#this is like... the first time in my entire time at this school that my work has been up on the walls. theyre usually just like... blank

[bokutosbabe]

If I Could Never Give You Peace

( bllk boys when your secret relationship is leaked by paparazzi)

a/n — wrote this on a whim after listening to peace by taylor swift

content — some nsfw but not explicit, fem! reader, cursing , all characters are 18 or 18+, slight ooc maybe?, some characters are repeated

synopsis — what happens when your relationship is leaked?

⋆.˚✮����✮˚.⋆ ' i'd give you my sunshine, give you my best ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ the... ' everyone thought you'd broken up '

listen, you knew dating a good soccer player in high school was a big deal, but you didn't realize how big of a deal it really was when he went pro.

this was the same boy ( now man) that you'd been dating since you were 14, so nothing really changed your views on him. if you could love him through his awkward phase, and he could love you through yours, there was no way you'd break up.

again, you didn't realize that your relationship was such a big deal. it wasn't that the two of you were a secret, it was more of a 'private not secret' situation.

so when the two of you woke up in your shared bed because of just how many notifications the both of you were getting, you knew something was up.

and low and behold, something was wrong. when you opened any social media the first thing you saw was a strangely amazing photo of you and your long-term boyfriend kissing. really, if it wasn't a paparazzi photo, it would be your lock screen.

"aren't we just the cutest?" he asked you, phone thrown back onto his bedside table as if he didn't have a care in the world. (and he really didn't, not in this case)

truly, the only thing that may make him angry in this whole situation is the fact that he got woken up far earlier than his usual routine by all the commotion.

but of course, as he was dozing back off, you were reading the comments, as any loyal significant other would.

soccerluvr45: omg is that is gf from high school? i thought they broke up

okay, yeah. he had a rather public instagram account in high school that his rabid fans had found that had pictures of the two of you, but you'd never broken up?

reading through the many comments, it was like everyone had collectively decided the two of you'd broken up.

"mhm...just ignore it. the pr lady will deal with it." he mumbled as he grabbed your phone from your hands, laying it beside his before wrapping his arms around you.

"go to bed, 's too early to deal with all this."

his fans were silly, if they could see you with this bed-head man right now, they'd see there was no way the two of you would ever break up.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ NAGI SEISHIRO, yo hiori, NIJIRO NANASE, hyoma chigiri

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ the... ' pr nightmare '

anyone who knew your boyfriend knew he was...a little extreme.

and unfortunately for you, this also applied when your relationship became public because of a slight slip of focus from the two of you. it wasn't that you were trying to keep your relationship a secret, you'd already been together a year now, but you also weren't trying to out yourselves.

yet, one singular minute when the two of you slipped away to the bathroom together at a soccer banquet...well lets just say a paparazzi was scarily ready to snap someone, anyone's, photo.

so here you were, sitting in a terrifyingly big office with your boyfriend and almost his entire management team.

"do you know what this could do to your reputation?" his manager asked. "it's just two adults doing adult things, they should've been in that bathroom! that would've gotten them—"

"okay, sir..."the pr woman cut him off, ever too enthusiastic to be talking about your private lives.

"you just need to ignore all of this until it goes away, alright? no press interviews after games anymore," she sighed as if this was basic comprehension. (your boyfriend wasn't the smartest but he also didn't need to be treated like an idiot.) "and no posting on any social medias for the time being. do you understand?"

"yeah, yeah. no talking to the grown men after games. and..."he grimaced at the thought of his next condition. " c'mon is posting on my socials that bad? i don't post about us anyways."

"at. all." and the room felt as icy as the pr woman's stare.

"yeah, no, okay i got it. no social media."

after another thirty minutes of this, with them saying basically the same stuff to you (even though you had no real social media presence anyways), you guys finally left.

"no fucking posting? what if i have to talk about a game coming up?" "i'm sure she knows how to do her job, love." you soothed your boyfriend as you got in the car the company arranged to have you two taken up with.

"yeah, well whatever. give me your hand," and who were you to say no to your boyfriend?

he took your hand and placed it on his neck, a place where you could see a few bites and hickeys if you really looked hard enough.

before you could protest he took a picture, posting it on his VERY public account with the caption...

' i love my woman ;) '

before turning off his phone completely.

"let's see them try to get ahold of me now."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ RYUSEI SHIDO, tabito karasu, EITA OTOYA, oliver aiku

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ the... ' what picture ? '

how do two chronically offline people realize their relationship is now under scrutiny by the entire world?

the simple answer is...they don't!

you've never been interested in social media the way other girls your age had been. really, you'd rather just watch a video essay on every little topic that interests you than sit and watch six second videos then scroll all day.

to say the least, fast and forever changing social media just wasn't your thing.

and your boyfriend? he hardly even used his phone. unless it was for business or you, the thing was practically shoved away somewhere he couldn't care less about.

he would rather be reading or spending time with you out on a date...which is exactly the predicament the paparazzi put you in earlier this week.

the two of you were photographed having a little picnic and reading date at a small park that was pretty far out of town, assuming no one there knew, or even cared, enough to take a picture, but alas, someone did.

you and he had spent the rest of your week in pure, relaxed bliss. he had a game on saturday, so besides him going to practice and working out, the two of you stayed inside almost all week to prepare for the rather hectic weekend.

to say the game was a nail biter would be the understatement of the century. after two additional times, it was your boyfriend who scored the winning goal.

of course, you cheered the loudest, not noticing plenty of fans eyes on you unlike how many used to just chalk you up as an ecstatic fan.

as the post game interview came for him, you decided to stay closer to the door just incase it ran short. sometimes it was a one and done for him and others the questions went on for at least fifteen minutes, it just depended on his mood.

of course, the first question was about his game winning goal, but the second one threw him and you for a loop.

" what do you have to say about the photos of you and your reported girlfriend that have come out this past week? "

"...huh? what photos?"

eventually, the two of you did see the pictures, and all you could do was laugh because...how had you two not found out about this?

and you also made the picture your phone lock screen, but he didn't have to know that.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ RIN ITOSHI, reo mikage, SAE ITOSHI, chigiri hyoma

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' but the rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

[ + your faves ! ]

i wrote this in about an hour, and i think it shows but i had to get it out of my brain :))

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[p0orbaby]

It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

-

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

[tacthescribbler]

I really don't know how to approach my response, so I apologize for the chaotic mess that you're about to read.

I recall a post that talked about the discovery of a mended bone. One of the first indicators of people working together wasn't pottery, or tools, or cloth. It was a bone that had clearly been broken and reset. A bone that had healed. This means that someone had to not only set the bone, but take care of the injured individual until it was healed.

We are a species who has evolved to work together.

My default state of mind is: Everyone deserves basic human rights. Everyone deserves access to food, shelter, healthcare, and so on. I don't care what color your skin is, what country you hail from, whether you are disabled. You deserve to be cared for.

I engage with everyone from this mindset. I assume everyone who speaks to me also does so from this mindset until/unless they prove me wrong.

Whenever I get into my car, I drive out of consideration for everyone else on the street. When I do my job, I work to ensure that in all the places my job touches someone else's, I've made their job a little easier. I return my shopping carts not for the social karma, but because the employees at the grocery store deserve not to have their jobs made more difficult by laziness. When I vote, I vote for candidates/policies that I know will take care of as many people as possible.

Because the world isn't about me.

"It is well to remember that the entire universe, with one trifling exception, is composed of others." - John Holmes

For most of my life, I've struggled to grasp the idea that other people do not (or sometimes cannot) operate from this perspective.

Of course, that was before 2016. I was raised in a heavily-religious Christian home. My older sister was made to throw away a Pokemon toy from her Happy Meal because "Pokemon are not real animals created by God. They are evil." We were not allowed to read the Harry Potter books. (Not a big deal to me; I've never been interested in them. But my sister was.) The one time my introverted self wanted to do something social in high school, it was a D&D game with classmates. "Are you sure you want to engage with witchcraft," my mom asked me. I dropped it and didn't ask again.

It wasn't all bad, though. My parents showed me how to be kind and compassionate, and how to help others.

They voted for trump. And I watched as my parents turned into people I do not recognize.

I'm not sure how to tie all this up into a neat bow. The point is, if we as people (Left or Right) aren't working to improve as many lives as possible, then what's the point?

Do I expect Pacifism from people? No, of course not. I would never expect a person to forgive their rapist, the person who murdered their friend/family, the guy who flipped them off for taking too long to cross the street.

But I would like for people to have some fucking compassion. Give people the benefit of the doubt (where appropriate).

Look, I understand. I've just about had it with people voting to strip me of my bodily autonomy. To kill my non-binary sibling or throw them into conversion therapy. (To be quite honest, I've fucking had it with my parents' transphobic bullshit. "God made you a man and God doesn't make mistakes.") I'm at a point where I'm sick and fucking tired of trying to drag the rest of my nation with me down a path where they are cared for, fed, clothed, sheltered, and accepted for who they are.

And I also get the fact that there are some who cannot be convinced. I'm certain my parents are among them. After all, they have their bible. They don't have to think critically. Their holy book tells them what to think. It's part of why conversations with them are so unproductive. Because they don't introspect or regulate emotions when they have scripture to tell them how to respond to a thing.

But I've still also not called my parents to chew them out, because I know that won't help anything. It'll only further the divide that they don't even realize is between us. How will I convince them to stand with me if all they get from me is aggression.

Whether you're Left or Right, if your first instinct about someone is to treat them as an enemy, you are part of the problem. We move forward by being accepting and open-minded. For those of us who lean Left, that goes fucking double.

Don't be a pushover, but don't be a bully.

We can only move forward together.

There are obviously caveats to what I've said, as well as plenty I've left unsaid. I hope those who read this will take it in good faith and understand that I'm not asking for everyone to just drop their grievances or pretend that shit isn't bad. I just wanted to share a little of my perspective. We're all human beings and I think common ground can start there, if we let it.

