."

"Please," you pathetically beg.

"You really it want it, don't you?" He grins against your lips. "Huh?"

"Just wanna make you feel good."

"You always make me feel good," Jeongguk whispers, quietly deflecting the real reason why he hasn't let you do it yet. 

Truth be told, Jeongguk is a little scared. 

While yes, he's always been curious about pegging, he's never taken it that far before. Has never had the tools, shall we say, to explore by himself, and none of his exes or flings ever seemed too interested in it.

He wants it. Wants it with you. Just doesn't know how he'll react. Doesn't know what his body will do. Worries that things will take a turn for the worse and that you'll be so repulsed by him that you'll never want to have sex with him again, or that maybe he'll like it too much and that it'll be all he ever wants and it'd ruin just how good things are at the moment. 

His thoughts distract him as your lips press feathery kisses against the thick column of his neck. Something about you, and how delicate you can be, just makes him melt into your touch. His hands come to clutch your hair, a pretty little smile forming on his lips. 

"You don't have to do this," he quietly says, nails lightly scratching at your scalp. Your lips graze against his skin, before he gently pulls you back by the root of your hair. The sensation makes you want him even more than you already do. There's a love-drunk look of lust to your darling eyes, all glittery like they so often are as you look at him. 

Reaching to cup his jaw, you marvel at how a man who looks like him can be as tender as he is. The world would give him permission to break hearts, if he wanted it, but he doesn't. All he seems to want is to adore, and be adored in return—and how lucky you are to be on the receiving end of it.

A slight guilt settles in your stomach. You know he'd give you the world if you asked for it, but he isn't giving you this. 

"I'm only teasing," you tell him, which isn't strictly true. You do wanna do it, but your incessant begging is what you're joking about. It's not like you'll die if you can't fuck his ass (maybe). "I'll respectfully stay out of your ass unless requested otherwise."

He shakes his head. Laughs. Kisses you, 'cause he just can't help himself, then pulls you down into the sheets with him. "I give it a day until you're asking again."

Secretly, he wants you to ask again. It doesn't feel like pressure. Feels like validation; as if you want this even more than he does.

The thing is, you can't say no to a challenge. "Wanna bet?"

No. 

But he can't resist either. "You're on."

Yoongi stands with his shoulders pressed to glass front door, keys looped on his fingers. The streets in this area are always quiet until the evening, minor hustle and bustle from delivery drivers dropping off stock to businesses down the alley disturbing the peace. 

A small hotteok stall sits lopsided, supported by the building's exterior wall, red tarpaulin covering it from the weather and any inquisitive eyes. An elderly man runs it during the weekends, but for the rest of the week, it sits derelict. It's an eyesore, to say the least. Not the kind of thing that screams 'hot new restaurant' to anyone walking by.

It's as Yoongi's contemplating how to solve this problem, figuring the stallhand probably had an agreement with the previous owners, when Jeongguk comes into his line of vision. He tweaks a brow in Jeongguk's direction, almost as if to ask: what time do you call this?

Jeongguk's right on time. It's not a minute past twelve, which is exactly the time Yoongi told him to arrive. 

Sale finalised, paperwork complete, Yoongi got given the keys this morning. It's a done deal. The building is his, and in turn, the restaurant is Jeongguk’s. 

Despite his nonchalance, when Yoongi sees Jeongguk grin, he can't help but smile too.

"Shut up," Yoongi tells him. "We're serious businessmen. Don't get giggly with me."

"I'm not!" Jeongguk laughs, hands up in defence, until Yoongi puts his own hand out for Jeongguk to shake. Naturally, Jeongguk uses Yoongi's hand to pull him in for a hug instead. Patting his back, Jeongguk is almost fighting the urge to cry. He's waited so long for this. Worked so hard. Doesn't think any of it would be possible without Yoongi, but Yoongi would disagree.

"You better make the best fuckin' samgyeopsal this city has ever seen," Yoongi threatens with all the love in the world, breaking from the hug. Passing over the keys, he nods towards the doors. "Do us the honours."

Yoongi is fatherly in the way he never takes the glory for himself. Will be the kind of dad to build a lego castle and let his kid put the flag in place at the end of his labour. 

Jeongguk doesn't mention it, but he's noticed the way Seoyeon has been the designated driver for the past few weeks; how she didn't drink at auction, and how Yoongi's been even more attentive than he usually is. 

Could be nothing at all. Could just be a change in the weather.

But it could mean everything, and Jeongguk knows better than to intrude before being welcomed in on the news. 

Pushing the key into the lock, Jeongguk is quietly enamoured with the fact the premises has a lock and key instead of the typical keypad locks that are usually in place. The metal grates against itself as he twists the lock open, and pushes the door open. 

There's a separate side entrance for access to the upper floors. 

The floors Jeongguk intends to be the restaurant already have a connecting staircase towards the back of the room, which will make it infinitely easier for staying out of Yoongi's hair whenever he's in the workshop.

In the light of day, the furniture from the previous owners now removed, it's so much easier for Jeongguk to envisage how everything will look; where the signage will hang, where the bar will go, and, most importantly, where the disco balls will hang.

"It's really happening," he exhales, as if he hadn't realised it at any earlier stage in the process.

Yoongi doesn't berate him. Instead, he takes a deep breath, too. Nods. "It's really happening."

Though he smiles, Jeongguk wishes he had a hand to hold as tightly as his lips press together. Wishes you were here. Knows you're busy with work, making up hours to account for the fact you'll have some time off at the end of the week for your interview at the Ryu.

Why you need an interview is beyond him. He thinks they're being ridiculous. Thinks that even entertaining the idea of hiring someone else is an insult. Got so wound up about it, ranting to Jimin while he was making dinner, that he burned his sauce a couple of nights ago. Is now on a talking while cooking ban. Jimin says Jeongguk can't be trusted to multitask. Jeongguk says Jimin is a little prick.

The day is lost to making plans; sketches drawn up on Jeongguk's ipad, discussions with Yoongi about how to go about getting liscences for the premises, and back and forth over what should be done with the top two floors.

The idea of Taehyung using the fourth floor as a studio is considered, but both of them know how much he adores his current place. 

"Think he'd live there, if he could," Yoongi muses picking up a slice of napjak mandu with his chopsticks, dipping it into the tteokbokki sauce. They'd ordered from the place near his current workshop, and it makes him lament the idea of leaving it behind. 

Perhaps he can keep them both. Use the smaller space as his own little sanctuary, and the third floor here as his public-facing premises. Might be a bit of a waste, but if he can afford the rent, then why not?

"Tell you what," Yoongi hums as he swallows down his food. "If you don't add something like this to the menu, I'm kicking you out."

"I'll put it on the secret menu," Jeongguk offers, knowing that it definitely won't be what he offers to punters. He makes a mean tteokbokki, but it doesn't fit the vision of what he wants for this place. "Well, what about Jimin? He could start up his own interior place, if he wants. He's got the money for it, and I know the office he's in at the moment has been stifling him. Lost out on, like, three big commissions in the last quarter because the boss went with some other prick's ideas. Jimin's wasted there."

Yoongi hums in agreement as he swallows down his food. "We could always get him to help out with the design of this place. I reckon he knows all the tricks for good energy."

Nodding, Jeongguk laughs. Picks up another rice cake and chows down on it as he adds, "Should have seen him when we moved into our current place. Man had a compass out to align a sofa with the right energy."

"Sounds about right," Yoongi grins, resting his chopsticks back down against the edge of the bowl. "Well, what about your missus, then? Would she want gallery space? Somewhere for curation?"

Jeongguk chokes on his rice cake, and it's not because of the spice. 

"She's not my missus—" he corrects, but then decides he doesn't want to "—at least, not yet. And she's got a big interview with The Ryu this week. I'm not sure opening her own gallery is on her agenda, but I can put the feelers out—and like… I don't know. Wouldn't it be a bit much? We spend so much time together, already. She'd get sick of me if I was working two floors below."

"Would you get sick of her?"

"Don't be stupid. No."

"Exactly," Yoongi says as if it's obvious—which, in all fairness, he thinks it is. "The pair of you are in a perpetual honeymoon phase."

Jeongguk shakes his head, as if he isn't beaming. "Shut up. Just got a good thing going—and hey, you're hardly one to talk. How's Seoyeon?"

"Good, yeah," Yoongi nods, but doesn't divulge any further. As much as Jeongguk is dying to ask, he holds back. "She wants you all round for dinner soon, so expect an invite in the group chat."

"For any reason?" Jeongguk baits Yoongi, cause he just can't help himself.

Unlucky for him, Yoongi is as stoic as can be. "You know Seo. She loves any excuse for a dinner party. Has started making her own pasta and I think she wants tasters."

"B makes a mean pasta," Jeongguk says, because his thoughts so often wind back to you, and he just can't help himself. "I'm sure she'll be buzzing to try Seoyeons."

A sense of pride washes over Yoongi's features. "Gah, when did you grow up, Jeongguk? Practically married, aren't you?"

Dismissive in how he shakes his head, Jeongguk can't help but let a bashful smile grow on his face. The soft lights overhead glimmer down him, putting those stars Jeongguk adores so much right back in his eyes. He'll never get rid of you. Will eternally carry the evidence of how utterly smitten he is.

Should you ever leave him, Jeongguk thinks he'd simply die of a broken heart. Wouldn't know how to walk if it weren't in the direction of you. Would stumble and fall until he inevitably wound up back at your door like a wounded puppy.

So perahps Yoongi is right. Maybe it would make sense to offer you the space—but you've got your own agenda. Your own dreams. Jeongguk can't just entrap you in his.

The thing is, once your shift is up, and you're heading to the restaurant premises to see Jeongguk, you can't help but feel like this is a dream come true for you. 

His ambition and drive have rubbed off on you; encouraged you up a career path you once thought was overgrown with thorns and rubble. Has shown you that all you need is a little bit of elbow grease and a pair of secateurs to go after what you want. 

It's dark by the time you arrive. Lights from the other establishments flood the streets, but the blinds are closed on the restaurant for a little privacy. A handwritten 'under new management' sign is taped to the front door in Jeongguk's signature penstroke. A little smiley face accents it; a show of how he feels, you presume. 

Pulling your phone from your back pocket, you dial through to him, 'cause you've no idea how to get in, nor if he's even actually there. The building is just on the way home from the art cafe, and you'd left Jeongguk's place that morning to a very smiley boyfriend instead of his usual 'don't go' pout, so you figure he's spent all day busy with exciting plans.

"Sorry, not interested," Jeongguk's voice purrs through the speaker, as if you're some kind of cold-calling saleswoman with nothing half-decent to offer him. 

"What if I told you I'm outside the restaurant and that I'm naked under my clothes?"

"Aren't we all naked under our clothes?"

"Just open the door," you grin down the phone as he comes into view through the glass doors. 

He's got the kind of look on his face that you'd expect: pouty lips with heavy-lidded eyes. Softening ever so slightly when he notices the bunch of wildflowers poking out from the tote bag you've got hooked over your shoulder, his eyes are incapable of ever hiding his true feelings. 

Mild confusion ( did someone get you flowers?) dismissed with easy understanding—they're from the stall he always buys you flowers from, so he knows you got them yourself.

It's very conflicting to adore you and to also want to fuck you into next Tuesday, but it garners you a gaze nobody else is ever lucky enough to receive from him. You cherish it. Think about it near-constantly whenever he's not by your side.

"You're a terrible saleswoman," he scolds so softly it feels like praise.

"And yet here you are, answering the door for me," you shrug with a knowing smile, sure that'd he take whatever you sold him. Would buy sand, water, air from you. Would let you swindle him. 

"And yet here I am."

Hanging up, you mouth 'open it' through the door, and he does as he's told—kind of.

Blocking the now half-open door, he childishly asks, "What's the password?"

"I love you?"

"Ew. Gross. Get a room. No."

"Fuck you.”

"Not the password either, but I'm more than willing."

"Ew. Gross," you imitate him, gagging a little for an extra immaturity. "Hmm… Byeol is the best?"

"Ddaeng."

"Jimin sucks?"

"Ddaeng… but I approve. Good guess."

"Gimme a hint."

"It's the name of the restaurant."

The confidence that comes with the restaurant being his now is nothing short of a miracle. He's so certain of everything these days, in a way he never was before—but why shouldn't he? He got the girl. Got the dream. There's nothing he can't do. Statistically, he's two for two. A winner by all counts. A gold medalist in his very own Olympics.

"You've never told me what you want to name it!" You protest with a whine, thinking he's being entirely unfair.

It's not like you haven't asked a million times over. He's just been keeping it underwraps. Was scared that speaking it into existence would jinx it. Would refuse with a coy grin, and assurance that he'd reveal it soon enough.

Truth be told, Jeongguk's gone back and forth over names. It's probably changed ten times since he's known you, but then you said something at the fundraising auction, and everything sort of clicked into place. 

A name was coined and it wouldn't stop embossing itself into Jeongguk's dreams; the branding, the signage, everything. A new vision of what he wanted spawned like lava onto a mountainside. You sparked a volcano he didn't even realise existed, and it's solidified into molten rock. 

"I'll cut you a deal," you offer, knowing that you'll never get it and he'll never ease. Shrugging your shoulder to gesture towards the bag, you begin your enticement. "I've got cold beer and hot burgers from that place you like down the road. They're all yours in you let me in—if not, I'm going home and Danbi will—"

"Say no more," Jeongguk pushes the door open and grabs your hand, pulling you into the vacant restaurant with him. The door clicks close behind you, and Jeongguk spins you around so that you're stood infront of him, facing the large room. Arms wrapping around your waist, Jeongguk rests his chin on your shoulder, gently pressing a kiss to your neck. "Welcome in."

It's a lot to take in all at once. The room stands empty, save for the camping chairs and table Yoongi and Jeongguk had coversed around earlier, Jeongguk's ipad resting on the table with a low battery warning on the dimly lit screen. There's paperwork scattered on the surface—old utilities letters that they were using to sort out the new bills—and a bag of trash tied up on the floor from their lunch.

"I don't smell burgers," Jeongguk mumbles against your neck.

"I was lying."

"You've no shame."

Turning your head, you let him raise his nose to yours, a feathery kiss greeting your lips. 

Whenever your doe-eyed boy greets you like this, you always feel a bit like snow white; as if a dozen tiny creatures will flock to you and bestow their love upon you.

It'd be fruitless, mind you, for none of them could even come close to how deeply Jeongguk adores you. He'd sit in the corner, jealous and bratty as they fawned over you. Would hate not being the object of your affection. Would strop until your focus was back on him.

"I'll order some," you promise, but Jeongguk shakes his head. 

"Won't be here much longer. We can pick some up on the way home."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, baby," he tenderly whispers, punctuating himself with a slightly firmer kiss, before pulling away from you. Walking into the middle of the room, he holds out his arms. Grins. "Welcome."

"It's a pleasure," you grin, freely stepping into the space now, looking around with awestruck eyes knowing that this is his . "Holy shit, Gguk."

"Yeah," he agrees with your sentiment. "Mad, innit?"

"Just a little."

When you think back to the Jeongguk you first met—the one who spent hours upon hours studying for his exams, all the while working at the bar of an admittedly shitty club—you can't help but feel overwhelmed with pride. He worked himself to the bone for his dreams. 

The space is large enough for Jeongguk to go wild with it. There's no end to his possibilities. He's got an arsenal of weapons in his back pocket in the form of his friends—Yoongi can fit the place out, Jimin can help with the design work, Taehyung can make a central art piece, and Namjoon can get it featured in the paper. Of course, he won't take advantage of his access to them, but knowing how willing his friends always are to help out, it's kind of like a no-brainer. He's got all the tools needed for success.