I hope we can overcome ourselves and be better.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[moni-logues]

Reciprocity

Pairing: Yoongi x afab reader (Kintsugi couple) feat. A Fine Line Couple

Genre: established relationship

Word count: 5.8k

Summary: A couples' holiday with Suri and Namjoon highlights a particular problem between you and Yoongi.

Content: one reference to self-harm (cutting) but discussion of scars, oral sex (f. receiving), discussions of sex life stuff?, i guess some poor communication, overheard sex

A/N: yes, it's me once again with my favourite characters no apologies. i have been thinking about this since maybe even before i finished the series??? and i'm glad to have it finally out of my head. this is unedited and unbeta'd, written by me in the course of this one single day and well, here we are. This is set in the summer, somewhere a few months after the ending of the series.

* * *

“It’ll be fun!” 

Yoongi just nodded and continued carefully folding clothes and packing them in a bag.  

“You don’t want to come,” you continued, heart sinking a little. 

“Of course I do.” 

“Tell your face.” 

He smiled then but didn’t want you to see it, turned around to fetch underwear from a drawer. When he turned back, his face was schooled into something a little more neutral, polite. 

“I’m not saying it’s my first choice of holiday,” he explained, “but I want to go.” 

“Good, because you’re coming whether you like it or not!” 

You hopped off the bed, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then moved into the kitchen to prepare snacks for the road. At the advice of your therapist, you were taking Yoongi at his word: if he said he wanted to come, you would believe him and it was not your responsibility if he was lying. Even though it felt like it was.  

A week in the sun had been your initial suggestion. Somewhere where the heat wasn’t a curse, but a blessing. Clear blue skies and cool water. Peace. Unbridled joy where the real world couldn’t touch you. Even you weren’t entirely sure when it turned into a couples’ holiday, but it was an idea that neither Suri nor Yoongi would ever come up with, and you weren’t sure about Namjoon so it must have been yours. Sounded like the sort of thing you would say. Yoongi had said yes and let you do the research, find somewhere not too far away, easy to get to but far enough to feel new, to feel fresh.  

He had been fairly tight-lipped about it since then. Got a little quiet when you brought it up, when you showed him tourism websites with activities laid out. He insisted he wanted to come but never quite managed to muster up the level of enthusiasm you’d hoped for. In a way, that was just Yoongi being Yoongi, but there was anxiety in you, too, and it was making you sensitive. You could see everyone hating the idea, hating the trip, having the worst time. The awkward silences, arguments about what to do or who should clean what. Namjoon had joked that he would have to force Suri to come and he had said it with a laugh but you knew it was true.  

You turned your head and looked out of the car window at the increasingly green scenes around you and bit your lip. It felt incongruous somehow to not be happy and peaceful when the environment was so lush and bright with life. With ease. With a natural kind of solidity that had stood for hundreds or thousands of years and was still standing. You felt small and silly to be worried about this but it didn’t stop you worrying. Yoongi’s hand found yours and, like it always did, made a warmth start in your heart. You closed your eyes for a second of intense gratitude and then turned to him. 

“It’ll be fun,” he said.  

And it sounded like he meant it. 

* 

You and Yoongi arrived first, took the back bedroom overlooking the lake at Yoongi’s insistence because it was the better view. You had stopped on the way for groceries and you stocked the fridge, took out food to cook for dinner, since it would be about that time when Namjoon and Suri arrived.  

The cabin was wooden and new, so new it still smelt literally pine-fresh. The sun was just starting to dip, dripping golden light over everything, spreading a thousand tiny diamonds on the surface of the lake. It couldn’t have been more picturesque. It made you want to send a postcard for the first time since you were a child.  You settled for texting photos to Taehyung who told you to stop messaging him. Your ripples of anxiety were peaking, anticipating Namjoon and Suri’s arrival and what sort of dynamic it would bring, how it might disturb the peace of this place.  

Yoongi tore you from the window and asked you to start peeling vegetables. You were glad of the task. 

“-t I don’t want to be here, it’s just going to be weird.” 

Suri’s voice came from the hallway and you froze. So did Yoongi. 

“I don’t know why you keep saying that-” Namjoon - “it’s not as if we’ve never spent time with them. You like them.” 

Suri’s hum in response sounded unconvinced.  

You heard the kicking off of shoes, could follow their footsteps into the living room, around the corner from the kitchen where the two of you were hidden. Yoongi put down his knife and moved to go, intercept them before they said something you didn’t want to hear, but you put a hand out to stop him. Your stomach was sick but you had to hear it. Whatever it might be.  

“She’s jus-” 

And they rounded the corner into the kitchen, stopped in their tracks when they saw you. 

“Hey!” Namjoon was the first to recover. “We didn’t know you guys had arrived already! Where have you parked?” 

“’Round the back,” Yoongi answered. 

He was looking at Suri and you were looking anywhere but. Face burning with shame—that this was your idea, that it was all your fault, that you should’ve made you presence known earlier, that no one except you wanted to do this—you swallowed and smiled as brightly as you could. 

“You made it!”  

Your cheer sounded forced to you; maybe Namjoon and Suri wouldn’t hear it. Maybe they would believe you. 

“Public transport is a fucking nightmare,” Suri said with feeling.  

“I told you we could’ve rented a car,” Namjoon replied as if they had had this argument already. 

“I’m not driving in these hills! You should do it. Right?” 

You flinched when she turned to you and realised you had to answer. 

“Uh-” 

“Yoongi drove, right? Literally what are men good for if not chauffeuring you around?” 

It was a lifeline for her, really, but you took it readily, gladly, anything to drive over the awkwardness and shame you were feeling. 

“She has a point, Joon,” you said, grinning at him. “You could at least get a licence.”  

Namjoon rolled his eyes indulgently, let you and Suri rib him a little more, smoothing things over at his own expense. You were deeply grateful.  

“Come and help us do dinner,” you said, ferreting out more chopping boards from the cupboard, handing over knives and ingredients.  

It would be fine, you told yourself as you diligently and with great focus, chopped an onion. It would be fine. It would not be weird. It would be fine. It would be fine.  

* 

It was fine. Dinner was cooked and eaten and cleaned up after. Drinks were taken on to the back porch, overlooking the lake, the heat lingering long into the darkness. It was not dissimilar to the other dinners you had had as a foursome. As long as you could forget what Suri might have been about to say, you were sure you could have a good time.  

* 

You woke the next morning, sun streaming sharply through a gap in the curtains. You rolled over, tucked yourself into Yoongi’s side even though you were already hot and sticky. You were willing yourself to fall back to sleep, even if just for a few minutes, and then you were sitting, eyes wide, ears trained.  

There was no mistaking the sound of other people having sex. You grimaced, settled back down in bed and pulled the covers over your head. 

“What?” Yoongi mumbled, not so much a word as a sound. 

“Can’t you hear them?” you asked in a stage whisper. 

Another grunt from Yoongi. Then you felt his body tense, followed by a sigh and a sleepy chuckle. 

“You’re the one who wanted to come on holiday with another couple.” 

You whined, prodded him sharply in the chest. 

“Not because I was anticipating this! Do they have to be so loud?” 

“This place is not exactly well sound-proofed.” 

“I so don’t want to hear this.” 

“Go back to sleep,” Yoongi said and he sounded like he was already halfway there himself.  

“I don’t know how you can sleep now that you can hear that.” 

Merely a hum in response. 

You lay for a few minutes, desperately trying not to hear the only noise in the house, and then you gave up. Threw back the covers and went into the bathroom to shower. The rush of the shower might not exactly cover it but it would give you something to do.  

* 

“Hey,” Yoongi greeted the other couple when they came out to join the two of you on the back porch, where you were sitting with coffee and fruit. “Just a quick request: could you please have louder sex? I’ve been getting a little too much sleep recently.” 

You and Suri both froze and you saw the blood swarm in her cheeks, red and hot. Namjoon just laughed.  

“I’ll see what we can do.” 

Suri swatted him harshly on the arm and he barely noticed, slung said arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, kissed her on the top of her head. If he felt embarrassed or awkward about it, it wasn’t showing. What was it like to be so self-assured, confident, relaxed about everything? Even with Suri’s face still pink, her mouth pulled into a scowl, furiously glowering at her boyfriend, he looked easy, his smile gentle and eyes bright. You envied him. You still felt silly and embarrassed about the previous evening, and embarrassed about hearing them have sex; he didn’t seem embarrassed at all to be heard.  

* 

Yoongi had insisted on washing up after breakfast. Didn’t let anyone else so much as carry a bowl back to the kitchen. He was taking his time on it, deliberately, carefully, putting off what he knew could not be avoided.  

He was rarely unaware of his own body. Vigilant at all times about its exposure. He had suffered years of summers under long sleeves and trousers, would suffer higher temperatures, more humidity if he had to. He regretted everything he had done to himself, but not in a way that prevented him doing it again. No amount of shame or embarrassment would stop him, it seemed. Not that it happened much these days, but the possibility was always there.  

Even when he was with you, he couldn’t let go. Even though you were sweet and kind and loving. Even though he knew there was a part of you that understood. Even though he could kiss your thighs where you had cut them and love you so much that it hurt, love your skin, love your scars (hate that you had them). Even though you kissed him, all over, generous and unsparing, even though you said you loved him, all the parts, every bit of him. He knew what he was and he found that breaking the habit of hiding himself was harder than the hiding had been in the first place. 

With his task finished, and all the others he had made up for himself (cleaning counters, fluffing cushions, clearing the dryer of lint even though they hadn’t used it), he had come to the point he could no longer avoid. He moved slowly up the stairs, towards the bedroom you and he were sharing; he stopped halfway up. He could see you through the door, left ajar.  

Your bikini was floral, cutesy, every bit you. The smile formed on his mouth before he had registered the sight. Then it was wiped away because he saw your face: your worried eyebrows, lip caught between your teeth. Your fingers ran over the scars on your thighs; your face turned towards the window, from which point Yoongi knew you could see Namjoon and Suri, already out, lounging. He could see cogs turning in your head, first this way then that.  