"And right here," he points up, standing in the middle of a square marked out with tape on the floor. It's large and in the centre of the room—the intended space for a central bar and banchan preparation spot, flipping the conventions of traditional barbecue places on their heads. Wants the food to quite literally be at the heart of the restaurant. "Is where the disco balls will be."

For a second, you think you miss-hear him, but the way his smiles grows when confronted with your confusion only proves you heard perfectly fine.

Sitting on one of the camping chairs Yoongi and Jeongguk had set up earlier, you've been watching him talk you through his vision for the place. It sounds incredible—just like him, but in restaurant version. 

"Is that not a health and safety hazard?" You giggle, desperate to get up and stand with him, but feeling the need to maintain distance. He's having his moment. He doesn't need a shared stage—and yet here he is, announcing that the very embodiment of you will be centre stage for the foreseeable. 

Jeongguk shrugs. "Haven't thought that far ahead. There's gonna be disco balls here whether they like it or not, though."

Realistically, if the health and safety inspectors tell him no disco balls, there'll be no disco balls—but he won't be happy about it. Will be pouty. You both know he's just being facetious, and that he'll comply with whatever is asked of him. 

"It's my restaurant, baby," he reminds you, holding out his hands, cause he wants you closer. Naturally, you do ass requested, and join him in his square. His arm slips around your waist, a kiss firmly being pressed to your forehead before your chin leans on his chest. Looking up at him, it's a wonder that you're able to have conversations that last more than a single back and forth. A miracle, even. "I can do what I want."

There's something so incredibly sexy about this cocksure arrogance. He's not the same guy you met back in the confines of Dionysus, and while you adored him back then, you adore him even more now.

"You're sexy when you talk business," you hum, as his hand dip a little further south to squeeze your ass. "Home?"

He nods, a pretty smile hanging off his lips. "Mine or yours?"

"Yours is closer," you tell him, pulling away, linking your fingers with his as you do so, dragging him with you. Hooking your bag up over your shoulder, you're reminded of the flowers. "Oh—these are for you, by the way."

Passing them over, you're not surprised by his confusion.

"For me?"

The bunch of wildflowers looked pretty big in your hands, but remarkably small in his. You have to make a considered effort to not groan. 

"Mhmm," you nod with a sweet smile. "A congratulations."

Jeongguk's head pushes back a little into his neck, shoulders broadening as his smile forms. He quickly tilts his head to the side and then back again in the way he often does whenever his brain is processing something new. 

"Never had flowers before."

"Nice, isn't it?" You grin, knowing that nothing beats fresh flowers when it comes to small pockets of expressed admiration. 

With a bashful nod, Jeongguk feels like he should feel emasculated, but can't quite work out the way he actually does feel. All he knows is that he likes it. And that he wants to get home. And that he wants you in his bed. Naked, preferably. 

His thoughts dart back and forth to the last time you were in his room. Gets him hot. Blushing. 

Thankfully, you don't seem to notice—or if you do, you don't mention it. Why would you? It's cute. 

"What time is your interview tomorrow?" Jeongguk asks as he makes sure the door is locked behind you both. 

"One in the afternoon," you reply with a certain nonchalance, as if you're unphased, which Jeongguk knows is absolute bullshit. "Hobes said he'll work my shift if I buy him a month's supply of Sprite, so I've got, like, 48 cans arriving tomorrow."

He would have done it for free, but he's a tough bargainer and you're just an easy sell when it comes to making the people you care about happy.

"His blood will turn into sprite," Jeongguk laughs, linking his hand with yours once more as you head down the road to the nearest subway entrance. "How are you feeling about it? We can practise interview questions later, if you like."

Shaking your head, you smile. "It'll just make me nervous, and at the moment, I'm pretty calm about things. Thank you, though."

"Well, if you change your mind," Jeongguk reinforces the offer, before you redirect the conversation and get him babbling about the restaurant—projected timelines, contractors, suppliers. There's so much to do, and yet it doesn't feel overwhelming in the slightest. Not yet, at least.

With a pit stop at the burger place as promised, the journey home is effortless. Intrinsic by this point. 

Shoes off by the door, Jimin is out for a company dinner, so it's just the pair of you.

"Has he spoken with you about Nabi, yet?" You ask as you grab some condiments from the kitchen, while Jeongguk fills a vase with water.

"God, no," Jeongguk laughs. "He used to tease me all the time about you, but now he can't even look me in the eyes 'cause he's worried I'll ask about it. Idiot."

"He used to tease you? About me?" You hum, a little smug at this little snippet of information. 

"You know what he's like," Jeongguk reminds you, 'cause it's not like you've ever been spared from Jimin's teasing. "Doesn't know how to not be irritating. Character flaw. Think he was born that way."

Despite his annoying tendencies, Jimin is adored by pretty much everyone he meets. Jeongguk doesn't say such things to be mean, but rather because he views him like a sibling. 

"If anyone knows how to handle him, it's Nabi," you muse, thinking back to Pohang. "He'd have driven me insane organising the Jilympics."

"Don't call it that," Jeongguk smiles at how ridiculous his best friend is. Delicately arranging the flowers, Jeongguk's sense of perfectionism comes out once more. "He's a little narcissist. He'll sense his ego being inflated from miles away, and then his head won't be able to fit through doors." Tweaking a yellow flower to move it more centrally, Jeongguk shakes his head. "And to think the first time you were in this apartment—"

"Shut up," you groan, not wanting to be reminded of it. "Everybody makes mistakes."

"Alright, Hannah Montana," Jeongguk teases you. "It's just kinda wild, isn't it? How everything has just worked itself out?"

"Don't," you say with a glint in your eye. "You'll jinx it."

Perhaps it's foolish—naive, even—but he doesn't think it's possible. Thinks that this is all set in stone. That your names have been etched on a cliffside somewhere, and that's where you'll remain forever more. 

He forgets that cliffs erode. That the weather is unpredictable, and life even more so. 

He's always been cautious. Reluctant of counting eggs.

But he’s hungry. Ravenous. The first at the dinner table, and the last to leave. Bites off more than he can chew. Chokes and splutters in the wake of it all, every single damn time.

It’s a flaw he’ll admit to having, but why can’t vices be virtues? Why can’t he be optimistic? Why shouldn’t he hope for the best? He spent so long living in a perpetual state of fear, and it never did him any good. Wasn’t until he started opening himself to the idea of things working out okay that they actually started heading in that direction.

“I’ll do no such thing,” he assures you, reaching for a pan to start with his second course. Again, he’s hungry in all aspects of the word. Hasn’t even had his burgers yet, but he’s a growing boy, or so he’d have you believe. Better to just get it cooked first, and save him the hassle of getting up again later. “You want some?”

He nods towards the empty saucepan, but doesn’t need to explain what he’s making. You know it’ll be instant bibimyeon.

“A little,” you nod, knowing that this relationship is gonna be terrible for your waistline. Opening up his fridge, you pull a can of soda from the fridge. Jeongguk doesn’t really ever buy soda, unlike you and your minor peach soda addiction, but take-out places always chuck a complimentary can of something in with your orders, so he’s got quite a stockpile now.

“You want a beer or something instead?” He asks, as he begins to prepare the instant noodles in the most embellished way he possibly can. Spices, sauces, you name it, he’s always adding something—and it’s always delicious. 

Cracking the can open, you set it down and swipe the camera of your phone up to snap a picture of him; to document him in his element. “Nah, it’s okay. Want a clear head for tomorrow.”

Jeongguk smiles, hearing the synthetic shutter of your phone clicking. “Obsessed.”

“So?” You grin, immediately swiping across to open up Instagram and preserve the moment on your story. “You love it.”

Though he doesn’t reply, he does look in your direction with a smile that would only confirm your words.

Together, you fall into a casual rhythm, you perched up on a barstool while he cooks. Conversation darts from A to B, Y to Z. There’s no topic of conversation too obscure nor taboo for you to realm into the depths of, but there’s also something comforting about how you can just natter about the weather, how he should get his hair cut, what’s on at the cinema. 

By the time he’s eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, you’re already in the shower. It’ll be an early night. You’ve both been working today, and both have important things to get done the next day. 

There’s no objection from you as he taps on the door and asks to come in. You hadn’t locked it deliberately. Jimin’s out, and even if he’d have come home, he’d have heard the shower going—or Jeongguk would have told him. There’s no real worry there.

“Been looking forward to this all day,” Jeongguk admits as he grabs his shirt by the nape of his neck, pulling it over his head in that boyish way he so often does. Neither of you really care about being naked—it’s a daily occurrence at this point—but seeing him get undressed makes your heart feel all jelly-like and void of structure. The chambers melt, and so do you. 

It’s not just attraction, but affection. Acknowledgement that he doesn’t mind being vulnerable with you. That the things humans do to renew themselves — eat, shower, sleep — are things he wants to do with you. He doesn’t want to be full if you’re hungry, sleep while you’re starved of rest, nor wash away the traces of you. Renewal without you just doesn’t make sense to him. 

“Me too,” you quietly say as he joins you. The water pitter-patters down on you both, his hair wetting before laying flat against his forehead. When his deft hands push it away, it always falls back. 

Instinctively, your arms wrap around his waist, his around your shoulders, the embrace akin to coming home. 

“We should both just quit our jobs and do this forever,” Jeongguk muses, almost sleepy in how he mumbles his words against the top of your head. 

“Someone’s gotta pay the water bill,” you smile against his bare chest.

“That’s why I live with Jimin,” Jeongguk replies, tone cheeky and warm. 

The smile on your face sweetly settles into something a little more neutral as you outwardly consider your own living situation. “Lease is up soon, yanno. Mine and Dans.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, wet hair tangling over itself against his skin. He holds you just as tightly. “Haven’t started looking for new places, yet.”

“I’ve still got a few months left on mine,” Jeongguk says, pulling back to reposition the shower head. Just wants to hear you a little more clearly. “My bed is basically yours anyways.”

It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s insinuating—but it also doesn’t take a genius to know that it wouldn’t be the right thing for you both, yet. 

Your eyes are soft as you shake your head. “I’ve a whole apartment's worth of stuff, Gguk. I can’t just move into your room. Need my own space.”

He frowns, reaching for the shampoo. “You can. And I’ll even move my statues.”

“You mean your action figures?”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and then you’re giggling, and any negative thoughts Jeongguk could have about you saying ‘no’ dissolve into nothingness, like water running down the drain. He passes you over the shampoo once he’s gotten himself some, and adds, “People pay good money for a collection like mine.”

“You mean you spent a fuck ton of money on them?”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses,” he protests. “You’ve got so many clothes. I don’t think I’ve ever been into your room when there hasn’t been an avalanche of clothes on the chair, wardrobe and dressers bursting at seams—”

“Exactly,” You laugh. “Now imagine all of that in your room.”

He takes a second. Visualises it as he lathers up the foamy shampoo in his hair and almost hisses. “Yeah. You’re right. I take it back. Get your own place.”

Rolling your eyes, you flick a little water in his direction, as if it makes a difference. 

He grins, teeth on show, lip ring doing the thing that just makes you melt. 

“See,” you grin right back. “I’m always right.”

The rest of your shower is littered with dumb conversations and stolen kisses between shampoo rinses. In fact, it’s how the rest of the evening continues. Some dumb action film plays on the tv, and then Jeongguk finds a dumb youtube quiz, and you giggle into the early hours over some other dumb shit. Dumb, dumb, dumb and oh so totally in love. 

The apartment issue lingers in the back of Jeongguk’s mind, though, and questions dance on the tip of his tongue. He tries to brush them away, but the mint of his toothpaste isn’t enough to erase them. They taste sour, and he knows the only way to rid the sensation is to speak them into existence.

Gone midnight, the city is still alive. His curtains are open, because you’ve started to get used to the way he likes to sleep, and find it far easier to wake up early when the sun is giving you a warm welcome to the day. Funny, how things change. How willing he was to change his habits for you, and how seamlessly yours have changed to fit him. You’re better for knowing one another, or so it feels. 

The light pollution gives his bedroom a soft glow, and with every change of advertisement on the billboards across the street, the hue changes. Like his own personal mood lamp, it’s become a staple of his home. It’s blue, now, and so is he when he considers the fact that you haven’t yet reached the stage of sharing a home.

Your arm is looped over his waist, ‘cause he’d decided that the role of the little spoon would be going to him. Fingers interlocked with yours, he has no interest in ever letting go. 

“B?”

“Mhmm?”

“Is Dan definitely moving in with Tae?”

“Think so.”

Jeongguk doesn’t immediately reply, but you leave space open for him. A question like that didn’t come out of the blue. It’s something he’s been ruminating on, no doubt.

When he finally does speak, the weight of his soft, if not somewhat pouty, words crush down on your chest in a way that you can’t quite explain. Hell, in a way you don’t want to explain, because it would mean admitting that a man has such power over you (even if said man is Jeon Jeongguk).

“They’ve always been one step ahead of us,” he laments.

And then he leaves silence for you. Knows that you always have a response of some kind that will settle his woes. Feels guilty that you’re always cleaning up the messes of his loose lips, but would be a liar if he said he didn’t crave the sweet nothings you soothe him with.

“They’re on an entirely different path, baby,” you gently press a kiss into his shoulder. He’s so warm and powder-fresh from his shower that you can’t help but want to cling to him like a koala bear. Most importantly, though, you don’t want him to move away. Space to talk is fine, but physical space? God, no. “There's no use comparing.”

But Jeongguk is a glutton for punishment. Will continue making himself feel small for the sake of his perceived flaws.

“Loved you before Taehyung even knew who Danbi was,” Jeongguk pouts, ‘cause he’s in his head again, going round in circles when he really needn’t be. You know he does this, though. It doesn’t surprise nor concern you. If anything, it reassures you, because his willingness to share these thoughts just signposts how far you’ve both come. He used to stew and sour over things like this. Now, he shares his burdens “But they’re doing all these big milestones first. They were a couple, went on vacation, and now moving in together. All before us.”

“It’s not a competition,” you sweetly laugh. “Their relationship couldn’t be more different to ours. Plus I hardly consider a weekend in Jeju a big vacation—we can literally do that this weekend, if you want.”

You’re not sure why you’ve never been away together. Busan is always lovely, but it’s a short drive, and is somewhere Jeongguk still considers to be home. It’s not a holiday. Perhaps you should rectify that. It's better spoken about during the daylight hours, but always a little nicer to dream at night. Make silly, fantastical plans that you could always turn into reality, if you really wanted. 

“Gguk,” you softly continue. “As much as I love them both, we’re literally so different from them. Our relationship was never gonna be like theirs.”

“You think?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, lips brushing against the bare skin of his shoulder. “Well, I mean, he lets her peg him for starters—”

Jeongguk turns so quickly it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall out of bed. Even in the darkness of his room at night, the open curtains mean his shock is easy to make out. “Does he actually?!”

Giggling, you roll onto your back, thoroughly enjoying his reaction. Truth is, you’ve no idea. Just said it to be a dick. 

“Probably,” you say, admitting that you don’t know. You just knew it would cause a reaction. Ease the tension, somewhat. “He’s like, obsessed with her. Would let her do anything she wants.”

Sinking back down into the sheets with you, Jeongguk wraps his arm over your body now. Pulls you close. Presses a kiss to your neck, and says, “You lost the bet, y’know? Can’t even go 24 hours without thinking about fucking my ass, can you?”