And then it wasn’t just the scars. You fussed with the top, fussed with the bottom, turned in the mirror to check yourself from the side, twisted your head around to catch yourself from the back. You ran a hand over your face. You picked up a slip of fabric—some kind of cover-up, a dress?—and held it up against yourself. 

He knew he shouldn’t be spying like this. He wanted to leap the remaining stairs and take you into bed where he would show you exactly what he thought of your body: your perfect, desirable, soft, body that he loved and loved to love. He wanted, briefly, to throw Suri in the lake and hope there were eels because he knew you were still thinking about it: last night.  

He knew that it didn’t matter much what he did because it wasn’t that easy. It wasn’t as easy as being told you were fine. He knew because you told him all the time but he still felt like there was something wrong with him.  

He carried on up the stairs and knocked on the door as he entered. Your face was immediately bright, free from clouds, as clear as the sky outside.  

“Coming outside?” you asked as he moved in closer, couldn’t stop himself kissing you just once, putting all his love into it, however brief, however small. 

“Yeah, just coming. You go ahead.” 

You nodded and skipped out and there was a deep tug in his chest. There was a pit of snakes in his stomach but, fuck it, he’d been bitten before. Everyone out there beside the lake knew him, knew what he was if not in full, lurid detail. He took a deep breath and fished around in the bottom of his bag for the pair of swimming shorts he had bought in a moment of madness and packed because he wanted to make the effort for you. He hadn’t expected to wear them—they were still fully tagged and pristine, ready for refunding—but here he was.  

He hadn’t anticipated the difficulty. He sat for ten minutes at the dining table in the kitchen, willing himself to get up and go outside. His legs weren’t all that bad, not the lower half. No one would care. You’d seen them before anyway. It wasn’t a big deal. He was telling himself all the right things but he couldn’t make himself move because he was thinking about all the people who’d seen him in his grossest state. Thought of the things some of them had said. Thought about their reactions. Thought about yours. Tried to focus on that. Reminded himself that it was you out there and his best friend. Suri was still a question mark but he also thought that she could go fuck herself if she had a problem with it because he was still prepared to fight her for potentially upsetting you. 

“I don’t know. I’ll go and see where he is.” 

Your voice floated over to him and that was it, the alarm call, the deadline reached. He stood from the chair and made himself move with he didn’t know what power.  

“Hey!” you cried, arms outstretched to welcome him as he approached the group. “I was just coming to look for you—thought you might have got lost.” 

He smiled, let you kiss him on the cheek, direct him into a sun lounger, sit down with him on it, not quite in his lap but almost.  

Suri raised a hand in way of a greeting; she was flat on her back, sunglasses on, straps of her bikini tucked away, her tiny body sizzling in the sun. Namjoon sat next to her, under the shade of a parasol, dug out of the cabin’s garage, book in hand. He nodded at Yoongi and kept reading. 

“I’m going to go in the lake,” you said, one hand resting on his calf. “Do you want to come?” 

He was putting all his energy into not looking where you were touching him, not noticing, pretending that this wasn’t the first time for he couldn’t remember how many years that he’d not been fully covered in front of people. He wasn’t sure what his face said, if his mouth said anything at all, but you were standing and holding out your hands for him so he must have said yes, let you lead him to the edge of the water and then jump in.  

The water was colder than he’d expected. He gasped and swallowed a lungful, came up spluttering. He wiped the water from his face and pushed his hair back. He blinked the water from his eyes and each frame brought you closer, until your arms were around his neck and your lips on his.  

“I love you, you know that?” 

He nodded. 

“I love you, too.” 

“I know.” 

Did you? Did you really know the full depth and breadth of it? The way he loved you was desperate and whole. He had loved desperately before, loved anxiously, a long time ago when he still thought it was possible he could be loved. There were times when it terrified him. You terrified him because you loved him and it was impossible. Panic seized him and he wanted to run, run anywhere, get as far away as possible until you and your enormous heart were nowhere to be seen. Then you would call him or you would touch him and the panic disappeared, a low-grade anxiety in its place.  

He hadn’t realised he had given up on it. Before you let him kiss you, before you kissed him back and said things he never believed he would hear, he had retired the idea of being loved. It wasn’t for everyone and it wasn’t for him. He took what he could get and accepted that his lot in life was nothing more. But he met you and it hit him square in the face: that he’d stopped expecting joy. That he was fine because he never expected what he deeply and desperately wanted: to be loved. 

And that’s why you were terrifying. Because he was getting used to you. Getting used to being wanted. Getting used to the idea that he could be wanted. Sometimes he thought he was expecting it. Expecting you to let him in your arms, in your life. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t owed anything, didn’t deserve anything. It was the other way around: he was in debt for everything he had been given by you, for being given you at all. 

* 

They say if you can’t beat them, join them. It was an expression Yoongi was apparently taking very seriously, as he slid his tongue down your torso, fingers already slipping through your lips, sinking deep into your soft, wet hole.  

You were less keen to join Namjoon and Suri in being overheard so you pressed a pillow to your face and moaned into it, still louder than you’d wanted to be. You bit down hard on your lip as your back arched from the bed. Every time, it was an aria performed like a concerto, Yoongi doing the work of a full orchestra suite at once. It was lethal and moving the ease with which he played you and it was somehow never the same twice. Never had anyone spent as much time with his face between your legs and it showed: he had learnt, with apparent ease, seemingly everything about what got you off: had learnt how to do it in a rush, how to take his time, how to make you squirt (a surprise more to you than him), how to edge you until you wanted to die, how to make you come and somehow keep coming. He had, on one unfortunately memorable occasion, given you a charley horse and a third orgasm simultaneously.  

You were approaching your second now, with sweat seeping into the bedsheets, and Yoongi’s tongue laving at your clit, his fingers rocking inside you. It was suffocating with the pillow smothering you, your hot breath making it damp, your breathing thick and swampy so it made you light-headed. You couldn’t have kept any quieter even if you’d be able to try; all your attention and energy fell on the mouth at the apex of your legs and the fingers inside you. An experience so in-body, it almost pushed you all the way out again, like your consciousness was hovering outside your skin, alert and alive, an electrical wire in a puddle of water.  

You came hard and gasped for breath when you pulled the pillow from your face. Yoongi kissed his way back up to you, sticky marks all over your sweat-wet skin. He was damp, too, tiny curls of hair stuck to his forehead, the T-shirt he slept in stuck to his back. You peeled it back, ran your hands over him, were reaching for the waistband of his boxers when he pulled away.  

“I’ll wash up and then make breakfast, sound good?” he asked, climbing out of bed and reaching for trousers. 

The words died in your mouth. You could see that he was hard, see the discomfort in the way he adjusted himself as he dressed; you wished you could see into his brain. It wasn’t the first time, not even the second or third and you didn’t want to have the same conversation again, with another couple in the house, with company. Knew it wouldn’t get you anywhere if you did. Knew he would not fuck you nor would he give you a real reason why not. You rolled onto your side, away from the door and pulled the covers around you, despite the heat, despite the sweat. You lay and you stewed and you wondered just what exactly you were doing wrong. 

* 

You tried to forget about it and it had been easy until you glanced over to see Namjoon swat Suri’s backside with his book, saw her retaliate by squirting water on him from her bottle, saw him pull her down in a tumble that was entirely playful until she kissed him. You turned away because you’d already heard enough, you didn’t need to see their foreplay.  

* 

“Did you guys buy ice-cream?” Suri asked later that evening. 

“No,” you answered. “Do you want some?” 

Suri nodded. 

“Yeah, there’s a shop down the road; I’ll go and get some. Anyone else want any?” 

“I’ll come, too!” 

Suri looked surprised, her mouth open (to put you off), then she shut it and shrugged. 

“Ok.” 

It was quiet, initially, just the soft rush of wind in the tops of the trees and the slight crunch of the gravel track under your feet. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

The rhythm of Suri’s feet faltered and then started smoothly again. Her answer was slow to arrive. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Embarrassment was worming through you, on its way to stifle you, to choke you so the words wouldn’t come out. 

“You and Namjoon have good sex, right?” 

Suri didn’t just falter but stopped completely. She looked at you guardedly, suspicious. You could feel her attempting to put distance between you, even as her feet kept still. 

“Is that... ar-, we’re trying to be quiet,” she answered eventually. 

You laughed not because it was funny but because you were nervous. 

“No, it’s not about that. It's... I mean, you do, right?” 

“Yes.” 

You were stuttering over your next question, not having planned this conversation, not really knowing what you wanted out of it. 

“Don’t you and Yoongi?” Suri asked, beating you to it. 

“We do. Kind of. Yes, but also...” 

Your face was flaming, hot pricks of sweat beading in your scalp at the embarrassment of this, at having to ask someone about your sex life—someone that wasn’t Taehyung anyway—someone who definitely did not want to be having this conversation either. 

“The thing is,” you persevered, “he goes down on me, like a lot. Or not a lot but sometimes, well, often, he...”  

Your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides. 

“He goes down on me and then we don’t have sex and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong or why he doesn’t want to fuck me.” 

You let it out in a rush, looking somewhere over Suri’s left shoulder because you couldn’t bear to look at her directly, to see her face reacting. She was quiet for a moment or two and you stewed, boiling in your self-consciousness, steaming with shame.  

“Have you asked him?” 

“Yes, of course! He just says he doesn’t want to or ‘it’s ok’ or that I don’t have to reciprocate or that he’s fine. But I'm not fine! I’m clearly shit at sex! And blowjobs because he doesn’t want those either!” 

And it was the embarrassment, mostly, but you felt tears burn in your eyes, felt your bottom lip wobble and as much as you did not want to have this conversation, you certainly didn’t want to cry during it. 

“Does Namjoon ever...” and you couldn’t finish the question because you knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it. 

“Nah, if he’s even the slightest bit turned on, he’s doing something about it. Well, I'm doing something about it, you know what I mean.” 

You cursed softly, tried to kick at the gravel in your flipflops.  

“I just wish he would tell me what I’m doing wrong so I can fix it.” 

Your embarrassment, bright enough to have burnt away now, had left you sad, miserable in fact, that you couldn’t please your boyfriend and he was being too nice to tell you so. Sad because you couldn’t give him what you wanted to, what he gave you. Miserable that you were failing where you wanted to succeed. 

“Do you ask him directly at the time?” 

“Huh?” 

“I mean, look, I’m the last person who should be giving anyone relationship advice of any kind, ok? I really don’t know how to do anything but are you asking him why he doesn’t want to have sex right now, or have you talked about it at a completely unsexy time? Because Namjoon is barely sapient when his dick is hard; his brain is entirely in his crotch.  

“Literally the only thing I have learnt over the last year is that, as horrible as it is, you have to talk about stuff, especially when you don’t want to talk about it. So maybe just talk to him again but- oh, I don’t know! I’m not good at this. But if he’s not given you a proper answer, make him give you one. You should at least know what the problem is, if there even is one, right?” 

You thought about it. Thought about how quickly you let the subject drop, let Yoongi brush you off because you didn’t really want to have the conversation at all, didn’t want to know the answer—or rather you didn’t want to hear Yoongi say it.  

You nodded, thanked her quietly for her help and you walked the rest of the way to the shop in silence. You picked an ice-cream at random and a random one for Yoongi, too, then you walked back. Suri tried to make conversation with you and you were grateful for it, for her. You didn’t know if she liked you, found her impossible to read, and often got the impression that she’d rather be anywhere else, but she was making an effort and it meant something to you. 

* 

“Can I ask you something?” you started timidly as you settled in bed that night. 

“Yeah.” 

You were quiet for a moment and Yoongi frowned, trying to work out what had upset you. You had been quieter than usual all evening and he wondered if Suri had said something to you; you had come back from the shop with two melona ice-creams, which you hated.  

“Am I bad in bed?”  

He blanched. Didn’t really understand the question because you weren't. Not in the slightest. The sex he had with you was as close to perfect as sex could be. He sometimes felt deranged in how much he wanted you, felt dirty for it even, like it somehow besmirched your honour for him to think about you when he touched himself. Like he would contaminate you with his need to have you. It often took all he had in him not to fuck you. 

“What do you mean?” 

Your mouth was pouty and your eyebrows drawn close. You didn’t look angry for which he was grateful, but you were sad and frustrated for which he was not. 

“You go down on me all the time and then we don’t have sex after! You don’t let me reciprocate! I can’t do it better if you don’t tell me what I’m doing wrong in the first place!” 

It was like static was fuzzing up his brain. He knew the words but couldn’t understand them coming out of your mouth. He had thought he was doing the right thing. Giving not taking. Or taking only sometimes, but keeping the balance firmly tipped towards you. You always offered because of course you did: you were wonderful and kind and, for reasons he could rarely fathom, you cared about him.  

“Yoongi!” 

In a tone he almost never heard, genuinely annoyed, if also pleading and anxious.  

He blinked, tried to find an answer. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Of course you do! It happened this morning! It happens at least half the time! I don’t understand why you don’t want it.” 

And his heart was suddenly hammering because he could see that he had got it wrong but he wasn’t quite sure how. Colour drained from his face because you were upset, really, genuinely upset and it was his fault and if he could have squashed himself like a bug under his own shoe, he would have.  

He tried to see what he had not seen, what he had missed, what maybe he had ignored. Could only see instead the times before, with other partners, when he’d try to initiate and be rebuffed, when he never asked for anything because he knew he wouldn’t get it anyway and, besides, it was ugly to ask, to want, to demand for something someone else didn’t want to give. He had spent so much time and effort learning his partners’ bodies, trying to make up for everything he lacked. He knew he was good at it. Knew it, was sure of it. Wasn’t he? Was it not enough? Was he still missing something? 

“I do,” he said, voice hushed as though it hurt to say. “I do want it.” 

“Then why do you always brush me off?” 

He felt stripped like old paint. Had to look at you, though the embarrassment was excruciating. 

“I didn’t think you really wanted it.” 

And it sounded stupid when he said it out loud, really stupid, but it was the truth. 

“What?!” 

You really needed to hear him say it again. That he didn’t think you wanted it, even though you had explicitly asked. Even though you had sometimes tried, feebly, to insist.  

“I...” 

But he didn’t say it again, looked as though he couldn’t. Looked as desperate as you felt.  

“Why do you think I would ask, I would offer, if I didn’t want to actually do it?” 

“Because you give. You’re... You’re nice to me.” 

“Oh, fuck.” 

And you took a deep breath, tried to blink away the tears, sent them rolling down your cheeks instead.  

“Yoongi, what the fuck?” 

You saw him move, inch away just slightly, and you remembered who you were dealing with. Because he was Yoongi, your Yoongi, and he was warm and soft and sweet and funny and smart and you loved him so much that you forgot sometimes he still hated himself. Saw his denial now not of you but of his own desires. Remembered how long he had spent silently loving you without asking you to so much as hear a confession. Remembered how close you had both come to absolutely nothing at all, his disbelief overpowering his belief and his heart and his hope.  

You could see it from his side. See what he was trying to do, even if it was madness. Even if it was wrong. You could feel him retreat even now, tucking himself back inside his tortoise shell.  

“I’m so-” 

You didn’t let him finish, would not let him apologise. You kissed him, tasted the salt of your own tears between you, leant into him, let your arms wrap around him and pressed your lips to his, to his cheek, to his hairline, to his jaw. 

“Yoongi, I love you.” 

“I know,” he replied, but you weren’t sure if he really did. 

“I’m glad you think I'm such a nice person and everything, but I promise, I’m not offering out of the goodness of my heart. I’m asking because I actually want to. Like, really want to. Like, really enjoy myself and want you to enjoy yourself and want us to both enjoy ourselves together, y’know?” 

He nodded, couldn’t quite hold your gaze.  

“I’m serious. You need to know that I want to fuck you, ok?” 

And you laughed, though you were trying not to, even if it did feel a little ridiculous, having to convince your boyfriend that you wanted to have sex. 

He nodded again. 

“You promise I’m not a bad lay?” 

And you watched his face flick through shock and outrage and a kind of disbelief that become laughter.  

“You are not a bad lay, I promise.” 

“And what about blowjobs?”  

“Also good.”  

“You promise?” 

And you sat yourself in his lap, legs straddling his hips, sinking yourself low, pressing against him. 

“I promise.” 

“What if I say you have to prove it?” 

His head cocked to the side, playful, squinting at you, and you didn’t think that it was over, that he was suddenly convinced now, but with the burden of Being Terrible at Sex lifted off you, you felt not only lighter, but the deep, heavy, familiar drag of desire raise its head. 

“Prove it?” 

You shifted your hips again, deniably but definitely, and put your lips to his ear. 

“Prove that you like it when I suck your cock.” 

His hands gripped you tightly; you felt the bob in his throat when he swallowed as you pressed kisses down his neck and a stirring in his boxers that you sank even lower to press yourself against. 

“I’ll prove it if you prove that you like it when I fuck you.” 

“Deal.” 

* 

You were late up that next morning and Namjoon greeted you both from the back porch. 

“Hey, a little request: could you maybe be louder when you fuck? Suri and I are actually sleeping a little too well.” 

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

Poly!plastics x powerlifter!reader

Reader always wears baggy clothes and under that a very muscular gal and for some reason the plastics never put two together, so one day reader has to join in dodgeball in gym and their hoodie is making it hard to move so they take it off revealing their arms sculpted by Zues himself.

Heracles or Something

|| poly!plastics x powerlifter!nonbinary!reader

|| Warnings; hints at later sex, plastics simping over reader, short drabble

|| Summary; when the plastics see reader in a t shirt for the first time, they lose their minds.

Requests open!