It sounds like a complaint, but the way his lips seem unable to stop pressing wet kisses against your throat would prove otherwise. Your hand tangles in his hair, scratching his scalp in approval. 

“Cute that you think I haven’t been thinking about it all day,” you tease, biting back the small murmur of a moan that’s just begging to escape from his touch. 

You often have thoughts about him throughout the day, both pure and impure. It’s not like you mean to—it’s just that there’s something about Jeongguk that is impossible to forget. Like a class-A drug, you linger from high to high, using thoughts about him to sustain your comedown until you can see him again. 

He is your boyfriend, though. Would be weirder if you weren’t a little obsessed.

“Liar,” he scolds. “I picked your clothes up after our shower. Your underwear were dry.”

“You were inspecting my underwear? Freak,” you tease, because quite honestly the idea of him studying your underwear in the hopes of finding arousal is kinda hot, even if a little perverted. “And maybe it’s because you don’t get me excited.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeongguk ignores your insult. Instead, his hand creeps down the mound of your pussy, pausing before he sinks his fingers between your thighs. “So you’ll be dry right now, then?”

“I’ll be just like the Gobi,” you assure him with that tone of defiance he's grown to adore. “Try me.”

You don’t know why you’re offering yourself up like this, ‘cause you know it’s only gonna end up one way.

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar,” he smirks—and then is proven correct as his fingers slide between your slick folds with ease. A gasp escapes from your lips as he casually brushes past your clit, paying it no attention whatsoever. “And even if you weren’t, there’s like, five bigger deserts than the Gobi. Sounds like it’s a pretty easy drought to rectify—but fuckin’ hell, B. My pretty girl and her filthy mouth. Full of lies, isn’t it? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

“No,” you purr, hips languidly rolling to intensify the sensation he’s facilitating. After all, he’s right. There’s nothing dry about the situation between your legs. “Never told a lie in my life.”

His teeth nip at your neck as his body presses up against your side, the thick ridge of his cock letting you know that you most certainly get him excited. 

“You’re so full of shit, B,” he quietly says, lips from a pretty little kiss against the edge of your jaw. “Told so many lies, haven’t you, hm? Like when you used to tell people we were just friends?”

The desperate sigh that escapes your mouth only fuels him on even more.

“You remember the first time I touched you like this, huh?” He husks against your ear. “Those pretty eyes of yours watching us in the mirror. You can see us now, can’t you?”

Nudging his head against yours, he encourages you to look in the direction of his mirror. You always sleep on the side of the bed closest to it, but you rarely pay it any attention these days. The pair of you are obscured—bed sheets and shadows hiding what he’s doing to you—but the eroticism is just as potent as it always was.

“Gguk,” you rasp, back arching when he strokes against your clit just right.

Restraint is something that you wish you had been gifted with, but alas—you are just a girl, and he is just the sexiest man you’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with. Of course you melt with every little thing he does.

“What is it, baby?” His index finger pushes into the seeping entrance of your cunt, just once, twice, to really get you moaning. “You like it when your boyfriend touches you?”

Something about Jeongguk referring to himself like that always gets you hot, but it’s partially because of the way he almost growls when he does it. You know it’s a turn-on for him. Know that his cock is throbbing. Know he loves calling himself yours.

Tugging on his arm, you encourage him to move on top of you. It’s late, and you should both be getting a good night's rest, but whatever. In half an hour, you’ll both be away with the fairies. If anything, this will help you fall asleep quicker.

“Thought you wanted an early night?” he husks against your lips, finishing his question with a kiss that lasts far longer than any words spoken. His firm lips part yours as your legs wrap around his hips as they grind up against yours.

“And I thought you said whoever speaks about fucking your ass next loses?” You smile against his lips, knowing that he definitely must have a twisted idea of what punishment is. “How is this losing?”

“We never set out terms,” he reminds you, unable to stop himself from kissing you between sentences. “But maybe it's not about losing. Maybe it’s about winning.”

“Okay?” You entertain his flirt, giggling between those kisses he just can’t seem to stop giving you. “So what are you winning?”

He pretends to give it thoughtful consideration. Squints his eyes and looks away as if contemplating one of life's great questions. Why are we here? What is the point of life? How do I want my girlfriend to make me cum tonight?

Jeongguk presses a kiss to your neck, nose nudging against your skin. He’s feline-like. Purry. Pathetic. Just how you like him.

“You haven’t sucked me off in a while,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your earlobe. Your hand laces in his hair, a soft moan humming from your lips. There’s a softness to the slow movements of your bodies. A comfort. A desperation. Unadulterated devotion. “So maybe that?”

You laugh at his shamelessness. Press a kiss to his temple, still scratching at his scalp. “I gave you a blowjob, like, two days ago, baby.”

“I know,” he whines like a wounded puppy, all docile and dejected. “It’s been so long I might die.”

“Hmm?” You hum in response, pushing on his waist ever so slightly until he gets the message to roll onto his back. He does as he's told, because he really is just a puppy dog beneath it all. Well-trained and desperate for a treat.

Following the movements of his body, you naturally ease into position on top of him. Legs straddled either side of his waist, you raise yourself up into a seated position, earning you a grunt of approval from Jeongguk. 

The way his hands immediately reach up to play with your chest is curious, considering he still plays himself off as an ass guy. Strong with his movements, he grips the softness of your tits, his hips gently pulsing up against you.

“These might help prolong my life expectancy,” he says. “Best stress balls known to man.”

He seems quite content like this. Eyes closed, a smile hangs off his lips like he’s in a serene state of bliss. You cock your brow, unable to fight a smile, too. 

“Did you just call my tits… balls?”

One of his eyes cracks open. “No?”

“You definitely did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did—”

“Byeol,” he reprimands your diversion of the topic. “C’mon. Business, baby.”

“Is that all I am to you, huh?” You say, reaching for his wrist so that you can pull your hairband from it. He lets you do so and looks on with salacious curiosity as you begin to tie your hair up in a ponytail. “Just a transaction?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, his own hair tangling against his pillow as he does so. “A bird for a bird, remember?”

“Are we not past the point of the birds?”

“Well, yeah,” he says as if it’s totally obvious. “Thought we were gonna do a plane?”

Jeongguk’s reference back to the paper planes that he crafted in your bedroom makes your heart seize. You know what he means by that. Knows that it’s permission, in a way. That he wants what you want, even if he doesn’t outwardly say it.

“Are we?”

“Well we’re not gonna do anything if you keep up with the small talk,” he fondly teases you, pulling you back down so your chest is against his. One of his hands wraps itself in your ponytail and tugs ever so gently. A soft moan escapes your lips, much to his enjoyment. “I like your hair like this.”

In all honesty, he just likes being able to pull on it. Loves your hair no matter how it’s done. 

“You’ll like it even more in a few minutes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw before you embark on your journey south. 

It’s intrinsic, how you work his body. A routine so well learned it’s not even given a second thought anymore. You know how to make him tick. The way he groans when you press pretty kisses down his collarbones and the way his hips roll when you drag the pink of your tongue over his pebbled nipples.

His hand clutches in your hair, keeping you in that position, encouraging you to pay a little extra attention to his nipples for a change. It’s not often that he wants too much focus on his chest, but he’s so turned on that even the slightest touch is making him go feral. 

“Shit,” he hisses when your teeth gently press down around his nipple before you suck it ever so gently. “You’re so fuckin’ good at that.”

He’s never cared for it before. In all honestly, he actively didn’t like it when previous partners did it. There’s something about you that subverts all his desires. You’ve changed him. Altered his understanding of his body. Opened him up to so much more than he’d ever considered before.

Still, you’ve got an agenda, and unfortunately for him, it doesn’t involve his chest. He lets you move down, one hand lazily hanging by your head, the other resting over his chest. His thumb strokes over his pebbled nipple, still wet from your tongue, the pleasure of your touch sending him into a state of ecstasy.

Your body shuffles down, and you both reposition yourselves. No longer are you straddling, but rather you’re between his legs. His thighs are dappled in kisses from you, before your palms rest flat to his inner thighs, spreading him just right.

Alternating between slow kisses and languid drags of your tongue, you teeter ever so close to his thick, solid cock, but never quite touch it. Every time you get close, he whines, cock twitching.

There’s a satisfaction to be found in the way his body responds to your touch. His desperation is painful. Visceral. All he wants is you. 

And because you can’t bear to see him in pain (whether or not because he’s so turned on he might just die), you concede. Give him what he wants. 

Hands on his thighs, you let a little spit pool on your tongue before slowly dragging the tip of your tongue up his shaft.

“Fucking hell,” he curses, writhing from the contact.

You smile, and the lightness of your breath against the wet streak of your tongue makes him shiver. 

The tip of his cock is already leaky with precum, his eagerness to be inside you so pathetically obvious. You avoid it, instead opting to repeat your previous moves. Slowly, you lick up his fat length, tongue flat as can be. You want him to feel as much of you as he can. Want him whining— begging —for your pussy.

If the precum seeping from his tip is a sign of desperation, then heaven only knows what the fuckin’ mess between your legs is. Every stroke of your tongue against him only serves to make you want him just as badly as he wants you.

Your hand reaches to wrap around his shaft, gently stroking his foreskin. Your tongue flicks against the base of his tip, right where you know he’s the most sensitive. 

It’s no surprise when his grip on your ponytail tightens. 

But it is a surprise when he lets go. 

“Hm?” You chirp, looking up, just to make sure he’s all good.

He is—he just isn’t looking at you to confirm it. Instead, his upper body twists ever so slightly as he reaches for his bedside drawer. 

You know it’s got a host of indecent artifacts—his sex toys, condoms, polaroids of you that are for his eyes only—but don’t give it much thought. Figure maybe he’s after a condom to make himself last longer, until you feel him tapping at your shoulder with the side of a small plastic bottle. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Not immediately, at least. 

What he wants is something he can’t really bring himself to ask for. Hopes that you’ll work it out for yourself. 

As you take the bottle from him, a small chirp echoes from your throat, as if you’re asking for clarification. Again, Jeongguk hopes you’ll work it out. That he won’t have to shamelessly tell you what he desperately wants, cock twitching and leaking precum on his stomach.

The way you pause as you study the bottle, trying to read the text in the dim light of Jeongguk’s room, only adds to his apprehension—until he hears a soft smile exhaling from your lips when you realise exactly what it is: lube .

Never usually required, thanks to the fact Jeongguk makes you resemble a waterfall from just a look in your direction, you know the lube isn’t for you. It’s for him. 

And given the state of conversations around sex over the past week or so, you know what he’s asking for.

After all, he’s the one who wrote that damn airplane in the first place. Told you straight up that he liked ass play way back in the days of the sticky notes (some of which remain on his wall, yet to be conquered).

His drawer only really has his things in it, though. You’ve not got any of your toys at his place. This is a preliminary. A follow-up, almost, to the night spent in the Min’s garden, doing things that probably scared a few dozen nocturnal animals.

“Yeah?” You encourage, lips pressing to his upper thigh. His body adjusts ever so slightly, as if he’s shy. Your hand wraps around his shaft, slowly rolling his foreskin up and down his length in just the right way to get his hands gripping his sheets. 

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he rasps through the pleasure of having you touch him. “Just want you to do it.”

“Talk about what?” You tease, ‘cause there’s no way he’ll actually enjoy what he’s asking for if he keeps being this uptight about it all. Relaxation is key.

“B,” he groans, this time out of frustration—and so you know you need to be the one to take the lead.

It just doesn’t feel right to take the lead, knowing he’s a little bit tense. You’ve always been so clear and consistent with each other when it comes to consent, and while you know what he wants, you wanna hear him say it first. 

So you leave the bottle of lube next to his thigh and clamber up his body. Legs straddling his waist, you’re pleased that his hands come to stroke your thighs without a second thought. Conversely, your hands softly hold his cheeks, bringing him in for half a dozen pretty little kisses.

“Words are important. I’m not gonna be crude about it,” you tell him, ‘cause it makes a change to the way you joke around with one another. “I just love you, and I want to make you feel good.”

Jeongguks nose nudges back up against yours, as if to plead for more kisses (of which you give him, willingly).

“I love you more,” he argues into your lips, earning a giggle from you that somehow melts all of his worries away. 

“Chess is always an option,” you remind him, but he shakes his head.

“Just… Fucking hell,” he groans as if it’s some sort of laborious task he really can’t be bothered to see through, which couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s just embarrassed. It’s all rather cute. Or at least it is until he continues. “Just finger my ass.” 

He bashfully half whimpers, half laughs, and then adds a pouty, “Please.”

A smile sinks into your lips, and the way he seems almost shy makes your tummy feel all funny. He’s disastrously cute like this. 

“I’ll make you feel so good,” you promise, lips brushing against his ear.

He nods. Knows you will. Lets his hands stroke up and down your back, bringing them around to cup your boobs. Squeezes. Smiles. Can’t resist himself when he questions, “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” You nod, pulling back to sit upright just for his viewing pleasure. His hands are still holding your tits, gently caressing. He’ll never not love the sight of this. Of you. Of the way you respond to his touch. 

“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you back down, ‘cause he can’t let you go just yet. Your hands grip onto his bedframe as his lips eagerly latch onto one of your nipples. One of your hands drops to tangle in his smooth hair, a pretty little moan escaping your lips.

He takes it as a sign he’s doing something right. Switches up his sucking motion to flick his tongue against your hardened bud. Get you moaning all over again, the position of your legs spread over his waist, letting him know just how pleased you are to have him like this.

And while Jeongguk might have been asking you for favours, all he can think about is returning them.

Tapping on your ass, he’s a little breathless as he lets go of his latch on your nipple, and husks, “Up, baby. On my face. You before me.”

“Hm?” you languidly hum—not because you don’t know what he means, but because it goes against what he was asking for just minutes earlier.

Still, Jeongguk doesn’t care to explain his thought process (mainly because he doesn’t have one (he just likes having you in his mouth in any and all capacities)). Instead, he just continues tapping your ass until you get the message.

“You’re so impatient,” you lightly scold him while you do as he requests, but barely have time to position yourself before his arms are hooking over your legs, pulling your pussy to his mouth. “Oh fuck.”

He wastes no time suctioning his lips around your clit. He doesn’t care to be quiet about it. Eats you like it’s his last fuckin’ supper. Laps up against you. 

It’s not just his tongue, though. It’s like he wants his whole fuckin’ face in your cunt. His nose rubs up against your clit, while his tongue greedily licks your entrance. There’s no such thing as perfect, but the way he’s proportioned is as close as it gets, you think. Your hips grind, a hand tangled in his hair, the way you both move entirely primal. 

Hands squeezing at your ass, he encourages your movements. Wants you all over his face. Loves nothing more than being coated in you. 

His tongue begins to focus now, though. He positions himself just right. Flicks against your clit at such a speed it’s hard to comprehend—and then he’s moaning. Vibrating against you. Delivering a sensation that could never be replicated.

“I’m close,” you rasp. Whine. Moan. “Don’t wanna cum. Not yet.”

And while he wants you to, Jeongguk knows why. Knows you wanna fuck him. Knows you wanna cum around his cock instead of on his face. Multiple orgasms have never been an issue, but it is late. You do need a somewhat early night. 

He nods, easing up his tongue, slowly sucking on your clit. The movements of his head as he sucks only serve to make you feel like you might cum regardless, so you shakily (and regretfully) pull away. 

When you reposition yourself, he pulls you against his lips for the messiest, most obscene kiss possible. It’s all tongue, and little else. The taste of your cunt. The sweetness of his whines. The filth of how much he loves sinning with you. 