Started; November 9th

Finished; November 9th

~~~

It hasn't been too long since you started the plastics; so their reaction to your muscles makes absolute sense. Considering they've yet to see you without hoodies and sweats on. It was second period gym and Coach Carr decided that the class would play a game of dodgeball. Which was one of your favourites, you always went all out for this.

By sheer luck, you and your girlfriends all managed to be on the same team. Regina was absolutely demolishing everyone. She's terrifying to go up against in dodgeball. Gretchen was mostly either using you or Regina as a shield. While Karen kind of just stood there, making herself the easiest target in the world. You defended her though. Not wanting her to be one of the first ones out.

About half way through the game, you were finding it increasingly difficult to play with your hoodie on. It was getting beyond tiring having to move around in all that sweaty fabric. So you tossed it off, throwing it against the wall and doing a little arm stretch before returning to the game.

All three of your girlfriends got out in that same moment. Why? Their jaws were dropped and they couldn't pull their eyes away from you. Since when did their Y/N have insane muscles? Honestly, you looked as though Zeus himself made your body. It was Godly.

They weren't even mad they got out, just accepting their defeat. Because it gave them more time to admire you from the sidelines.

When the game was over, Regina was the first one to you in the locker room. Immediately pulling you into a kiss before you could sneak off to change in the bathroom. Because oh my God. You were even hotter now. Your lips moved against Regina's, she was being rough enough to get a moan out of you. Especially with how her nails had trailed along your arms. Practically tracing the tone outlines.

As the kiss broke, she cupped your cheeks and made you look into her eyes. With a desire you'd never seen in them before," my place. After school. I don't care if you have stuff to do." She stated, not leaving any room for an argument. You swallowed and nodded just as Gretchen and Karen joined the two of you.

"When were you gonna tell us?!" Gretchen exclaimed, leaving you pretty dumbfounded. Tell them what?

"Uh-?" You'd started to ask what she meant when Gretchen just rolled her eyes. Realizing you had no idea what she was talking about.

"Your muscles! You look like- I don't know, Heracles or something!" You burst out laughing at her explanation, cheeks flushed as you shook your head. Grinning from her flustered compliment.

"I try." You joked with a wink, meanwhile Karen. Had been completely distracted by your arms this entire time, eyes wide and mouth open.

When you noticed you gently closed her mouth for her, wiping away the drool with your thumb and kissing her cheek. "Hey, Earth to Karen."

She blinked when she heard her name," huh? Oh, yeah totally." You had no idea what she was responding to, even Gretchen just kinda shrugged at it.

Regina wrapped her arms around your waist, pulling you against her and resting her head to your shoulder. "God... you're so hot." She couldn't get over your muscles, making you blush again as you leaned into her touch.

Definitely looking forward to tonight.

[yellobb]

People who constantly shit on red areas need to spend some time in them to gain some fucking perspective.

I guarantee you that if you know someone from the U.S., you know someone who has grown up in or lived in a red area.

I, a queer, neurodivergent leftist, have spent my entire life living in red towns and/or red states. Every person I’ve ever loved, every memory I’ve ever made, every community I’ve ever felt welcomed in has been in a red area. And I don’t want to leave these places, even with the way they vote, because I love where I live and where I grew up. It’s just as much a part of me as my queer identity.

The six trans kids I was friends with in high school lived in a red county. The people who organized the protests I’ve attended did so in red states. My grandparents, who vote blue all the way down the ballot in every election and try their damndest to correctly gender my friends, live in a deep red area and have for the past 40 years.

And I’m sorry, but people who vote red are still worthy of fucking compassion? The VAST majority of people aren’t the hateful stereotype you have in your head. They’re people who don’t keep up with politics too much, but grew up in areas where everyone just voted republican. Some of them have been duped by the charismatic grifters on the right into believing that the left hates them. They may understand that the right hates people like you, but they don’t get how that actually affects things on a day-to-day. They’re not fucking evil for not knowing any better.

The South, Appalachia, the Midwest: they’re all gorgeous places that are filled to the brim with wonderful, loving people. They’re rich with culture and community and history and won’t hesitate to share it. They’re filled with people who would take you in with open arms if you were ever around and in need.

Some of them may not get you or respect you at first, but honestly? Can you seriously claim to understand and respect them? How is them being indifferent to what happens to you for something you can’t control any different from you not giving a shit about them because they happen to live somewhere you don’t like? I get that there’s a difference in institutional power and generational trauma, but being uncaring of entire populations being oppressed is wrong no matter who you’re talking about.

All in all, I hate Republicans as much as anybody else, but to pretend that wishing harm on entire communities is anything but reactionary bullshit is ridiculous. Hate a specific person all you want (there are definitely some monsters out there), but realize that these communities aren’t a monolith.

so telling to me how some of you would rather completely write off appalachian and southern states than extend compassion and solidarity to the poc and queer people who live here and lead lives just as valuable as anyone’s in a blue state. living under a nearly constant suppressive government is an uphill battle that i and those i am in solidarity with choose to fight every day and the results of the an election we showed up for despite the overwhelming odds do not mean we as a whole deserve to be discarded

[cyb-by-lang]

Cascade

Someone a while ago asked me about what Kei's school life in Shell Game would've been like if she was a kid in 1-A as opposed to 1-C, so here's some noodlin'.

(Kei replaces Mineta's slot because I don't feel like dealing with him.)

The facet of being a UA student that bothered Kei the most (immediately) was the scrutiny. The celebrity. The total inability to fold herself and her flat expression and sleep deprivation back into the comforting anonymity of a world without widespread cell phone usage. Every other rando in Japan—arguably the world—knew the school’s reputation and its uniform. The more invested enthusiasts knew the names and faces of all the hero kids in each year and ranked them based on their apparent promise. Kei’s entire being retreated from the spotlight as though possessed by a cockroach. 

The runner-up of annoyances was being trapped in high school again. She’d done her time one life ago and resented that the experience just pigeonholed her into bilingual missions now. But explaining that to Sensei wasn’t on the table, so away she went. 

In the end, though, there was a small silver lining, as thin as cobweb. Unlike general education students, the two heroics-focused classes had occasional permission to use their Quirks to achieve their goals. Such as winning a sports contest between students, but still. It was something. 

“Gekkō. Your turn.” 

Kei jolted back to life like the engine of a forty-year-old car, covering her mouth with one hand as she yawned. Sure, Bakugō’s big boom ball throw had startled her awake, but she’d slept like total garbage last night. The stress from anticipating a new development in any mission made staying asleep an impossibility. 

So she’d kind of sleepwalked through the first few rounds of fitness tests. A lot of the other students’ Quirks didn’t help with their performances—exemplified by the invisible girl and the boy with electric powers—and so Kei didn’t meaningfully stand out. It helped that the students with physical Quirks usually really excelled at very specific tasks, but were dead average elsewhere. Kei barely needed to work to keep in the middle of the pack, only using her water manipulation for effect. 

And now everyone was looking at her. 

Dammit, Kei thought. She rolled to her feet with a little huff and made her way off the sideline with the air of a two-toed sloth dragged out for a quirky sports movie. 

“Do you need a reminder of what the rules are?” Aizawa asked, his voice as dead as Kei sort of wished she could be in this exact moment. 

“No, Aizawa-sensei,” Kei replied as she passed him. An instant later, she caught the tracker-equipped softball without looking, thought it had been thrown at her head. Not like it would have done any damage even if it made contact.

“Then quit wasting our time.” 

Kei didn’t even remember her placement during the UA entrance exam, but this still felt targeted. The numbers didn’t matter. She’d already known she was in, so the only consideration left was keeping the extent of her powers under wraps.  

It wasn’t like Kei didn’t get why Aizawa “Eraserhead” Shōta hated her presence in the class. Her enrollment in UA was basically anathema to the entire purpose of the program. Sensei and the principal couldn’t just cut the guy entirely out of the loop without causing Kei logistical problems when it came to doing her job. At the very least, an uninformed teacher might ask questions when Kei inevitably ran out of the classroom to deal with some crisis. Just because Aizawa looked like he wouldn’t care if his students fell down an open manhole cover, but that was the trouble with judging by appearances alone. 

I could take over the moment it leaves your hands.

Be my guest. 

Kei tossed the ball in the air, clapped her hands together, and summoned a blob of water that expanded in sync with her hands as she pulled them apart. When the falling softball landed amid the watermelon-sized sphere, it warped briefly into an image of Isobu’s curled-up shell before stabilizing. That was a telltale sign even to people without worthwhile chakra detection abilities—as long as they knew. 

So, basically Aizawa. Kei didn’t need to look in his direction to feel his glare.

There we are. Isobu’s power reached forward to engulf the brand new source of ammunition. 

Then the blob, the captive softball, and some simulacrum of Kei’s dreams shot off into the void. Only the thinnest possible thread of water connected Isobu’s new toy to Kei’s index fingers. Kei and the a couple of her classmates watched its erratic balloon-like course until, inevitably, the thread snapped. 

Eventually, there was a beep from Aizawa’s phone. “Five hundred and fifteen meters.” 

Kei rubbed at her eyes, already done with the entire affair. At least this data might be useful for Kei and Isobu’s future adventures in mass hydrokinesis. Perhaps Isobu’s range would be even larger if they added more of his chakra. Running those experiments would have to wait for another day, though. 

“Next,” said Aizawa. Going by the way a couple of students jumped, the next contestant was already on deck and suffering from stage fright. 

Kei wandered out of the chalk with barely any uptick in energy levels. She even yawned again. If the teacher wanted her out of the way faster, he could damn well throw her out.

But because this mission clearly wanted to establish the kind of pattern embodied by a combat deployment—boredom followed by intense spikes of activity, and then more boredom—Kei didn’t get a chance to nap. She found herself blinking away the drowsiness to the sound of Aizawa verbally ripping a kid to shreds. 

And it wasn’t Kei’s fault. Or even related to her. 

Novel.

While Kei had sat down and read brief profiles on all of her classmates on the Saturday before the term started, their names occasionally slipped her mind despite how painfully on-the-nose they could be. She’d get that data into her head later; for now, all Kei needed was a list of powers. 

Part of the reason Midoriya (today’s sacrifice) stuck out to her was how his name didn’t contain even a hint of his Quirk—just like hers didn’t. Because she didn’t have one. Going off the logic displayed by his classmates’ parents and their naming choices, Midoriya’s personal name should have had something to do with turning his own skeleton into dust. 

With his capture weapon and hair floating like the entire scene was underwater, Aizawa laid out everything wrong with the nervous kid’s approach to the ball toss. Given that the test in question was literally throwing a softball and this kid tended to hover around the middle of the pack, maybe he’d been planning to use his hyper-destructive Quirk to finally get an edge. Like any kid sitting through someone else getting shouted at by a teacher, Kei pretended not to hear the specifics.