There's nobody else he could be like this with. Only you. Only ever you.

Straddled over his hips, you grind gently, his thick cock perfectly snug between your lips. Wet and swollen, they feel like silk against him. Jeongguk knows, given the chance, that he’d be able to cum like this. Easy.

That’s not what he wants, though, so you retrace your steps. Sink back down. Don’t fuck around this time. Instead, you take him in your mouth without hesitation. Return the favour he’s just bestowed upon you.

Head bobbing up and down his fat length, your hand wraps around the base of his cock. Pulling back, you spit against him, using your hand to spread it, gaining momentum. Loose with your grip, you focus on the tip of his sensitive cock, jerking him until he’s whining. Whimpering.

And then, you let your tongue stroke against his balls. 

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, his hips pulsing beneath you.

It’s all the approval you need for your hand to get a little tighter, and for your lips to take one of his balls in your mouth. It’s a sensation Jeongguk fuckin’ loves, if done right—and of course, you know how to do it perfectly for him. 

You take his ecstasy as a chance to move things along. Know he’s feeling good. Know he wants more. 

Pulling back, you sit on your heels. Neither of you speak, but Jeongguk does slowly nod when he sees you reaching for the bottle of lube next to his body. Trepidation hangs in the air. This territory is uncharted, and it’s been a little while since you last ventured so far south—but you’ve got a roadmap. Know the way. Even if you didn’t, you like to think intuition would guide you, regardless.

Warming it a little bit in your hands, you’re slow. Cautious. Careful, knowing that he’s probably feeling a little more vulnerable than usual.

Hands slick with the gel, you wrap a palm around his shaft. Ease him into the feeling. It’s not like it’s a new sensation, but the pair of you rarely ever use lube. You’re always wet enough. He nods. Lets his eyes close as your other hand gently massages against his balls.

A little further south, you venture. He’s not a stranger to your tongue against his taint, but your fingers are less frequent. He's not as well acquainted with the sensation, but he likes it. Legs spreading a little further, Jeongguk makes himself available for you. 

Smiling at just how cute he looks, you’re a curious mix of enamoured and outrageously turned on. Just like nobody could ever make him feel the way you do, nobody could ever make you feel the way he does. 

“You’re so hot,” you tell him, gently wanking his cock as two of your fingers stroke up and down his taint. You apply a little more pressure. Replace his bashful smile with a wanting gasp.

Slick with lube, you let your middle finger go lower. Slowly, you press against his rim. Watch him closely as his brows furrow. There’s that look of desperation once more, and the assurance that yes, he wants this. Wants you. 

You count in your head. 1, 2, 3… make sure he doesn’t stop moving his hips. If anything, he’s edging himself down. Encouraging you to apply more pressure. 

And so you do. Slowly, eyes trained on his pretty, pathetic face, you push your middle finger against his tight hole, until the muscle eases.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, the penetration of a single finger overwhelmingly pleasurable for him. His eyes flicker open, landing on yours as your finger begins to curl ever so gently. Just a little. Just enough.

Chest heaving, Jeongguk looks beautiful in a way that’s hard to put into words—and when you slowly pull out, he looks ruined in a way that’s also hard to comprehend.

His lips hang slack, chest heaving as his eyes burn into you like the heat of a thousand stars. Face dewy with sweat, hair sticks to his forehead, the storminess of his gaze quickly triggers a whirlpool within your stomach. There’s a neediness to him as he swallows back a breath, lips coming together so that he can lick them, before his pout forms that pretty little o-shape once more.

Breathless as he speaks, Jeongguk rasps, “Again.”

The corner of your lips twitch into a smirk. “Yeah, babe?”

“Yeah,” he pathetically nods, fucked out but somehow still painfully desperate for more. Of course he is, though. It’s you. No one gets him like this. No one ever will. His brows furrow together, his tongue flicking against the silver hoops in the corner of his mouth, as his eyes drop to his pathetically weeping cock. He’s so hard. So keen. So needy—and what he needs right now is you. “Please, B. More.”

You tease against his entrance, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. It’s like a reward, to hear him like this. As if you’ve done something truly remarkable.

Your other hand wraps around the base of his cock, adding to the electricity surging through him. He reaches down. Wraps his hand around yours. Encourages you. Wants more. Needs more. And so you give him more.

Finger pushing into his tight entrance, you’re slow. Painfully so, though you aren’t causing any actual pain. Jeongguk just wants you to hit that spot. 

“Yeah?” You check in.

Breathless, nodding his head even though his eyes are closed, he says, “Yeah.”

Your finger curls. Strokes. Searches. Finds.

And Jeongguk moans in a way you don’t think you’ve ever heard before. It’s a whimper, almost. A plea. Or rather, a confession, maybe.

Your hands work in tandem, your finger stroking right against the spot that makes him whine, while your other hand strokes him in tempo. He’s stimulated in a way he isn’t used to. In a way he never really thought was possible. 

There’s a vulnerability that comes with penetration. Far easier to fuck someone than it is to get fucked.

When he looks down towards you, it's like looking through a telescope; galaxies in his big brown eyes. Wide and wanting, he'll give you all the stars in his eyes, no questions asked, no fee charged.

It’s when your head dips to press wet kisses against his taint that his whines really begin to get desperate. Has always loved your mouth. Loves it when it does things it shouldn’t. 

A girl like you shouldn’t have your nose pressed to a ballsack or her tongue mere millimetres away from an asshole, but the way you focus on delivering him pleasure would suggest otherwise. You’re made for this. Made for him. 

It’s when you whine, though, obsessed with his body's response to you, that he really begins to get twitchy. His hips pulse ever so gently, encouraging the movements of both hands.

“Yeah?” you breathlessly whisper, smirking at how a man so strong is just absolute putty in your hands. “You fucking yourself with my hands, huh?”

Jeongguk is beyond the point of pride. Has no need for dignity. Just wants to feel good.

“Yeah,” he admits between desperate breaths. “Gonna make me cum so fuckin’ hard.” 

Everything is moving in the same chaotic rhythm: his chest, his beating heart, his pulsing hips. Jeongguk’s cock is twitching, the sensation of you massaging his prostate taking him closer and closer to the point of release. He isn’t gonna last, and you don't want him to. 

Your hand grips even tighter around the base of his cock, the stimulation impossible to fight against. There’s only so much he can take.

“B,” he whines. “Oh, fuck.”

“Cum for me,” you tell him, not even caring for your lost orgasm from earlier. He can make it up to you later. You keep the pace of your finger consistent, but wank him off faster. He whimpers and he writhes, but he doesn’t ease up. “C’mon, baby. Show me how good I make you feel, yeah?”

If there’s one thing that drives him wild, it’s when you call him sweet little names. 

“Please, baby,” you beg, because you know just the right buttons to press. His hands grip his bed sheets, eyes struggling to stay open. He’s seconds away from death, or so it feels. A little death, at least. His legs begin to twitch. The onslaught of what is about to happen is unmistakable. “That’s it, baby,” you coo. “Show me how good it feels.”

“B,” he tries to speak, but can’t. All he can do it succumb to the pleasure. Whine. Mewl. Moan.

And then it’s happening; the evidence of how fucking good you are for him painting his abdomen. His cock is pathetic as it spurts ropes of thick, hot cum onto his belly. White and wet, it’s never-ending. He cums and he cums; gasps and gasps. 

It’s not until he begins to twitch, chest heaving, cock spent, that you withdraw from him. Immediately, you gently begin to trail your tongue across his hard abs, cleaning up the evidence of how much he likes having you in his ass. You're keeping his secrets. Promising you'll never tell a soul.

“Shit,” he curses, all breathless and fucked out, one arm over his chest, while his other hand reaches down to stroke the side of your head. “Fuck.”

Giggling now, you clamber up to join him, and Jeongguk cares not for the fact your cum is still on your tongue. In fact, he deliberately stokes his against yours, swapping the evidence of his pleasure between you both. Moaning into your lips, he’s spent in a way he never has been before. 

“God, I love you,” he whines into your mouth. Gets needy all over again. “You know that, huh? You know how much I love you?”

With a bashful nod, you find yourself giggling. “You know I know.”

“Good,” he nods, pulling away to face the ceiling, eyes closed, trying to get a little breath back. You snuggle into him, all rather sweetly considering what you’ve just done. “‘Cause I do. And I mean it. You’re literally, like, the love of my life.”

“Who knew all it would take was a little ass play to get your saying such soppy shit,” you tease him, pressing a kiss against his chest. “Should have done this months ago.”

He laughs now, too. “Just cause I didn’t say it back then doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”

The pair of you descend into a comfortable warmth, giggling and joking, until you get up to wash yourself up a little. Jeongguk protests. Says he needs to return the favour—but ultimately agrees to wait until the morning. 

“Need to sleep at some point, babe,” you tell him as you both meander to the bathroom. Jeongguk makes a mental note to get a place with an en-suite when he moves out. In a pair of boxers, he watches you fondly as you wash your hands in the bathroom sink, all love drunk and bleary-eyed.

You’re in one of his shirts, and it drapes over your body in a way that it would never drape over him. He likes it better on you. In fact, he likes most things in his life better with the addition of you.  Thinks life would be impossible, if he were ever to lose you. 

“I think I’d die, yanno,” he mindlessly says, watching you plait your hair to stop it from tangling in the night. “If we ever broke up or weren’t together, I’d think I’d just die.”

You laugh, because it’s absurd. Both the concept of dying of a broken heart, and the idea that you would ever break up. 

“Don’t speak it into existence, then,” you tease. “It’s a full moon, Gguk. Can’t be manifesting things like that on a night like this.”

“I’m not,” he assures you, because if anything, he’s trying to do the opposite. Not once does he think to tell you that the full moon has nothing to do with it, or some other belittling remark about believing in the stars, like you know most guys would. Why would he though? A star is the closest thing he knows to religion, and he’s looking at it right now.

“Well, good,” you hum, turning to face him, hair now secure. “Let's just agree to not break up, and that way you won’t die.”

“Sounds good,” he sleepily smiles, tugging on your hand, guiding you back to his bedroom. 

It’s a ridiculous conversation for a ridiculous concept. 

Or at least, in the warmth of lust-drunk night, it is.

In the cold light of day, stark and sterile, everything has the potential to change. 

After all, bad decisions are your forte, are they not?

[mustelidsinlove]

Dramione one shots that are never far from my thoughts

[in no particular order; mind the tags — some of these are dark]

As Sharp as Any Thorn by Argosy [E, 8.8k]

The road to redemption is a winding one. Christmas at Grimmauld Place, Post HBP.

Art: Night and Her Daughter Sleep (detail), Mary L. Macomber, 1902

Scenes from a Marriage by hiddenhibernian [T, 5.4k]

They say love isn't about what you say, it's what you do. If you see it that way, Hermione doesn't have any reason to complain.

Art: The Lovers, Akseli Gallen-Kallela, c. 1907-1917

Grit by witchsoup [T, 4k]

Hermione attempts to diagnose a secretive patient suffering major curse damage.

Art: Hands Grasping 7, Susan Manspeizer, 2018

remedia amoris by magneticwave [M, 14.7k]

The most amazing thing about Malfoy is not that he managed to build a successful Ministry career out of the total disgrace of his family, but that somehow Hermione only despises him half of the time that they work together.

Art: Circe Offering up the Cup to Ulysses (detail), John William Waterhouse, 1891

Inside by onebedtorulethemall [M, 7.5k]

Something is wrong with Draco Malfoy.

Art: Illustration from The West Wing, Edward Gorey, 1963

With Teeth by provocative_envy [M, 5.4k]

Albus Dumbledore had been wrong about Voldemort’s horcruxes.

Art: Escape Before the Dawn, Devinez, 2023

On the Virtues of Inexhaustible Burning by PacificRimbaud [T, 5k]

In which Draco Malfoy wrestles geology and Hermione receives several gifts.

Art: Saint Augustine (detail), Philippe de Champaigne, c. 1645-1650

I am Sleeping on a Time Bomb by i forgot to blink [M, 4k]

The war is over, and they go to Antarctica.

Art: Barne Glacier, Herbert Pointing, 1911

Tromp as Writ by a_rum_of_one's_own [E, 7.2k]

‘Merlin and Morgana, what’s that?’ he breathed. ‘Muggle underwear. We’re beyond chemises, you know.’ ‘Granger,’ he said. ‘Granger. You can’t. This isn’t fair.'

Art: Saturnina Canaleta de Girona (detail), Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz, 1856

Reset by provocative_envy [M, 4.5k]

And the fear—the fear that he’s learned to swallow, choke on, bury the crushed and fragmented shards of—it's turning the space between him and her and the last six weeks, the last six months, into a gaping yawning brutally invincible chasm; a wall to scale and a cliff to jump and a step he’s never quite been brave enough to take. She takes it for him. Of course she does.

Art: Joan of Arc, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882

Chiaroscuro by ifyouwereamelody [T, 5.1k]

Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for sixth year a changed man. Marked, dangerous, and tasked with something terrible, he finds himself haunted by memories of the year before — a bright spark of connection that now he's got no choice but to douse.

Art: Vengeance is Sworn (detail) from the Revenge Triptych, Francesco Hayez, 1851

The Street Where You Live by scullyvasan [T, 10.5k]

Muggle childhood AU. Single mother Narcissa Malfoy co-parents her son Draco and functionally parents the little girl down the street. Light homages to Books 1-4 but no wands, no wizards, no Hogwarts — just human magic and the passing years at work.

Art: Daydreams, Thomas Couture, 1859

The Running Club by winterwells [E, 10.4k]

Hermione returns to Hogwarts for the "Seventh Year Was A Cluster F*** So Let's All Do It Again!" year. The war has left its mark, and she copes in the best way she can. Running. And she might pick up some stragglers along the way...

Art: Stripes of Silence, Lu Guada, 2012

Whistle by witchsoup [T, 1.5k]

Hermione spends the majority of her time on the tube, or dashing around Sainsbury's hunting for the last of the vegetarian wraps for her two-thirds-complete meal deal. Though it would be somewhat off-brand, she feels that it's well within her rights to ask David Cameron to lower the price of a meal deal, while he's at it. Possibly her rent, too.

Art: Untitled, Isabel Bishop, c. 1940s-1960s

Lights Out by Phoebe [E, 10.2k]

She smiles, and it enrages him further. Granger is afraid of many things. She's afraid of what lies outside Hogwarts, what could be lurking within the walls. She's afraid of Voldemort, and probably of his father. And she is inexplicably, illogically afraid of the dark. But she's not afraid of him.

Art: The Woman with the Candle (detail), Cornelis Visscher II, c. 1643-1658

Salvage by storycat9 [T, 1k]

Who is Hermione Granger when there’s no one left to protect?

Art: After Igor Svyatoslavich's fighting with the Cumans, Viktor Vasnetsov, 1880

The Object Lesson by Fleurizel [M, 13.6k]

When Hermione is forced to spend a weekend at the Bulstrodes’ country estate glad-handing for the Ministry, she finds an unlikely ally in the only other house guest who hadn’t fled the country when the war broke out: Draco Malfoy.

Art: Hands of the Puppeteer, Mexico City, Tina Modotti, 1929

i think i've seen this film before by magneticwave [T, 24.8k]

It doesn’t occur to Harry until supper that night, while Luna makes a Spanish tortilla with pink and blue potatoes from her garden, that Granger might actually be his friend now. Not just a transferable friend, comfortable with him because she’d grown up with a strangely domestic alternative version of him with short hair, but a real friend. Since he’s not sure how to feel about it, he eats his half of the tortilla in a silent daze and then helps Luna go over the last of the proofs for next week’s Quibbler. 

Art: Still Life with Orange by Süleyman Seyyid Bey, c. 1900

Party Lines by PacificRimbaud [E, 10k]

As the dust settles in the 2000 United States Presidential election, Ivy League student Hermione Granger goes to three different parties, in an effort to think about something- anything- other than the state of Florida. So does that argumentative trust fund prick, Draco Malfoy. A college AU all about enemies who...aren't.

Art: Jasper Johns, Edisto Beach, Ugo Mulas, 1964

i have gone at dusk through narrow streets by i forgot to blink [T, 4k]

Draco, Hermione, and what came before and after the end.

Art: Interior Strandgade 30, Vilhelm Hammershøi, 1901

Breathe by Argosy [T, 14.5k]

The war is over and everyone wants something from Hermione. But that's nothing new; she can handle it. Really.

Art: Cupid and Psyché (detail), François Gérard, 1798

[romanoffsbish]

Who Are You People?!

Yelena Belova x F!R (Platonic)

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Yelena had a tendency to bring home strays, and it had always bothered you, until one day it didn’t. WC: 1,929

Request(via dm): “could you do a imagine where Yelena keeps bringing home random animals and even people and drives the reader up the wall” | I gave it a cute little romance spin

Yelena had a tendency to miss signs. Trained as she may be, with the discipline to prove it, she just never was much for understanding the social norms. So, you had learned to adapt—after that first night as roomies, when she told you everything she’d done and been you hadn’t much of a choice. There was no such thing as a filter, she believed in open conversations, which didn’t bother you. It was her belief in the open doors that did.

——

The first time you came home to one of her eccentric guests you were startled into losing your groceries. A frown befell your face as the soy milk box spewed its contents on the floor along with the yolks of your eggs.

Fanny, as you’ve learned to know, and love her as, was there to lick up the mess. After she’d finished licking your cheek in a rushed greeting, she’d disposed of your hard earned money in the form of the wasted food.

Yelena had apologized, and for some odd reason you believed she took the hint after the entire ordeal.

Then you came home a week later to find her nowhere, but your house sure wasn’t empty. Five woman in various positions all looked up at you with fierce eyes. One of them raised her arm, and the loud whirring told you all you needed to know. These were widows, and the pain you were about to feel would be hellish.

“Oksana, put your arm down, this is just Y/N,” your roommate admonished her friend with the black hair, “Honestly cyka, you should be able to see she is of no real threat, or have you lost touch with your eyes?”

Then the blonde turned to you with a genuine smile, as if she didn’t nearly get you fried, then call you weak. “Would you like to join us for game night Y/N/N?”

You sighed harshly through your nose, tempering the anger you felt for the sake of your new friend’s heart. She was strong, but you could also tell she was soft, and breaking her spirit for her lack of social understanding, at no fault of her own, would be cruel.

“Sorry Lena, but I have to be up early,” you lied, and gave the girl a quick hug before heading upstairs to your room where you enjoyed the needed solitude.

Occurrences like that became normal, the random game nights, and the alarming amount of new animals you found yourself feeding, and faces you’d forget. Yelena trusted easily, as in, she knew that if anyone she brought home on a whim would try anything, she could handle them without even breaking a sweat.

You put up with just about everything—if she had a mission gone wrong, her stitched up field partner, a cheery girl by the name of Kate Bishop, would sleep on your couch and greet you with sudoku and breakfast.

That first meeting was terrible too, as you’d stumbled into your dark house and threw yourself on top of her. It ended quickly, with Yelena coming downstairs with a gun and you and Kate in opposite corners screaming.

Her in pain, and you in fear. You had left to bed embarrassed, and woke up to laugh about it with her.

You don’t mind the archer, but you would have liked a heads up. You always wanted it, but never received it, and slowly but surely a festering of resentment resided.

Everything honestly came to a head last night, when you finally agreed to spend the night in a shitty bar with your favorite coworkers. You’d let loose way beyond your limits, and as you were rushed into the house by a equally drunk friend all you wanted was to make yourself a mug of tea, grab a snack, and sleep.

Yet when you went to make yourself something you found that your tea was used up, the kitchen was a mess of wasted food and dishes, and Yelena’s strangers were all asleep around the place, one even in your bed.

“Yelena!” The blonde cringed from her place on the balcony, where she stood with a dying bud in her hand. She hoped you’d go home with a friend, or a stranger of your own, so that she would have been able to clean up the mess that had occurred from a party gone bad.

You never told her to stop, but she always saw in your eyes that you didn’t trust her process of friend making. The truth was the blonde just liked the freedom to choose. No one could tell her the man with the eye patch on the corner was bad news, and make her stop talking to him. He told her stories about his life as a young man, and how it ended him here, she believed that no one was undeserving of sharing their stories.

Still, she felt guilty for letting these friends inside to trash your place. Kenny was never meant to be in your room, let alone be allowed to sleep, but she was just too drunk an hour ago to care about removing him.

You waited with your arms crossed for her to join you in the kitchen, and when she entered you let loose. “Yelena, I do not care who you keep as company, but for the love of God never let them in my bed again, give me a heads up from now on, and keep the place tidy!”

The blonde blinked a few times, having expected your tirade to be more venomous, but she appreciated that it wasn’t. You were clearly mad, but you weren’t rude.

“Okay, I’m sorry you can have my room tonight, and I promise everyone will be gone by morning Y/N.”

After that conversation she seemed to understand that just letting anyone in, without at least a heads up, was poor etiquette, which wouldn’t fly. The blonde strived to be the best roommate, she once told you she would be so good that they’d have to give her the crown for it.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her it would never happen, actually, you had the big heart that led to you leaving an emerald bejeweled crown for her on the counter one morning. The childlike smile she wore was enough to keep you from regretting it when she wore it all day and made you read the congratulations they’d (you’d) left for her. It made you feel warm inside to be able to help the former assassin heal her inner child.

But now, as you stood before a stunning woman in nothing but a raggedy shirt and old white, cotton panties you were feeling that regret return and double.

When you went to sleep last night you were once again not informed to be prepared for strangers in the form of guests. In Yelena’s defense though she wasn’t exactly expecting this one, so she rushed out the door with an excited Fanny and whispered to her sister to keep it quiet so you could sleep off your night out on the town.

Unfortunately, the sound of the front door closing was enough to rouse you, your eyes opened and a groan slipped passed your lips as the bright sun beamed into your face mockingly. After a moment of calm you felt a headache burning behind your arm covered eyes, so you headed down the stairs to get to your kitchen for a cup of water so that you could take an Advil and crash.

“I, um, I’m sorry,” you managed to squeak out, and in an embarrassed rush you turned on your feet, but before you could even move up a step you were halted.

“Hey,” she rasped, and watched in amusement as your spine shivered before her very eyes. “There’s no need to apologize darling, this is your house after all. I’m sorry to have barged in, but I needed somewhere to lay low for a while. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

Your stomach swirled with aroused tension, the pet name, the gritty tone of her voice, and the intense look in her eyes had you going weak in the knees. It showed as you stumbled down the last two steps and skirted to a stop just before her. “No, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting company is all. I’d have gotten dressed.”

Natasha was suave with the way she pushed your bodies together, using the wall to keep you trapped against her, and unable to avoid her temptations. It was only a breaths time for you to find yourself there.

“I can assure you honey,” her hand fell to your thigh and your heart raced incessantly. “I don’t mind.”

“I don’t either,” you admitted, but felt too seen so you continued on, “That you stay here, to lay low, that is.”

“Oh,” she teased, with the lightness in her voice, “I’m so glad to hear that, because we will have the chance to get to know each other better. Maybe we’ll even…”

You wanted to know what might be, but fate decided to leave that for another day as the door flew open and Yelena shrieked, “Oh my god, no, Fanny girl cover your eyes!” You looked over in confusion. “Natasha, unhand my roommate now!” The redhead rolled her eyes, and stepped back with a smirk as you whined at her loss.

You hadn’t a chance to protest—or even say goodbye, as Yelena reached for her sister’s hand and pulled her away, fighting with her in their mother tongue.

“Chto s toboy ne tak.”

(What the fuck is wrong with you?)

“Mne? chto s toboy ne tak?! ona velikolepna, i ty derzhal yeye ot menya”

(me? what's wrong with you?! she is gorgeous and you kept her from me)

“Ona zapreshchena, Natal'ya”

(she is off limits, Natalia)

“Eto ne to, chto skazali yeye glaza.”

(that's not what her eyes said)

The door slammed and you didn’t even flinch, too busy daydreaming about the moments prior. And for the first time since Yelena had become your very own (craigslist found) roommate you didn’t mind the thought of getting to see one of her guests again; Natasha had made her mark on you in record time.

——

That night, Yelena came back with her head low, and elder sister in tow. The redhead smiled triumphantly as she winked at you, your nervous gaze fell, and in her hands laid a sleeping kitten. “Y/N, meet Liho…”

You chuckled in amusement, and scooped the kitten up and settled her into your lap. “What’s so funny detka?”

“It’s just,” you stifled another rude laugh. “Yelena’s strays have never brought one of their own before.”

Natasha took a second to process your tease as she sat beside you, eventually she leaned forward, her chin resting on your tense shoulder. “I am more so a lone wolf type, no one’s stray. I plan on sticking around for a while too, so I hope you don’t make it a habit of being so bare in front of my sister, save that for me instead.”

“Also,” she scooped the sleeping kitten up and onto her shoulder, “Liho is no longer a stray, she is a house cat.”

Yelena settled beside you, frowning, “I’m sorry Y/N…”

“Don’t be,” you shrugged her off, and patted her knee before you followed the trail of her sisters upstairs.

Yelena huffed, and snuggled into her Akita’s fur. “This is why I prefer dogs to people. They are so overrated.”

——

R (for real)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Robert Reich:

Friends, Did anyone else see the horrific display in the Oval Office last Friday as a ritual exercise in male domination? I don’t want to insult great apes, but I’ve seen similar performances at the zoo. Trump and Vance sought to humiliate Zelensky, treating him with the same disrespect they treat … well, women. Trump, Vance, and Musk inhabit what’s been termed the “manosphere” — a place where the main events are dominance and submission. The whole point is to humiliate weaker men — and to subjugate women. Women — especially women of color — have distinguished themselves in standing up to Trump, maybe because they’re less intimidated by him than are many men, and because Trump has shown himself particularly fearful of strong women. Which if any Republicans have been strong opponents of Trump. Answer: In the Senate, Republicans Lisa Murkowski and (barely) Susan Collins. In the House, the prize still goes to Liz Cheney. Who has looked Trump in the eye and told him to show mercy for LGBTQ+ and undocumented people in America? Mariann Edgar Budde, the Bishop of Washington, at the National Prayer Service in January. Who repeatedly took Trump to court on defamation charges, and repeatedly won? E. Jean Carroll. Which prosecutors and judges were toughest in trying to hold Trump legally accountable? New York Attorney General Letitia James, Atlanta-based District Attorney Fani Willis, U.S. District Judge Tanya Chutkan, U.S. District Judge Amy Berman Jackson, and U.S. District Judge Lauren King. Who most successfully pummeled Trump in a presidential debate? Kamala Harris. Which journalists have been most aggressive in questioning Trump? Megyn Kelly, CNN’s Kaitlan Collins, PBS’s Yamiche Alcindor, CNN’s Abby Phillip, The Grio’s April Ryan, NBC’s Savannah Guthrie, The New York Times’s Maggie Haberman, CBS’s Weijia Jiang, and New York Magazine’s Olivia Nuzzi. I could go on, but you get the point.

If there was ever a president who represented unfettered male domination, it’s Trump. An implicit promise of the 2024 Trump campaign was to restore patriarchy to America. Trump voters were overwhelmingly male. As you recall, Trump was found liable for sexual abuse; he famously told “Access Hollywood” that if you’re a famous man “you can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy”; he asserted during the recent campaign that he’d “protect” women “whether the women like it or not”; and he was instrumental in ending abortion rights nationwide. After Trump’s reelection, sexist and abusive attacks on women — such as “your body, my choice” and “get back to the kitchen” — surged across social media, according to an analysis from the Institute for Strategic Dialogue.

A remarkable number of Trump’s cronies are sexual harassers and predators. Trump was introduced at the Republican National Convention by Dana White, chief executive of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, who was once caught on tape slapping his wife in a nightclub. Trump’s pick for vice president, JD Vance, has said professional women “choose a path to misery” when they prioritize careers over having children. He has claimed men in America were “suppressed” in their masculinity. Vance has characterized Democratic leaders as “childless cat ladies.” At a gathering of conservatives last month, Vance told young men: “Don’t allow this broken culture to send you a message that you’re a bad person because you’re a man, because you like to tell a joke, because you like to have a beer with your friends or because you’re competitive.” Trump’s pick for defense secretary, Pete Hegseth, paid off a woman who accused him of sexual assault (Hegseth’s own mother accused him of abusing women, though she later disavowed her words).

Trump’s HHS secretary, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., was accused of sexually harassing his family’s nanny and at one point kept a diary of his conquests, which his wife at the time found. Elon Musk’s “bros” are notoriously misogynistic, as is Musk. One of Musk’s companies, SpaceX, reportedly paid $250,000 to a flight attendant who said Musk exposed himself to her. In a lawsuit filed last year, former employees accused him of “treating women as sexual objects to be evaluated on their bra size.” One of the most pathetic symbols of the new manosphere is Mark Zuckerberg. After kissing Trump’s derriere, the third-richest man in America called for more “masculine energy” because the corporate world was becoming “culturally neutered.” He told Joe Rogan that “having a culture that celebrates the aggression a bit more has its own merits that are really positive.”

Last Thursday, the Trump regime celebrated toxic masculinity by smoothing the way for Andrew and Tristan Tate to be extradited from Romania to the United States. The Tate bros had been accused of luring women to Romania and then forcing them to work as pornographic webcam performers. Britain is also investigating the Tate brothers for rape and human trafficking in Britain.

I relate all this to you because it’s important to understand the centrality of male dominance and misogyny to Trump’s world — and to connect this to what other authoritarians and neofascists are doing around the globe. The authoritarian manosphere is organized around a hierarchy topped by heroic male warriors. Winning is all about getting other males to submit to the dominant male. Women are relegated to subservient roles. Anything that challenges the traditional heroic male roles of protector, provider, and controller of the family is considered a threat to the social order. LGBTQ+ people are believed to weaken the heroic male.

The Trump-Musk-Vance agenda's key characteristic is male privilege and male entitlement, as Robert Reich explains in his Substack post.

[thewisaaaaad]

Hnng. I. I GOT AnOTHER FhUCKING COTL AU

Ok so.

Game goes as normal, but the lamb decides to give themselves up to Nari at the end. Naturally, they get no choice in the matter and are forced to kill him, because the crown demands its proper bearer.

And I mean kill-kill him. Hes dead.

Of course, the lamb is NOT OK WITH THIS. So, they look for a way to bring him back. And good ol' mystic seller gives them an out.

The lamb basically throws all caution to the wind, and decides to take the ritual offered. With the sacrifice of four crowns, along with the end of their own now divine life, they send their soul back in time to prevent this tragedy.

Exept they go WAY farther back than they meant to. They end up born into a sheep family under the name Una, and grow up as a extremely gifted child, the pride of the town, but one who finds solace well away from their adoring family and neighbors. To the lamb, all these people are practically strangers.