It was still sort of difficult not to, even with her classmates trying to build a small reservoir of side chatter to insulate themselves.

There was a lot in Aizawa’s lecture about “basic competence” and paraphrased warnings about not breaking all the bones in his body. Because, well, someone who did that would probably need to be carried off a battlefield on a stretcher if not in a body bag.

“With your power,” Aizawa was saying, his voice as flat and cold as an executioner’s blade, “you can’t become a hero.” 

Midoriya’s expression said he knew damn well what was at stake now. If he couldn’t figure out how to throw a ball without laying himself out flat, he was screwed. 

The real question was if breaking bones was the prerequisite to accessing that monstrous strength, or just a shitty side effect of having no control? If it was the former, the first time the kid fell off a jungle gym or crashed his bike should have made the news along with a crater. 

While the other students consulted among themselves whether they’d ever heard of Eraserhead before—which disengaged Kei even further from the conversation in favor of naptime—Aizawa withdrew from the chalk circle to let Midoriya figure his shit out. He’d either fly or fucking die. 

Aizawa probably didn’t care which. At least, not out loud. Better that this catastrophic failure happened in school and not in the field with lives on the line.

Kei shaded her eyes and awaited some conclusive result.

Midoriya didn’t disappoint; one colossal BANG later, the softball was rocketing off into the distance with a smoke trail marking its trajectory. But unlike the utter travesty that characterized his entrance exam footage, the kid that turned to face the group did so with all limbs intact. He’d destroyed only one finger in the process of setting off his Quirk this time.

Kei frowned while the other students cheered. Aizawa, too, looked excited to find improvement so close on the heels of his first sharp criticism. 

Sure, Blasty McSplode had a problem with Midoriya’s (qualified and still bone-breaky) success and then needed to be wrestled into submission for being a loud jackass literally a foot in front of the teacher, but that wasn’t Kei’s problem. Or, at least, his attitude wasn’t an interesting problem for Kei to puzzle over. 

Midoriya’s, though… There’s something wrong here.

Hm?

I don’t think his Quirk requires him to destroy himself to use it. If it did, he should’ve figured out how to minimize the damage way before he got here. Kei pressed her curled fingers against her lower lip as she thought. Damn, I usually just shrug off questions like this… 

But this secret may affect your risk assessment process when dealing with all of these humans. 

Maybe. But hell if it’s not a personal question. “Hey, what’s the deal with your Quirk totally pulverizing your vulnerable teenage skeleton every time I’ve seen it used?” That’ll go over well. 

“Gekkō,” said Aizawa, interrupting Kei’s thoughts with more school nonsense. He’d apparently picked her out as a zoned-out straggler. “Finish your tests. Side-hops and grip test, go.”

Kei sighed internally and trotted off to a different part of the field.

[butch-reidentified]

This is in reference to this post

She didn't laugh at me, she was being entirely serious when she said that (1)

I have spent a decade working in medicine and am published in a peer reviewed neuroscience journal (2)

This was SO long ago, before tiktok EXISTED etc, this was before POTS was heard of online or even by most doctors etc. It wasn't taught in med school for most current doctors of the time. This online illness faker shit was not even a kmown phenomenon over a decade ago when this occurred, ESPECIALLY not with POTS. Which, yes, means "munchausen POTS" was simply not even a thing then (nor am I remotely convinced it is now). Can you even imagine how that shit has impacted people like me because of people like you?? (3)

I never said "I think I have POTS" bc I know most doctors' egos all too well and I'm not that stupid. I just told her my symptoms and what I had tried. Nothing more. She had never seen me before as my insurance had been changed so I had to switch, and spent mere minutes with me and refused to order any tests. I got my TTT with a competent doctor a month later. (4)

You are also pushing misinformation:

POTS is not easy to fake unless you (as the doctor) are a complete and total fucking moron. My TTT showed a >ONE HUNDRED BPM increase in heart rate. >100!!! you cannot simply fake that, and if your doctor has any doubts, it is very very easy to repeat the test - or the "poor man's tilt" version which any idiot can do with a simple BP cuff and chair & you can repeat that hundreds of times if you like. Good luck faking it every time. I've never once in my life, without medication, had a result under a 50bpm increase (those were my absolute best days). And I was a competitive rock climber and healthy, active, hydrated, well-rested person. To this day, my results are the same if there's a gap in my medication coverage (thank you USA healthcare!). But overall I don't think about it much anymore because ivabradine is so good at treating it for me.

POTS is *treated* not cured, and mine is pretty well treated will ivabradine (the changes you listed did not help much, I even had a personal trainer who was educated on POTS and related conditions & was drinking Normalyte all the time). *You* sound like a fraud, tbqh, as someone who is actually published and actually has devoted her life to medicine. You don't sound like you know fuckall, yet you poise yourself as if you were a medical professional here. I deeply hope that's not true.

You also, quite frankly, sound like a piece of shit, tbh. I know I am very lucky in terms of my POTS (and even my vEDS symptoms thus far), but the girl I knew whose nurse mother first tested me has not been so lucky. Both she and her sister have (genetically tested and confirmed) EDS from their father's side, and POTS as a byproduct. Her sister is a tough kid and doing alright for herself all things considered. But she is on disability and living at home, not able to work, because of the severity of her illnesses. If you were a real medical professional, you'd understand what a massive spectrum these conditions exist on.

If you ARE a real medical professional and are this ignorant and show this little compassion, I am begging you to either reup on your studies or quit. Someone should report you to the board xx

[stanfordsweater]

i think it's interesting to say that we don't see dean vulnerable often because, especially in the early seasons but continuing to the end of the show, i feel like we see him vulnerable all the time-- we're granted the gift of being the camera all those times he's close to tears, a stand-out example being in what is and what should never be when we see him on his knees crying over fake!john's grave, but there are many many other examples of him being very vulnerable/cracked-open to the audience that i feel people do a real disservice to by forgetting.

right off the bat we see him vulnerable in the pilot when he talks about pursuing john and sam reminds him he's going back to school:

where he has to take a second and remind himself that he doesn't get sam back, because sam has a life, and dean collects himself but won't even look at sam beyond a derisive glance when he says "i'll take you home."

what is this moment if not planting the seeds for when dean later says, in shadow, that what he really wants is sam with him and his family back together?

SAM: I mean, what are you gonna do when it’s all over? DEAN: It’s never gonna be over. There’s gonna be others. There’s always gonna be somethin’ to hunt. SAM: But there’s got to be somethin’ that you want for yourself— DEAN: Yeah, I don’t want you to leave the second this thing’s over, Sam. SAM: Dude, what’s your problem? DEAN: Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh? I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place? SAM: ‘Cause Dad was in trouble. ‘Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom. DEAN: Yes, that, but it’s more than that, man. You and me and Dad—I mean, I want us… I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again. SAM: Dean, we are a family. I’d do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before. DEAN: (sadly) Could be. SAM: I don’t want them to be. I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.

and what is THIS moment if not dean being vulnerable? when he's reminded that the "something he wants for himself" is completely impossible because sam doesn't want it and dad left without a word by choice?

my best guess is that people don't read these moments as dean being vulnerable because he's turned away from sam-- in the pilot, he looks out the window and purses his lips and takes sam back to school. in shadow, he physically turns away from sam and grabs at the dresser and his expression shuts down when sam says no.

that doesn't mean that dean is necessarily angry or feeling possessive over sam, it's because dean can't show his vulnerability to sam (at this point in the show), because he has to be strong and he has to keep a lid on his problems or people die. deep down dean feels like wanting anything for himself is selfish and impossible. going back to what is and what should never be, that is the thesis of the entire episode: dean gets his deepest wish, and hundreds of people die. and he is broken over it.

DEAN All of them. Everyone that you saved, everyone Sammy and I saved. They're all dead. (...) It's like my old life is, is coming after me or something. Like it doesn't want me to be happy. Course I know what you'd say. Well, not the you that played softball but… "So go hunt the Djinn. He put you here, it can put you back. Your happiness for all those people's lives, no contest." Right? But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero? (begins to cry while talking) What about us, huh? What, Mom's not supposed to live her life, Sammy's not supposed to get married? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? (pause) It's… (Dean's lips tremble. Silence. We hear the sky rumbling. Tears begin to falls on DEAN's cheek.) Yeah…

but where my sam-as-POV theory about why people keep saying dean isn't vulnerable dies is that we see these moments, so how do other people interpret them? is it just a case of not remembering? do some people think i'm totally off-base with this?

[ilovegirlssomuch123]

fellow feminists, I encourage you to read the entirety of the above response to my question. It details, with great accuracy, the incompatibility of trans activism and feminism, and how it intersects with male activism. I agree with previous on this point completely, and it's important for us to see it from the horses mouth.

I would like to respond point by point.

First of course, this response starts with a personal attack on what is a legitimate question in response to the proposed problematic nature of 4b. Since deciding not to date or have sex with someone is not a form of violence or discrimination, making choices on who you date is not bigoted. Instead of addressing this, the responder makes an attack on the credibility of me asking the question, since refuting the point of course not on the table. the proper way to deal with people concerned with the bodily autonomy of women TERFs is ad hominem, since engaging with their ideas is dangerous.

The 4B movement reduces the idea of the patriarchy to men vs women, and not a systemic issue that anyone can uphold and fall victim to, regardless of gender.

Newsflash, it's BEEN men versus women since the beginning of time. This is not, and should not be news. Men being emboldened to chant "your body my choice" is only the latest iteration of a long history of oppression. Women are conditioned to be complicit in their own oppression, of course, since they are punished for not upholding societal norms associated with being a woman. It IS men versus women when women are prevented from participating in the political process by men. It IS men versus women when the vast majority of sexual assault and domestic violence is male on female. It IS men versus women when men get to bar women from healthcare. To ignore the role that sex plays in sexism directly obfuscates the issue and prevents class consciousness.

And because of that, they have very strict rules on What Is A Woman and What Is Not. News flash, it's the same transphobia and TERF rhetoric we've been fighting so hard in the states.

A definition that includes over half of the entire human population, and not the 0.5% of men who want to be included in that definition, is by no means strict. It is precise. Women are oppressed FOR being female, not for identifying with it. Trans men are oppressed for being female. Women are raped because of who we are, because of our bodies, and because rape against women is something a man is rarely punished for. Women are denied access to schools, to jobs, to positions of legitimate power based on their sex. Not because of some mystical femininity we possess.

There can't be a trans-inclusive version of this movement because to do so, you need hard lines on who's a man and who's a woman. If we're excluding men, that means trans men will either get gendered correctly and marked as the enemy, be misgendered in order to be included, or the language shifts to people with uterus' versus people with penises, which is just extra steps to disguising transphobia/bioessentialism/transmedicalism.

This is 100% accurate. There can't be a trans-inclusive version of this movement, because the purpose behind this movement is to stop giving the oppressor class access to the oppressed. If we can not have class consciousness- if we can't define who is a danger to us- the entire thing loses all meaning. Men still benefit from the patriarchy even if they change pronouns. They still commit crimes against women at a similar rate to cisgender men, sometimes at a greater rate. The purpose of this movement is to protect women by removing a great source of danger- the threat of male violence.

And trans women will continue not to be taken seriously and labeled as a threat despite how vulnerable that group already is. There is no safety here.

Trans women are no more of a threat than men are. are they oppressed for gender non-conformity? in many cases, yes. However, that in no way erases the real threat they pose to women in the same way cisgender men pose a threat. Ministry of justice data from 2020 shows that of the imprisoned population, trans women were imprisoned for sex crimes 17.8 times more than cisgender women*, and similar studies show that trans women overwhelmingly follow male patterns of criminality as opposed to female ones. The fact that women are waking up to the threat men in their lives pose is long overdue, and men don't get to opt out of being perceived as a real threat just because they're oppressed on a different axis.

*source

You also have to think about what happens next. The, "Then What?". What changes will it bring, how will it end the patriarchy? So you're not interacting with men anymore - To what end?

There are so, so many ways this benefits women, but I'll name a few.

More than half (51.1%) of female victims of rape reported being raped by an intimate partner.*

Around 1 in 10 women (9.4%) in the US have been raped by an intimate partner.*

Around a quarter of women (24.3%) are the victim of severe physical violence by an intimate partner.*

Two-thirds (66.2%) of female stalking victims were stalked by current or former intimate partners.*

*source

the vast majority of these cases are men against women.

The list goes on, and on.

This isn't some meaningless political statement. This is a matter of safety. Sometimes, a matter of life and death.

What happens to society if you exclude 50% of a population, indiscriminately, over something they have no control over?

Not dating or having sex with men is not discrimination, it is women holding autonomy over their lives. Would you say this same thing to a lesbian? To an asexual woman? 4b does not say you can't be friends with or have meaningful friendships with men. It does not mean reject them from positions of power, it does not mean diminishing the way they benefit from their position in the social hierarchy in any way other than refusing to be intimate with them. This is not violence, this is peace and safety for women.

But as an individual, it's easy for these people to say, "too bad! They deserve to suffer!"

Men will say this, loudly, publicly, about women and no one bats an eye. Men can scream "your body my choice" and yet women are the unreasonable ones for deciding to not share their intimate life with them? Especially when they have a 10% chance of being raped by them? A 24% chance of being severely physically abused by them? Women HAVE been suffering. Men being unable to find a date is NOT suffering in any way we should care about in comparison.

And if you actually are trying to break free of the punitive system of justice, if you actually want to work towards restorative justice and leave behind the Incarceration State of Mind, then you need to take a step out of your individual point of view and do what's best for the community as a whole.

Women have been told since the beginning of time that what we need to do is do more for men, change for them, deal with them, not give up on them. This is an incredibly regressive point of view. It is not, and never is a woman's job to put herself in the situation of potential abuse in order to make an individual man (or men as a collective) happy. Women doing what's best for the community starts with herself; how can she pour from an empty cup? How can she find the energy to volunteer if she's being beaten at home? If women as a whole focused on uplifting themselves more instead of men, we would see the community be uplifted as a result.

It's not your job to fix every fuck ass dude who comes along TO AN EXTENT.

To an extent? It's NEVER a woman's job to fix a "fuck ass dude". ever. for any reason whatsoever. I don't care if that fuck ass dude is her son. Women need to go beyond not fixing fuck ass dudes. Women need to refuse to spend time, energy, and resources on fuck ass dudes altogether. This kind of thinking is never returned from men to women, and that's by design.

And that's ok, but as a whole, we can't just give up on men and let them fend for themselves, because someone will find them and radicalize them against women further. That's what's already happening, we can't afford to make it worse!

The solution to reduce oppression is NOT by appealing to the moral conscious of our oppressors, and never has been. Women did not get to where we are by begging for scraps. The only power we have is the power we take and don't compromise on. Refusing to date or have sex with men is a completely non violent form of retaking our power, and it is an incredibly beneficial and effective one. It is not the onus of the oppressed to prevent their oppression by being nice to their oppressors. Men are becoming more radicalized because of women having more rights. That does NOT mean we back down on those rights. That means we keep ourselves and our sisters away from threats as effectively as we can. That means not putting ourselves in situations where we are in danger of being raped, abused, and degraded.

There's nothing wrong with being choosy about who you date/sleep with/marry/have kids with. Be choosy about who you're friends with! In most cases I think it's best to be. But if you think you're gonna avoid toxic relationships, abuse, misogyny, etc by changing your only metric to Women™️, you're gonna fail. Personal choice is one thing, activism is another.

It's absolutely possible for a woman to stop dating an abusive man and start dating an abusive woman. The difference is that it's not nearly the amount of risk as dating a man, and women are substantially less likely to be violently sexist in the way men are.

Sorry if this is rambling, but I'm scared, I'm depressed, and I'm pissed off. It hurts to see people I know care about queer people and community building forget the dog whistles and fall into cultish radical groups.

We're all scared, depressed, and pissed off. The United States just elected a misogynistic rapist into office. Republicans have the majority, and we have some very scary changes coming up ahead. ESPECIALLY in this climate, keeping ourselves safe is paramount. 4b is not violence against men, it's not even radical. It's the sane response to seeing how much danger you're in as a woman in America. Feminism is demonized on the right and the left, because there's no class consciousness among women, there's no awareness of our shared experiences, and thus there can not be mobilization for change on any meaningful scale that doesn't have the approval of men.

People like prev will do the most to say that anything that hurts men is bad. 4b DOES hurt men. That's the whole fucking point. Women are continuously drained of time, resources, emotional labor, unpaid labor, to the benefit of men. Men being forced to carry their weight is a natural consequence of women deciding not to deal with them, and it's something that they absolutely will whine and complain about. Women do NOT need the message that they should worry more about men's well being, women need the message to prioritize themselves and their safety. That's what 4b is about, and that's why you will see many people in the coming days like prev who talk about how awful it supposedly is.

and American women i am being SO serious when i say we need to learn from our South Korean sisters and follow their steps with the 4B movement. the house of representatives, the senate, the supreme court, and the president are ALL red now. if american men want to control our bodies and choices so much then let’s give them HELL!

read about the 4B movement:

[weabooweedwitch]

I really resent the framing of "democrats should have ran a better campaign" as a defense for the fact that Trump undeniably won almost exclusively because more than 15 million Democrats refused to even vote this year in a country extremely notorious for only like 40% of its population voting at all

No it's absolutely on the people who refused to vote. How many times do we have to say, "it's one side or the other, choosing neutrality benefits exclusively the aggressor" until people fucking get it, like legitimately actually do you understand that neutrality in an election DOESNT FUCKING EXIST

And yeah I support Palestine but I'll say with my full fucking chest that if you refused to vote over Palestine you're a fucking idiot because Trump's literal entire career has involved him openly praising fascist dictatorships and him moving the US embassy to Jerusalem and declaring it the capital of Israel was him PERSONALLY escalating much of the conflict in the Middle East including the violence against Palestinians. You guys literally handed the presidency to a guy who doesn't even fucking care about Palestinian statehood and literally passed a fucking Muslim ban in his first term like

Maybe I'm just too autistic for this discussion and I'm thinking of it too logically but when did Americans start associating a single candidate with their entire party. "Oh wow I don't like the Democrat elect as a person, guess I won't vote for the side that wants to get free school lunches for kids just because I don't think this one person has enough charisma" like are you an actual inbred fool

2028 could have the Democrat candidate be a literal actual axe murderer and I would still vote for them because I'm voting for Democrat and leftist POLICY, not if I personally like the symbolic figurehead, and even if the Democrats promised NOTHING, I would still vote for that so I could actively stop team "we are openly goddamn racist all the time and we hate women and people of color so goddamn much we literally wrote an almost 1000 page manifesto on how we plan to systematically control them or strip them of their rights"

You guys literally handed the election to the "maybe we should inspect children's genitals because we have an irrational hatred of queer people" "Jewish space lazers" "transgender operations on illegal aliens in prison" "if you cant feed your child and need school lunches then CPS should be called on you" team because you thought Kamala didn't promise you everything on your checklist. Jesus Christ Americans are hopeless. I actually fucking hate it here.

[loveyislost]

rice balls and heart eyes

osamu miya x reader

trigger warnings- talk of food, talk of weight game (in a positive way), food, suggestive, biting (affectionate)

summary- you’d rather watch him than make onigiri

this is my first written fic so probs not great, but you have to start somewhere ^.^

Osamu let’s out a snort, a hint of a smirk on his lips,

“Distracted, angel?”

You look at him, shooting him a halfhearted glare, “Shut it, miya.”

You’ve been sitting on the onigiri miya counter for about fifteen minutes, Osamu standing between your soft thighs. there’s a, well… he wouldn’t really call it onigiri, in your hand. The lump of smushed rice and tuna in your palms. 

It’s not your fault, really. Can your boyfriend really expect you to focus on anything when he’s wearing those god forsaken compression sleeves? You would call them heaven sent, but only the devil could create something quite so sinful.

You let out a hum, smooshing the rice ball in between your fingers. Your chin lifts as you put on your most condescending tone, “I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about anyways.”

Osamu grins, hooded eyes looking down at you, “Oh, nothing, nothing. Someone just seems a bit preoccupied. What yer’ doing to my ingredients could be considered cruel and unusual.”