But there's no sign of Narinder. In fact, there's no sign of the bishops, either. Until one evening, at the charming age of 14, their daily alone time in the forest is interrupted by a familiar three eyed cat.

Narinder had never had a family. Black cats were already considered bad luck after a black cat hat wronged the rabbit god, never mind the fact that his eyes were blood red and that he had three of them. He spent his early years in an orphanage after he was abandoned, and then on the run after a series of horrible accidents were blamed on him. The only solace he could take was with the mysterious sheep in his dreams, who only praised him, and loved him.

And now that sheep sat right in front of him, and looked as happy to see him as he felt about them.

It was too good to be true. But for a few years, it was exactly that good. Uni seemed to know him well, and brought him food every day. No longer did he have to steal food or dig through trash, they even made sure that he had good sleeping arrangements, bringing him blankets and a simple tent.

But as always in his life, tragedy struck again. Someone was murdered in the village, and of course they blamed the beast in the woods. He didn't know they were searching for him until a strange wolf tried to cut his head off with a axe. He lived, but something far worse happened.

The hand that had grabbed his wrist had began to decay violently. The stranger screamed as he rotted alive, skin falling off of bone before even that turned to dust. A few seconds of horrific screeching later, and all that was left of his assailant was a pile of ash and decay.

He couldn't let them see this. They would call him a monster, just like they all did. And they would be right. They had said he was just their friend, but he was a monster, cursed like all those people before had told him he was.

Luck, as always, was not on his side. Moments later, before he found the strength to move again, Una broke through the bush. They saw the rotting remains of the man, the fallen axe beside it.

And they didn't call him a monster. They sighed, stepped around the body, a stuffed pack slung over a shoulder. They reached for his arm, and he flinched away. He did not want to hurt them. But they grabbed him anyway, unharmed, and pulled him to his feet.

"We need to run. I'll help you pack."

They did not fear him. They could see what happened, and they wanted to protect him. Why?

Couldn't they see he was a monster?

Pulled by the hand, he ran after Una. They seemed to know where they were going, so he trusted them.

But they were intercepted by the lambs father. He held a hatchet in one hand, startled to see his child with the beast.

"My daughter, what-"

And then a dagger was plunged into his throat. Uni kept running, not even looking back.

They had always said that their family never seemed to matter to them. Not like he did. Apparently, they meant that more than he realized.

They were a monster. Just like him.

And they would do anything for him.

He smiled, and ran beside them into the future.

[hard-core-super-star]

come back home (i'm afraid of disappearing) [K.Bishop]

pairing: kate bishop x reader

summary: kate comes home after a rough night out patrolling the city to find you waiting for her. despite the argument the two of you had earlier in the day, you do everything in your power to comfort your girlfriend.

warnings: mentions of an argument; small injuries [cuts and bruises]; hurt/comfort; weird metaphors; kate being a cute dork who is trying her best [and failing a little]

wordcount: 1.5k

a/n: kate bishop deserves all the hugs in the world. send tweet. title is a loose translation of a lyric from torna a casa by måneskin [apologies for the sudden ending, it's cute though?]

* * * * * * *

The sound of the front door slamming shut wakes you from your slumber. You wipe the sleep from your eyes as you wait to hear your girlfriend's footsteps coming into the living room.

A few minutes go by without any sign of her so you slowly get up from your spot on the couch, careful not to bother the golden retriever lounging next to you. Your steps are soft as you make your way toward the kitchen, assuming Kate stopped to get a drink of water before changing out of her Hawkeye suit.

You can't help but let out a small gasp once you finally find her leaning against the fridge, her suit battered and torn.

Her eyes snap open when she hears you and you can clearly see every ounce of fear she usually keeps hidden deep inside of herself on her features. “y/n? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” you answer softly. “Guess I'm the one who got the surprise, huh?”

The humor in your tone seems to go unnoticed by her and you watch as the dam behind her eyes breaks. Those usually vibrant eyes you love so much turn stormy in seconds and the tears start falling before either of you can say anything.

You're in front of her in a second, your arms reaching out to comfort her without a second thought. She crumbles in front of your eyes and the sight alone breaks your heart. The feeling intensifies, however, when you finally realize what she's mumbling into the crook of your neck.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

You’re not sure if she’s apologizing for your earlier argument or for whatever happened on her late-night patrol of the city. You don’t care, either way, your worry overpowering any sense of anger you might still hold after your fight.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Katie.” Your words are soft as you run a hand through her hair.

Her tears are cold against your skin and you want nothing more than to take her pain and place it inside yourself.

You don't know how much time passes, all you know is you hold her against you until her tears dry out and her sobs die down. She's still shaking but she pulls away from you and you already know what she's going to say before she opens her mouth.

“I mean it,” you rush out before she can get a word in. “You don't have to apologize. For anything.”

Whatever protests she had die on her tongue and you thank every force you can think of for that. You take her hand in yours and gently pull her toward the bedroom. A million questions swirl around in your mind but you force them away, choosing to focus on your girlfriend instead.

You lead her over to the bed and help her sit. “How bad is it?”

“I’m f-”

“Katherine Elizabeth Bishop, do not lie to me.”

Her eyes widen slightly, both from your tone and the fact that you just full-named her. She stares at you, the remnants of her tears shining against her skin. “It's not that bad…I've been through worse.”

You assume the words are supposed to be reassuring but her tone doesn't match. For the first time since you met her, she seems defeated. Like she's finally been crushed under the weight she carries on her shoulders every day.

You feel like you should say something but there are no words to describe what you're feeling so you settle your attention on the cuts scattered along her face. “You're bleeding.”

You attempt to move away from her to get the first-aid kit but she reaches out to grab your wrists. She pulls you close before you can get too far, looking up at you while you stand between her legs. “I don't care about that. I care about you…about us.”

“Kate...” Your voice is as soft as ever as you reach out to cup her face with your hands, your eyes searching for the familiar depths of her eyes. “Was this because of our argument?”

She gives you a small nod, a few new tears slipping down her face. “I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

A part of you thinks you should be angry with her for being so reckless but you can’t be. Not when she’s looking at you with such pain, such vulnerability, in her features. You don’t know what she needs but you know you’d do everything in your power to help her. You’d steal the moon and the stars from the sky if it would make her smile.

“You do realize you proved me right…?”

The corners of her mouth lift up the slightest bit at your words. “I do, yeah. That almost hurt more than the punch to the face.”

“You’re an idiot.” You shake your head, a small chuckle falling from your lips. Despite the heaviness of the situation, you’re happy to see her smiling again.

“But you love me.”

There's a hidden insecurity to her words that most people wouldn't catch.

But you're not like most people.

"I do," you reply softly. "I love you…no matter how big of an idiot you are sometimes."

The little grin on her face grows until it's a full-blown smile and the sheer amount of beauty it radiates leaves you speechless for a few seconds. You wipe away her remaining tears with your thumbs, your eyes scanning her face again.

"I'm okay." She turns her head to the side and gives the inside of your wrist a tiny kiss. "You're cute when you're worried."

"Then I must be cute all the time."

She gives you a small nod, her eyes glued to your face. “You are. You're incredible. I don't deserve you.”

“Don't say that-”

“I almost lost you, y/n. Over a stupid argument I should’ve never started. I'm an idiot who doesn't deserve you."

There are a thousand words on the tip of your tongue but they all feel insufficient when compared to the way your heart beats when you're around Kate. You could round up all the poets in the world and have them all write a thousand different poems about what you feel for your girlfriend and it still wouldn't be enough.

So, instead, you lean down and capture her lips in a soft kiss.

Her arms wrap around your waist and she guides you onto her lap without breaking the kiss. You pour all the feelings you can’t put into words into the kiss. All your fear, all your worry, but most importantly, all your love.

You pull away from her to catch your breath. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you speak again. "You're not going to lose me, Katie."

"You mean that? Even after what I said?"

You're reminded of your earlier argument once again and you can't hide the frown that makes its way onto your face. "We both said things we didn't mean."

"Yeah, but I was a total jerk. You were just looking out for me and I lashed out at you." Her voice cracks under the weight of her emotions.

"It's okay," you reassure her, your thumb drawing soft circles onto her cheek. "I promise we're okay."

She doesn't say anything in response, she just leans in to kiss you again. You let her pull you as close as possible while you enjoy the feeling of being back in your girlfriend's arms after the day you've both had.

There's nowhere else you'd rather be right now.

“You’re wrong, by the way," you mumble against her lips. "you deserve the world.”

“Well…” She trails off, the subtlest of smirks on her face as she pulls back to look into your eyes. “You’re my world.”

You shake your head at her while she laughs, the sound filling you with nothing but love for the archer. “Smooth, Bishop.”

“I love you, y/n.” The humor in her tone fades away into something more sincere. “And I know I’m a reckless, stubborn, idiot but I’ll always come home to you. No matter how bad things get out there. You're my safe place, you know?”

You lean in to give her another quick kiss. “I know. You're my safe place too. I'll always be waiting for you.”

“Great!” It startles you how quickly the sadness fades from her eyes, even if there are still a few traces of it on the rest of her face. “I think I deserve some cuddles now.”

"I don't think so. I love you but you need a shower.”

She pouts but you don't give in. Determined to resist her puppy dog eyes. After a few seconds, she sighs. “Fine…but afterwards we can cuddle?”

“Yes, Katie. Shower then cuddles.”

In an instant, her strong hands grab onto your waist and she picks you up. You let out a yelp as she drops you onto the bed before running off toward the bathroom. "I'll be right back!"

"Kate!" You yell out after her, unable to stop your laughter. "I still have to clean those cuts!"

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation

Cw: blood, self flagellation, masturbation

Words: 1.7k

[A/N: extremely blasphemous, but again, you saw the tags. Please read at your own risk! (also, let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby

Playlist made by my baby Soln <3 @ihopeinevergetsoberr

Next

I.

Extra ecclesiam nulla salus. 

 There is a certain comfort in fear. When you see what awaits you at the gaping, harrowing mouth of hell, knowledge of the place you must avoid, ultimately, is power. There was a time when Viktor pitied those who did not know—those who lived despondent lives, unaware and unafraid of damnation. Recently, he had found himself wishing he knew less. 

 A ravening beast with a thousand bloody teeth, inside its mouth a cauldron, and in it the souls of the accursed with sin, boiling over scorching flames as legions of fiendish demons dragged in multitudes more. This image plagued Viktor’s mind without rest, be it vividly in his dreams, in the colossal fresco at the entrance of his local cathedral, or in the comical props onstage at the theater plays. 

 The parish clergy that had taken him in as a kid had made the mistake of noticing his outstanding intelligence and awarding him time to dedicate to studying philosophy, a privilege that many of the choir monks and lay brothers did not receive. In university, philosophy had turned into physics, and soon that turned into astronomy, which he had to keep a secret on account of the recent prohibitions put in place by Paul V’s Inquisition over the study of Copernican theories. 

 After he was ordained and returned to his home cathedral, this once silent yet innocent interest had turned into complete secrecy, and the fear of God that had once given him solace now tormented him. At times he considered giving up on his work; the mechanical objections of Copernican theory should not be of this much significance to him after all; there had to be something of value in what Thomas Aquinas had to say, and perhaps Agustine of Hippo had some good points. Nevertheless, it was the night sky that called to him, and even this far from it, he could not escape. 

 But outside the church there is no salvation , and Viktor knew that even if he was never to be condemned as a heretic in life, what awaited him in death was a flaming tomb at Epicure's side. Quod extra ecclesiam nulla salus. 

---------------------------------------------------

His parish was a pious one, but Viktor would refuse to receive lithe from the members of his church. The first time he tried this, the bishop was immediately alerted, and he was secluded to live in the small room inside the chapel as a ‘punishment’ for his impertinence. Viktor did not mind; the lands he had been previously allotted were too much to care for on his own, with cleaning being especially hard once his leg would start tiring out, and the presence of the personnel of lay brothers that would follow him around made his studies impossible; thus, the contained space of the church was comfortable to live in on his own.

 It had been a particularly cold morning. The week before, he had received word of the imminent visit of his diocesan bishop, and the impending possibility of his stay at any moment in the near future had tied his eyebrows into a permanent knot and his shoulders into a tense bundle of nerves since that morning. 

 To his dismay, the state of his works had made no decent progress, his journal being nothing more than a few numbers and three words on a painfully empty piece of parchment. He understood Latin; he had studied it at length in university, but when he took a break to read the Bible, the words on it floated around aimlessly, in a messy concoction of nothing. 

 “Per fidem enim ambulamus et non per speciem,” he repeated to himself in a whisper, and then closed the pages lethargically. 

 He read the cover of a white volume that had been lying on his desk for over a month now. He was sure he would have possibly agreed with what Foscarini had to say, so the feeling of dread he felt every time he laid eyes upon the title was mystifying to him. Though it made sense after some reflection, he was afraid. 

 When he read Copernicus, it felt distant, a world he was only a visitor in, but the Foscarini was a carmelite father, one of his own that was now nothing short of a persona non-grata in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church. Viktor was afraid that what he had to say might make sense and that he might be so correct in his observations that this knowledge would drag him into the same status. 

 In retrospect, he should not have read it. 

 In fact, opening the cover was a big mistake on its own. Not even 3 pages in, the door of his room unceremoniously barged open, revealing the full figure of Father Isodore. Viktor and him never really got along; his time in the monastery as a kid was full of rule-breaking and inappropriate questions, and to Father Isidore’s dismay, insatiable curiosity remained Viktor’s fatal flaw well into his adulthood. 

 Not a single word was uttered as he carried his sunny disposition and rubicund complexion over to Viktor’s desk. There was no use in trying to hide what he was holding; Viktor carried the same guilty look on his face every time he did something he was not supposed to. Once a cute kid trying to hide some innocent misdeeds, his expression had grown into one of unadulterated shame and indignity in the wake of sin, and the bishop knew this all too well. The book was snatched off his hands aggressively.

“‘Epistle concerning the mobility of the earth’,” he read, “would be an interesting read if only as a piece of fiction, and perhaps in a different climate.”

“Your excellence, I eh—”

“Save it. Don’t worsen your sin by bearing false witness.”

Viktor looked down and sighed in resignation, a disappointed sadness creeping up in his throat.

“You are very much aware those texts have been forbidden, but since words seem to slide off you, I hope physical penance can remind you of your depravity,” Father Isidore said coldly as he handed Viktor the whip that usually served as no more than a piece of decoration adorning his wall. “Ten of them, and be intentional. One pater noster after each.”

“Yes, father.”

“It’s a shame; I have come to congratulate you on your work for the community. Repent. ” The emphasis on the last word punctuated his departure.

A cold feeling arose in Viktor’s stomach as he looked down at the whip, something akin to fear but also awfully comparable to excitement.

Three deep breaths are what he allowed himself; it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible. He removed his vestments unhurriedly, only his bottoms remaining as he sluggishly kneeled by the bed, and the chilled air on his back was, in hindsight, not as bad as he thought at the moment. His hand trembled slightly when his grip on the whip tightened, and his jaw locked into a gritted grin as he sucked air in through his teeth.

The first flick of his arm was swift, like ripping away a bandage to make the pain go away as fast as your wrist could tug at it. It did not help; the feeling of the small metal beads digging into his skin was instantaneous, and it disappeared soon, but the burning that replaced it lingered.

“ Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cælo et in terra .”

A swarm of ants biting at the exposed skin on his back was a scorching fire.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a malo.”

Then it subsided, and the slight chills on his arms were due to something else. He took his time with the second hit, languidly whipping both hands back this time to maintain the same level of strength. The aching this time was different; the burning of his skin was quenched by the few droplets of blood and sweat trickling down his spine. And there was something else—a burning feeling that was misplaced not on his back or wrists but in his lower stomach.

“Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen...” He started once again, both hands holding one another around the handle of the whip, closed in prayer as he shut his eyes tightly for concentration. This proved to be fruitless when an uncomfortable tightness in the fabric around his crotch distracted his attention away from the words he was reciting. He tried to continue with his prayer, but an ill-calculated movement tugged at the tender skin of his back, and the brief sting made the already confining feeling worsen, morphing into an odd mixture of ache and delight.

He figured out what this meant soon enough. The conflicting feeling did not originate from any sort of confusion about what he was experiencing; it came with the quandary of his two options: either keep going to conclude his penalty and follow orders, or go against those orders to avoid tainting this sacred act with his depravity.

He unlaced his trousers before going for the third whip. The aching feeling on his back was almost completely gone, replaced by a numb tingling along the wounded skin and an unbearable heat in his groin. The fourth hit was one-handed. Right hand wrapping tightly along the handle and left hand mirroring the grip around his cock as he pumped himself mechanically. When the metal hit the skin, a jolt of what felt like electricity traveled all the way down to his stomach, the member on his hand twitching in anticipation.

There was no fifth hit or anything beyond that. A final tug with a firm hand and gritted teeth culminated in his climax, hot viscosity percolating through his fingers as he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. His chest heaved up and down as he whispered a string of prayers. Shame washed over him.

“Castigo corpus meum.” He repeated incessantly until he had enough strength in his legs to stand.

[skyartworkzzz]

COTL Headcanons ramble

Felt like sharing these in case I take a long ass time to draw it out These are still raw in my mind, so some things may change futurely or the way I explain it might not make sense BUT ALAS it is fun to ramble

SO WATCH OUT FOR THE LIST UNDER THE CUT!!

Before Narinder was banished, a feeling of mistrust was already growing amongst the siblings, and one of the reasons for such a thing involved envy (except for Shamura, I like to think they were above finding themselves lower or greater than anyone) Ever since a young age Narinder has always been a fast-learner, and quite skilled at everything he did. Gardening, fighting, cooking, strategizing, he was good. Definitely not perfect, but alarmingly good So as time went by, the Bishops grew colder with him until he eventually turned against them all, and thats where their feeling of envy turned into fear. For both of their own lives and their brother's, because that's when they realized his "flawless" abilities were always and clearly prone to turning him into the monster he then became (smtng like Anakin Skywalker if the image I have of him in my head makes any sense-) Naturally, a feeling of guilt lingers in them for not having been able to see it sooner and stop it, but as Shamura pointed out after Narinder was sealed, this was meant to happen. He was meant to be a monster, and a really good one

Aym and Baal were secretly given to Narinder by Shamura; they performed a ritual by themselves and killed the kits to send them to the Gates. When the brothers arrived, Narinder reluctantly took them in and naturally grew fond of the twins as time went by, but because they were sacrificed as offerings, Aym and Baal were half-immortal (something like the Lamb once they receive the Crown), meaning that they still had mortal needs such as eating or sleeping At the time, Ratau was serving Narinder as the bearer of the Red Crown, and amongst the rat's adventure, the god of Death eventually introduced the red chest we use to sell things for gold. He would request Ratau regularly to send in meals and fish in order to feed Aym and Baal (and I feel like a genius for coming up with why that chest exists hi-) When the kits were finally fully grown and well-trained, they ascended to Divine Guardians of TOWW and officially started serving him Despite their Ascension, Aym and Baal were never trapped into the Gates, so they were able to visit the world above but as ghosts of sorts (which means only a few ppl would be able to see them). It was through these ghostly travels that both were able to learn who their mother was and watched her from afar when not serving TOWW

The Bishops were once mortals before becoming bearers of the Crowns, a long time to ago, meaning that they likely have a life they no longer rememeber For the funs and giggles of it, I like to imagine that this "long time ago" for them was around the times animals still did not wear clothes nor knew how to speak aside from their respective noises AUHAUHASDJSD ALSO POSSIBLY LESS HUMANOID I like the thought of them looking either much more beast-like or just- tiny. Very tiny. As the animals they are AUHAJMDKADS

The Lamb doesnt know how to do SHIT aside from fighting. Im writing my Lamb as an artist in my Death After Life fic for the sake of the angst, but in actuality, they do not care about art that much. I like to think that they'd prefer small silly doodles over full-blown paintings, but if they do put in the time and effort, they manage to make smtng Mona Lisa-esque. So the skill is there, but they prefer to not use it unless for smtng specific. Its like those kinds of hobbies nobody knows u have til u make smtng CRAZY yk This also goes for cooking, except they are truly a Terrible cook, in modern AU Lambert lives off from cheap pizzas and dollar-stored cupnoodles u cannot change my min-

Leshy is the one who'd soften up the most for me. Obv still a fcking GREMLIN but I think he'd be much more considerate than his former self My guy would go from "kys /srs" to "kys /j" ALSO I like to think his and my yellow cat's love language is gifts and/or acts of service, theyre oftenly pampering each other out of the blue <3

This idea is still in the approval stages but.............Shamura remembers a bit of their pre-Bishop life. A bit. And that bit revolves around the fact that they might have known love in the past. Perhaps a romantic one, Im still not sure- Which now that I think about it would make the most sense as to why theyre so forgiving to Narinder, since the Bishop of War would probs want anything but peace with those that wronged them, unless they had a good reason not to cause havoc immediately............

[blooper0223]

Fear itself

How dare anyone preach what Jesus taught! Editorial cartoon by Nick Anderson. The further along we go with the weirdness (and not the fun kind) our nation has become, the more I’m convinced that it mostly comes down to the f-word: Fear. There’s fear of the other in overdrive, as evidenced by the reaction on the right to Episcopal Bishop Mariann Budde’s homily at the prayer service at Washington…

[winterhawk-ao3feed]

I live life with no fear, except for the idea that one day you won't be here

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/62128606

by dead_cloud

What if Pietro never died? What if, after Civil War, Pepper and Tony decided they were better off as friends, and then Pepper made all of the Avengers live together in the Compound? What if Thanos never existed? What if all of them are messes with traumas they’re dealing with, because in this one, therapists are actually good? What if everyone is gay? Or, an AU where they’re just living together as a family. It’s kind of a mix of the movies and comics, except I haven’t even read the comics—I just grabbed Bucky and Clint from the comics and ran with it.

Words: 2353, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Kate Bishop, Shuri (Marvel), Alpine (Marvel), Lucky (Hawkeye), Liho (Marvel), Original Characters

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff, James "Bucky" Barnes & Wanda Maximoff & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, Bruce Banner & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Shuri, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, Bruce Banner & Thor, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - No Thanos (Marvel), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Humor, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Avengers Family, Domestic Avengers, Avengers Compound, Avengers Feels, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Has Issues, Feminist Themes, Slice of Life, Fix-It of Sorts, Out of Character, Past Torture, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Friendship, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Deaf Clint Barton, Awesome Clint Barton, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Everyone Needs A Hug, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson Bickering, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Peter Parker is a Mess, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Bucky Barnes Has a Brooklyn Accent, Steve Rogers Has a Brooklyn Accent

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62128606

[misfitwashere]

ROBERT REICH

MAR 3

Friends,

Did anyone else see the horrific display in the Oval Office last Friday as a ritual exercise in male domination? I don’t want to insult great apes, but I’ve seen similar performances at the zoo. Trump and Vance sought to humiliate Zelensky, treating him with the same disrespect they treat .. well, women. 

Trump, Vance, and Musk inhabit what’s been termed the “manosphere” — a place where the main events are dominance and submission. The whole point is to humiliate weaker men — and to subjugate women. 

Women — especially women of color — have distinguished themselves in standing up to Trump, maybe because they’re less intimidated by him than are many men, and because Trump has shown himself particularly fearful of strong women.

Which if any Republicans have been strong opponents of Trump. Answer: In the Senate, Republicans Lisa Murkowski and (barely) Susan Collins. In the House, the prize still goes to Liz Cheney. 

Who has looked Trump in the eye and told him to show mercy for LGBTQ+ and undocumented people in America? Mariann Edgar Budde, the Bishop of Washington, at the National Prayer Service in January. 

Who repeatedly took Trump to court on defamation charges, and repeatedly won? E. Jean Carroll. 

Which prosecutors and judges were toughest in trying to hold Trump legally accountable? New York Attorney General Letitia James, Atlanta-based District Attorney Fani Willis, U.S. District Judge Tanya Chutkan, U.S. District Judge Amy Berman Jackson, and U.S. District Judge Lauren King.

Who most successfully pummeled Trump in a presidential debate? Kamala Harris.

Which journalists have been most aggressive in questioning Trump? Megyn Kelly, CNN’s Kaitlan Collins, PBS’s Yamiche Alcindor, CNN’s Abby Phillip, The Grio’s April Ryan, NBC’s Savannah Guthrie, The New York Times’s Maggie Haberman, CBS’s Weijia Jiang, and New York Magazine’s Olivia Nuzzi.

I could go on, but you get the point. 

If there was ever a president who represented unfettered male domination, it’s Trump. An implicit promise of the 2024 Trump campaign was to restore patriarchy to America. Trump voters were overwhelmingly male. 

As you recall, Trump was found liable for sexual abuse; he famously told “Access Hollywood” that if you’re a famous man “you can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy”; he asserted during the recent campaign that he’d “protect” women “whether the women like it or not”; and he was instrumental in ending abortion rights nationwide.

After Trump’s reelection, sexist and abusive attacks on women — such as “your body, my choice” and “get back to the kitchen” — surged across social media, according to an analysis from the Institute for Strategic Dialogue.

A remarkable number of Trump’s cronies are sexual harassers and predators. Trump was introduced at the Republican National Convention by Dana White, chief executive of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, who was once caught on tape slapping his wife in a nightclub. 

Trump’s pick for vice president, JD Vance, has said professional women “choose a path to misery” when they prioritize careers over having children. He has claimed men in America were “suppressed” in their masculinity. Vance has characterized Democratic leaders as “childless cat ladies.”

At a gathering of conservatives last month, Vance told young men: “Don’t allow this broken culture to send you a message that you’re a bad person because you’re a man, because you like to tell a joke, because you like to have a beer with your friends or because you’re competitive.”

Trump’s pick for defense secretary, Pete Hegseth, paid off a woman who accused him of sexual assault (Hegseth’s own mother accused him of abusing women, though she later disavowed her words). 

Trump’s HHS secretary, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., was accused of sexually harassing his family’s nanny and at one point kept a diary of his conquests, which his wife at the time found. 

Elon Musk’s “bros” are notoriously misogynistic, as is Musk. One of Musk’s companies, SpaceX, reportedly paid $250,000 to a flight attendant who said Musk exposed himself to her. In a lawsuit filed last year, former employees accused him of “treating women as sexual objects to be evaluated on their bra size.” 

One of the most pathetic symbols of the new manosphere is Mark Zuckerberg. After kissing Trump’s derriere, the third-richest man in America called for more “masculine energy” because the corporate world was becoming “culturally neutered.” He told Joe Rogan that “having a culture that celebrates the aggression a bit more has its own merits that are really positive.”

Last Thursday, the Trump regime celebrated toxic masculinity by smoothing the way for Andrew and Tristan Tate to be extradited from Romania to the United States. The Tate bros had been accused of luring women to Romania and then forcing them to work as pornographic webcam performers. Britain is also investigating the Tate brothers for rape and human trafficking in Britain.

As The New York Times’s Michelle Goldberg reports, Andrew Tate, a self-described misogynist, has regularly boasted about abusing and pimping women, offering to teach his technique to other men in online courses where students could earn “pimping hoes degrees.” Women who live in his compound, he said in one video, aren’t allowed to go out without him. Some are tattooed “owned by Tate.” He left a voice note for a British woman who accused him of rape saying, “The more you didn’t like it, the more I enjoyed it.”

Tate is a big fan of Trump, championing him to his millions of mostly young male followers on social media. “I’m a Trump fan because I’m a man,” Tate said in October. “You have to support Trump if you’re a man.” He’s also a longtime friend of Donald Trump Jr., who called his detention in Romania “absolute insanity.” One of Tate’s former lawyers, Paul Ingrassia, is now the White House liaison for the Department of Justice. In January, when Tate announced plans to form a British political party and run for prime minister, Musk endorsed his analysis of British politics, writing, “He’s not wrong.”

***

I relate all this to you because it’s important to understand the centrality of male dominance and misogyny to Trump’s world — and to connect this to what other authoritarians and neofascists are doing around the globe.

The authoritarian manosphere is organized around a hierarchy topped by heroic male warriors. Winning is all about getting other males to submit to the dominant male. Women are relegated to subservient roles. 

Anything that challenges the traditional heroic male roles of protector, provider, and controller of the family is considered a threat to the social order. LGBTQ+ people are believed to weaken the heroic male.

Trump recently issued an executive order declaring that the U.S. government will recognize only a person’s sex assigned at birth, limit the definition of a “male” or “female” to their reproductive cells, and potentially withhold federal funding from programs that acknowledge transgender people or “gender ideology.”

Anti-transgender themes were central to Trump’s 2024 campaign. He spent millions on anti-trans television ads and promised to restrict access to gender-affirming care and trans participation in sports. 

Trump has made the traditional nuclear family a touchstone of domestic policy. In 2023, he pledged to “promote positive education about the nuclear family, the roles of mothers and fathers and celebrating, rather than erasing, the things that make men and women different.”

Connect this to Putin. 

Russia’s crackdown on LGBTQ+ people started a decade ago when Putin first proclaimed a focus on “traditional family values.” In 2013, the Kremlin adopted legislation that banned any public endorsement of “nontraditional sexual relations” among minors. 

In 2020, Putin pushed through a “constitutional reform” that outlawed same-sex marriage. Last year, he signed a law banning “propaganda of nontraditional sexual relations” among adults.

More recently, Putin signed legislation that bans people from officially or medically changing their gender, banning any “medical interventions aimed at changing the sex of a person,” as well as banning changing a person’s gender in official documents or public records. It also annuls marriages in which one person has “changed gender,” and bars trans people from becoming foster or adoptive parents.

**

I don’t want to oversimplify a complex social phenomenon or engage in the same kind of gender stereotypes that the manosphere promotes. Male domination is hardly the only characteristic that unites the Trump-Vance-Musk-Putin axis. Plenty of men have stood up to Trump. Misogyny is not unique to authoritarian men. 

But as America slides toward neofascism, I think it important to understand that its roots draw from a deep distrust, bordering on hate, of people who seem weak or feminine — people who were born as, or have become, women. 

[edupunkn00b]

Meus ex Machina, Chapter 13: Taking Turns

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green.

Prev - Taking Turns - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Late at night, long after the others have gone to bed, Logan returns to the basement to see Remus. But first, Janus teaches teenaged Virgil how to play chess.

“Are you sure this is a real game, Jan?” Virge had protested with a laugh, smirking down at the pieces Janus laid out. “The horse can’t even move in a straight line!” 

Janus merely shrugged and advanced a pawn. “Quite. And that ‘horse’ is called a knight.” He hid his smile better than Virge hid his eye roll. “My grandmother first taught me how to play when I was half your age. This had been her set.” With Luc and the twins out on a training excursion in the drowned coast, the house had been quiet. After helping Patton bake for as long as his attention span would allow, Virge had meandered into the common room and pulled down the old set.

Despite his protests, he’d taken to the game faster than Janus had. And certainly faster than Janus had expected him to.

Chin pillowed on the backs of his hands, Virge now sat slouched in front of the chess board, scowling lightly. Janus’ black knight made no sound as it captured Virgil’s queen. He hummed and sat back, waiting as Virge assessed the changed board. The boy had been over-reliant on the overpowered piece and neglected his knights, thinking them useless. 

Now, purple-ringed eyes peered closely at each piece.

Janus couldn’t help his little nod when Virge sat up straight, staring at the rook he’d left vulnerable. He was even more pleased when Virge didn’t take the bait and instead moved a bishop to C6 to take advantage of the opening.

“Very nice,” he murmured, pointedly ignoring the proud blush on the teenager’s cheeks. Well, technically still a teenager. Back in his parent’s time, Virge would now be old enough to vote. “With practice, soon you’ll be beating me.” He stepped another pawn forward and folded his hands. “I think you’ve got an even chance of beating Papa Bear if you try.”

“Are my ears burning? Or are you just singing my praises?” Patton laughed, plopping down onto the couch next to Virge. A plume of cinnamon and vanilla-scented flour accompanied his laughter. 

“Jan was just suggesting I challenge you to a game of chess.” He brandished a captured bishop and grinned.

Smile twisting into a wince, Patton rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, I don’t know, Kiddo. I’m not much for chess…” His voice trailed away when Virge put on big puppy dog eyes. 

“Please, Pops?”

“Yes, please, Pops?” Janus added, chuckling when Patton rolled his eyes.

“Oh, alright,” he caved, eyeing the board. “Lemme take the bread out of the oven and I’ll watch you finish this game to warm up, okay?” He squeezed Virge’s shoulder, smiling down with that same indulgent grin he still gave Luc sometimes.

“Deal!” Virge vibrated in his seat, the prospect of actually winning a match giving him fresh energy.

Janus didn’t leave him to bask for long, though. “First you’ll need to get out of check.”

“Wha—?” Eyes wide, he scanned the board, sighing when he finally noticed the rook in striking distance of his king. “How the f—”

Luc’s distress signal censored him, the flashing orange lights giving their movements a stuttered effect as he and Virge leapt to their feet. Virge’s captured bishop rolled under the table.

Worry pinched Patton’s face as he rushed back from the kitchen, tearing off his oven mitts. Their shared fear reflected back at them, Patton's voice nothing but a whisper. "Lukie?"

~

After his first visit was cut short by Hesper’s alarm, Logan returned to The Muse’s room each of the following three nights. Though V never mentioned how he’d found him in the basement that night, the lack of censure didn’t feel like approval.

So he would wait until long after the sun had set, until HQ grew quiet and his own eyes would grow heavy and he didn’t need to feign his yawns before retreating to his room with quiet ‘good night’s.

With his door cracked open and ears tuned to the creaks and shuffles of the halls, he sat in the window seat, tablet balanced on his lap as he tapped between the camera arrays in a slow loop. First the hallways to the other Mad Lads’ rooms, then the common room, the med bay, and finally, the cameras just outside The Muse’s room. 

Fighting his own drooping eyelids, he’d wait for the hallways to dim and then he’d count down another thirty minutes before wrangling his chair and heading downstairs.

And for each of those three nights, by the time he’d reached it, The Muse’s room had been dark and still. No moving shadows visible through the tiny window, no sounds beyond a faint snore from the little vent Logan had discovered on the second night.

He stayed for as long as he dared, the memory of V’s tight expression in the elevator growing clearer even as drowsiness fuzzed the rest of his thoughts.

The Muse’s breathing quieted, shifting into a peaceful, regular rhythm. Logan listened, head resting against the cushioned side of his chair. The Muse’s room wasn’t completely dark and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out the shape of a small table, books stacked on top. Real, bound, paper books.

Rolls and rolls of drawings were scattered around the room, some piled beneath the table. A cup sat overturned on the counter, next to a half-filled pitcher of pink-colored liquid.

Logan suddenly jerked in his seat,  and he grunted, the sudden movement sending fire over his shoulder. He rubbed the sore muscle and blinked, belatedly realizing he must have dozed off. The Muse’s room was still dim, his sleep sounds louder now to Logan’s barely awake ears.

He reached out and traced his fingers over the window, the plexisteel cool to the touch. “I’ll try again tomorrow night, Muse,” he promised, then rolled back to the elevator and to his room for his own much-needed sleep.

~

Four nights. Four whole nights. It had been four whole nights since he’d last seen Machina. Seven nights—an entire fucking week!—since that first glorious visit when he’d peeked outside and stared back at eyes the color of the sky in books.

He’d begun to fear Machina wouldn’t ever return. After that first visit was cut short, The Muse had feared Machina had been scared off Or blocked. But Jannie wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t actually keep Machina imprisoned upstairs. Virge wouldn’t, either.

Virge could. The Muse grinned and traced another shape onto the papered floor. Back when he and Virge had started testing the cameras and the locks, back before… The charcoal snapped in his hand, ash exploding against the paper. He smeared his fingers through the dusty shrapnel and nodded. Before that, he and Virge had practiced locking each other out from different rooms, testing the boundaries of how quickly they could switch on and off the permissions.

Ro had hated when he’d locked him out of their room, pounding on the door until his fists grew sore. And until Lucas came and made them reset the locks.

“Ha,” he muttered. “Guess that wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, huh, Ro Bro? Didn’t know I’d be the one locked out of the controls.”

Still no Machina.

He went to bed each night curled on his side, one eye peeking out from the covers to watch the door. He stared at the elevator panel light spilled over the hallway’s floor, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting and wishing for that wobble that might mean Machina was on his way downstairs. He could picture the lights brighten and dance, the little flicker as the floor numbers changed with the elevator’s movements. He could almost feel the rumble of the elevator touching down, that little click-buzz that even Jannie said he couldn’t feel.

He could almost see those bright blue eyes beaming back at him, light not just reflecting, but shining out of them, undimmed by fear or revulsion. Or guilt. A soft glow no-one else had anymore when they came to see him.

Each night, he fell asleep seeing those eyes. Pretending he could see them, at least. That was nearly as good.

But three nights ago, he’d woken—been woken?—by something. It wasn’t the elevator and there was no movement outside the door. But something had pulled him from his sleep, pulled him from his nest and he’d crawled to the window and peeked out.

Machina!

Face pressed to the window, The Muse watched the slow rise and fall of Machina’s chest as he slept in his chair. His head was tilted at an bad angle—fuck that was gonna hurt when he woke up—but his face was smooth and peaceful in sleep. Machina’s stitches had healed nicely, four thin red lines along either side of his face. The Muse brushed his fingers down his own face, his own scars flat and smooth as Machina’s looked. He nodded. Jannie was now nearly as good at sewing up his damage as Papa Bear was.

The wounds from his thumbs hadn’t gone as deep and Machina hadn’t even needed stitches for his, the shorter, shallow cuts highlighting the curve of his neck and underside of his jaw. He could’ve even gotten those shaving.

Machina sighed in his sleep, turning his head the other way. Good. He’d stretch the muscles in the other direction now and hopefully wake up with less of a crick in his neck.

Shivering, The Muse raced back to his bed and pulled two of the blankets out from their heap and brought them back to the door. Machina had already dressed for sleep, a heavy hoodie—was that one of Virge’s?—layered over a thermal just like his. The left sleeve was folded and pinned up, just like his thick knit sleep pants. No more cold feet, cold cold cold cold feet, no more cold feet… danced through The Muse’s head, but he knew the truth. He’d heard it when the shield fell. 

Machina’s feet were always cold. Cold and aching and screaming for a soft warmth he didn’t know how to give them.

The Muse bunched up his larger blanket on the floor and hunkered down under the other, drawing it up over his head. Machina should be wearing his hood up to trap his body heat better, but maybe it was comfy like it was, gathered up just under his jaw like a tiny pillow.

The Muse copied him, tucking a bit of his blanket between his shoulder and his head and he leaned against the door. If he tilted his head just right he could still watch the little flutter of Machina’s bangs as he breathed.

It was the last thing he saw before sleep finally took him again.

~

A few nights later, Logan spotted the shadow hopping across the floor as soon as he emerged from the elevator. He rolled out into the hall and smiled back at the face pressed against the window.

“You’re back, you’re back, you’re back! You really came back!” The Muse cried. His voice cracked, hoarse and thick. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, his chapped lips stretched painfully over a wide grin.

“Yes,” Logan nodded, steering his chair as close as he could manage to both the window and the vent. “Can you hear me this time?” he asked, watching The Muse’s face as it twisted between a sob and laughter. Without thinking, he reached toward him, hand stopped by the unforgiving window.

“I can hear you,” The Muse nodded. “Well…” He wobbled his head, light glinting against the wetness in his eyes. “Not hear you, but…” As though distracted by his mangled hand, The Muse stared down at it, eyebrows and lips scrunched down, scowling. 

Logan was about to pull his hand away, to keep it out of sight in his lap. Then he heard The Muse’s quiet whisper. 

“Always, always between. Always between,” he muttered and traced the shape of Logan’s hand before pressing his own, fingers splayed, against it. 

The plastic warmed between their palms.

“Do you…” He looked up and met Logan’s eyes. The Muse’s eyes were a clear, bright green, a greener green than his brother’s, undarkened by sunlight the way young children’s eyes looked before they dimmed with age.

He shuddered at the implication.

“Do you still want to come inside?” The Muse asked, voice warbly. Watery eyes stared back at him and The Muse swallowed, visibly bracing himself for a rejection.

Smiling, Logan stretched and pressed his palm against the controls. The door slid open with a woosh, exhaling the scent of sweat and charcoal, paper and tea. The Muse scrambled back, leaving space for him to enter. “I need to leave my chair…” his voice trailed off, unsure if he was asking or telling.

“Yeah,” The Muse nodded, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “You… You can stay out there if…”

Logan shook his head. “I'm coming in,” he said and launched himself out of his chair and into The Muse’s room.

[aggravateddurian]

You will NEVER see a picture of Avery smiling (at least until 'the event'). She's described in my notes as 'pathologically incapable of looking happy.'

Hey guys, say hello to Avery Greer.

She's not from 2077, she's actually a netrunner NPC I developed for my Cyberpunk RED campaign, How to Save a Life, which takes place in 2051.

Avery Greer (she/her)

Known aliases: Ana

Date of Birth: September 7, 2023

Place of Birth: Charlotte, North Carolina, NUSA

Nationality: NUSA

Occupation: FIA Intelligence Analyst, Netrunner

Affiliations: NUSA, FIA

Sex: F

Gender: Female (cis)

Orientation: Lesbian

Full story below

Avery Greer was born in Charlotte, NC in 2023. Her father, David Greer, was a high school humanities teacher, and her mother, Suzie, was a shopkeeper. Avery grew up being fascinated with drawing. She would draw on the walls of her bedroom and would act out if her parents tried to erase them. She eventually transitioned to drawing in books or on tablets, much to the relief of her family, who felt like fighting with Avery to erase the drawings from her walls was like invading Saburo Arasaka's private residence.

Avery also became very into coding, and from there, it basically guaranteed she would become a netrunner. In high school, she was identified by her teachers as being uniquely talented at organising and assembling code. Her talents also attracted another interest, from the FIA, who needed Intelligence Analysts who were also expert organisers, particularly when it came to data analysis and recommending action against threats to the NUSA.

After graduating from high school, Greer was approached by the FIA. She would now work for the intelligence agency as an analyst and offensive netrunner. She received her commission directly from President Elizabeth Kress, not out of any personal interest on Kress' part, but because Kress had taken to using the FIA as her personal hatchet-men.

Her present assignment is Night City, working with a group of agents led by veteran agent Hunter Wilkes (aka Bishop). Their task is investigating a potential plot to bring Night City under the control of a hostile power, possibly foreign, but also potentially domestic.

During the years, she has done many things on behalf of the NUSA, and she is starting to question her place in the world. As time has gone on, Bishop has noted that Avery has changed. She no longer smiles, and the effort she puts into her work has declined, especially since arriving in Night City. She's started drinking more, and has recently taken up smoking.

Worse, Bishop has started to lose track of Avery for days at a time. She claims that she's going dark because she's anxious of being found by enemy agents, but Bishop is beginning to suspect that Avery is up to something. Bishop is suspicious of netrunners, on a previous gig, he was betrayed by a netrunner, who hacked their AV to crash it in a city, and then handed them over to a local militia in exchange for his freedom. He fears that Avery may be planning to betray the NUSA in exchange for freedom from the FIA...

[aita-blorbos]

(Same universe as the aita for kidnappind my friends friend and aita for beating up like 5 people 3 times)

U/killer-kinfe-skills - 13 hours ago

Aita for accidentally getting my friend's room exercised by a priest

Since my last one did so well, I decided to post another. One of my experiences with the group

So I (16 M) have a friend who feels call L (15 F as she takes so many, so anyways her room let's talk about that monster.

Me and a friend who let's call H (16 F) are invited over by L, as soon as we enter her room it's like seeing a cognito-hazard. She has her closet fucking barricaded with a chair, there are dozens of half-drunken water bottles all over her room, a pencil case in the middle of the room, and a beanbag just facing the wall.

Then I see her setup, it's an RGB gaming pc with like 12 more of those fucking bottles behind the screen, and none of them are empty.

Then she has her bed, this single child gets to experience the bliss of a well made king size bed. Under which is tons of those plastic water bottles packs, this girl has killed more fish than fucking commercial fishing.

Now she has a singular window in her room, and you want to know what it shows? DO YOU?! A fucking brickwall. That's all the view that this room gets.

Now onto the worst of it. Her "lamp", I would not call that "thing" a lamp, it's just wires and a light bulb, nothing to house the wires or any buttons and no lampshade, NOTHING!

We somehow get over that and start talking about her setup it's up to date is all I'll say.

We play some weeb ass fighting game called 'Guilty Gear Strive', and if you know me you know I hate weebs. Anyways I pick funny bed guy because he's a bed. And she's some stupid guy like "happy chaos".

Anyways she says some shit like. "Don't feel bad if you lose 20 times, this is your first time playing." So I go mlg gamer and she's gets pissed, so she proposes a best out of 5. And after a very close match I win, and she releases her unbridled gamer rage, and calls me the "gamer word" while she insults my playstyle. A word a small Asian girl can not say.

Oon after while me and L practice the guitar, H calls a pastor to exercise the obvious demon in this cursed room.

Anyways our music teacher comes and is apparently a pastor, and you can not know the fear of seeing a grown 6" man shake with fear from seeing her room. He tells us he can't deal with this and calls for a bishop for later as it's late

Anyways I come back with my newly returned dad like the day after. When we get there we are met with shotgun bishop, he blows open L's door and let's my teacher do it as apparently, the demon is about wrath and he has a shotgun. And her room is full of paper cranes, it looks even more insane.

So while my dad was abandoning me he was a caretaker of a shrine in Japan, and tells us it's a yōkai and not a demon. So they leave to prepare for tomorrow with more equipment.

Anyway I got knocked out because H sneaked here and scared me, so I got a concussion. And wake up later, H tells me I was out for a day.

Finally the exorcism happens with shotgun bishop, my music teacher, and my dad. They bless us and have L wash her face in a mixture holy water and some temple water, after exercising her room. To test I insult her skills in guilty gear. And she fucking agrees.

She trys to tell me it's fake, but if I did that 3 days ago she would have called me every slur known to man. She then tells me she uses 4chan so I tell her the obvious. "L. 4chan is the demon"

So am I the asshole reddit?