You just narrow your eyes, huffing softly before scowling back down at the food in your hands, “What I’m doing to your ingredients?? This rice is bullying me!”

‘samu snickers, usually dull eyes sparkling with amusement, “The rice is bullying ya’?”

He can’t help but smirk as your eyes roll again and you can’t help but give him a swift kick to the shin, to which he simply laughs. You can only grumble before responding, “it’s being difficult on purpose! it doesn’t do this to you.”

He hums, feigning deep thought at your comment, “Maybe because i pay attention to it?”

Your fingers quickly grab a piece of the mushed rice, flicking it at him, “Maybe you should stand up for your girlfriend, huh?”

Your boyfriend snickers, and despite your slight annoyance, you can’t help the slight warmth in your chest at the sound of him. You sigh wistfully, looking longingly into the distance , “If only my big, strong boyfriend would stand up for me…”

This time, osamu’s head drops back with his full laugh. He takes the mess of an onigiri from your hands, properly placing it between your palms and fingers. His warm hands gently squeeze and position your fingers and all you can do is stare up at him dumbly.

When he lifts his head back, his smirk is still there, soft lips, slightly chapped, as always, quirked up. You just blink at him, lips slightly parted.

“Anyone home, babe?” His knuckles rap lightly at your temple.

Your eyes shoot back to your hands, the rice ball somehow now perfectly formed as you shake yourself back into the presence, “I think i’m a pro at this. How much do you pay beginner chefs?”

Your love’s forehead presses to yours, callused fingers lifting the snack to your lips. “Open up, angel.”

Your lips part as if on instinct at his voice, soft and firm, and he slips it into your mouth, fingers lingering lightly on the tip of his tongue before he pulls them back.

You watch, eyes half lidded, as you swallow. The flavors burst against your tongue, just like his food always does, but you hardly notice the taste as your eyes flicker right back to the sliver of tan skin between his black tee and the dark compression sleeves, practically itching to bite at the thickness of his bicep.

So you do, your teeth sinking into the soft skin. there’s a light layer of pudge over the hard muscle that has you practically about to drip drool on the skin between your teeth. Osamu’s not quite as slim as in high school, the lack of daily training and cardio allowing him to form the most delicious bit of fat over his muscles, which are bulkier than ever from lugging around bags of rice and spending all day forming onigiri.

He doesn’t even flinch, used your affectionate, slightly canibalistic, ways towards him. He just grins, something that he’s done more and more of lately, the stress of the shop a more enjoyable form of exhaustion than volleyball.

He starts working on the next onigiri for a moment before sitting it to the side, strong hand cupping your jaw to pull your teeth from his arm. He gently leads your face to tilt up to him, nose nuzzling yourself as he presses his warm lips to yours.

You both smile against each other, you think you could spend forever here, on his counter, making half hearted onigiri.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 8

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH.8

“You’ve been down here forever PhD. Maybe you should… I dunno, leave your evil basement sub-lab? Maybe eat something other than an entire tube of toothpaste?”

“This isn’t toothpaste. It’s a calorie-rich blended solution formulated specifically for daily nutrition, in a convenient tube to avoid the need for cutlery.”

“Doc. Read the label.”

“...”

“You should probably sleep too if you mixed those up.”

“You’re just trying to get me to leave so you can escape.”

“I’ve broken out of county jail, the trunk of a sinking car, a shipping crate, cement shoes, and even my loan sharks book club meeting. But this? A forcefield? A real, no-shit forcefield? I don’t have anything for that… anymore.”

“What was that last part?”

“I said I can’t break out of sci-fi prison. Go to bed already, Doc - it’d be a lot easier for me to sleep too if you weren’t hovering over there, looking at me all sad like I’m some stray at the pound about to be put down.”

“Fine, but don’t go anywhere.”

“Well there goes my plans for the night.”

“...What plans?”

“For the fifth time, it’s called sarcasm.”

“Now that I think about it, I think I still have an invention I need to calibrate…”

“Specs was right; how did you survive out here by yourself?”

(...)

“Thanks for helping me clean the place up, Fiddleford. I’ll admit, I’ve been putting it off for a while now.”

“You don’t say… You know, you still haven’t told me what that extra level in your basement is for.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s a private study.”

“You’re so secretive about it.”

“Private study.”

“Alright, alright.”

“After we’re done here, I have an anomaly in the woods I need to check out; would you be willing to keep an eye on the house and the lab while I’m gone?” 

“I have no problem making sure your brother doesn’t disappear into thin air, of course I’ll stay back for your peace of mind.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what you meant - oh don’t make that face at me. I’m not trying to make fun of you, I think it’s… Endearing, that you care so much even if you have the worst ways of showing it.”

“...Just keep an eye on the house. And maybe go down there every so often to interact with him, the isolation isn’t doing him many favours.”

“How did your last talk with him go?”

“He’s still convinced that I’m grieving over my ‘real’ twin, and using him as a substitute because we look alike. He can acknowledge that the timeline and traits line up, and that he himself has a missing past, but he still thinks he’s a ‘Malone’ and not a ‘Pines’. I don’t know why he’s being so resistant to the possibility…”

"You know... 'Stan Malone' sounds mighty similar to 'Standalone'. 

*Ford facepalms*

“I thought it was clever.”

“It is, that’s why I’m mad.”

(...)

“-and it’s actually called ‘Backupsmor’? That’s its name?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. They didn’t even bother hiding what they were huh?”

“I suppose so. What about you, Stan?”

“Pft, I didn’t go to college. I’m… pretty sure? I didn’t graduate high school.”

“You’re not fully sure?”

“F, I can only remember back when I was 17, and I was already living on the streets. I don’t think I could have graduated by then. Not like it would have helped me.”

“17, you say? Interesting…”

“What about you? Your whole family full of geniuses like you?”

“Everyone’s… smart in their own way. I’m the only member of my family to attend college, however. The rest of my family works on a hog farm.”

“That’s pretty cool, striking it out on your own.”

“Mighty kind of you to-.”

“Good-looking, smart, and independent? I like that in a-.”

“I’m back!”

*Fiddleford hastily presses the mute button on the containment unit*

“Stanford, you’re back! How was it?”

“I was hoping it was something new, but it was just the gnomes trying to utilize the size changing crystals. How were things here?”

"I was just getting more information on what past he does remember- didn’t rightly get much because he is such a flirt."

"He's only doing it to a) make you uncomfortable, b) make you let your guard down, or c) charm you enough to convince you to free him."

"Well he hasn't quite succeeded on any of those. Does he flirt with you?"

"That's disgusting, Fiddleford. I don't know how you do things in Tennessee, but here it is improper for siblings to-."

“Genius, didn't you just say he doesn't believe you're related?"

“Somewhere in there he must still know I'm his brother. Which is a good thing for us because his memories can't be buried too deep."

TAPTAPTAP

*Fiddleford presses the mute button of the cell to unmute it*

“No, that's not it. That motherfucker is ugly.”

“Ugly? We have the same face!”

“Yeah, but on you it doesn't work.”

To be continued...

[randomwriting]

Love Letters I Won’t Send

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: In the midst of summertime heat and breakdowns, you find yourself falling in love with all the people around you. (some, more than others.)

A/N 💌: I intend to make this a series, haven’t decided if I should make it fully Poly!Marauders x Reader or not yet, so let me know what you think!

Also this is my first fic ever so kindness & reblogs are sincerely appreciated 💕

Beneath the annoyance permeating the halls of Hogwarts, and infesting every common room but the ones conveniently hidden under wonderfully cool lakes, (an amenity you were not jealous of at all), there was an amazingly rare heat wave sweeping over the entirety of scotland. You had to admit, the timing could not have been worse.

The unrelenting heat was the worst in the Gryffindor dorms, where some of the residents had begun looking an awful lot like one of their house colors. This unexpected side effect meant that dorms were essentially uninhabitable, and swarms of students had taken to the courtyard, the common room, or the halls, in refuge. And since hiding from your lingering feelings in your dorm was no longer a viable option, Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas had been forced to drag you out into an open space where you were far too susceptible to seeing the three boys you had been avoiding like the plague.

“You are going to bloody fucking kill yourself if you do not get out of that room.” Marlene practically shouted at you, after yet another failed attempt to free you from the boiling temperatures of your bedroom. Her exasperation with you, general fury with the world, and hatred of the weather was a dangerous combination. One you couldn't entirely fault her for.

“I'd sooner die than have to face those men, marls.” you heard her grumble something along the lines of “Merlins fucking beard” at your response.

“Look, I know this whole thing is complicated and whatnot, but you are driving yourself mad, holed up in a ridiculously hot room, overthinking about James, Sirius and Remus, when you should be swimming, or living, or fucking someone else to get over them!”

“I agree. You are too pretty and smart and funny and frankly too fucking hot to be sitting here moping.” Lily chimes in, smiling at you, unrelenting in her beliefs, you take a second, in the midst of the chaos, to admire her smile. The ridiculously engaging quality of her shiny teeth, the perfection of her skin and the red hair that floats around her in the sun, too much like a halo for you not to take note. It is so easy to love her. All of them, really. You only wish, quietly, that it was so easy for you to be loved. The way everyone knows Mary loves Lily, the palpable way you all can feel how Marlene loves Dorcas. It radiates under the surface of the whole group and flows further out into the school, they radiate love, and you feel it, in that brief and wondrous moment before you have to face the world, you ask yourself how on earth you got so lucky, that they might tolerate you enough to allow you this close to the masterpiece of their friendships and lives.

“Okay.” You relent, soft yet reluctant, as you come back to the present, a feeling of inadequacy settling heavily on your shoulders and in your lungs, “I'll leave the room but I'm bringing a book, and I insist on snacks and enormous amounts of lemonade if I'm being forced out into the wild.” You allow them to pull you up and out of the sweltering room, only because you’re not entirely convinced you won’t be able to simply meander away into some obscure hallway, cooled by the touch of the century old stone in refuge, the moment Dorcas and Marlene begin to notice just how little clothing there is between the two of them due to the immense heat. You stare ahead as you walk down through the common room, shoulders tense with something indescribable. Lily notices it, she also noticed the soft, odd look on your face earlier, and just like Lily Evans does, she files it away in a neat folder in her mind with your name written on it, one new thing to figure out about you, where exactly it is you go when your eyes get foggy and you drift off.

“Why are you avoiding the boys?” Dorcas asks suddenly, and you feel marlene and lily stop, to turn and look at her the same way you do.

“It’s just easier, if I don’t see them.” You tell her this half truth slowly, as you all continue to walk down the stairs, you don’t miss the dry look you get from Marlene.

“Easier? You were miserable earlier and I can’t imagine they’re thrilled at the prospect of one of their best friends disappearing without explanation.” She somehow manages to be blunt and soft and so uniquely wise.

“I have to move on, because we are just friends. That’s easier to do when I’m not constantly overwhelmed by Remus reading to me, and Sirius’ relentless flirting, and James calling me-”

“Angel! There you are.” A sweaty James Potter practically yells from across the courtyard as he sees you. Your heart stops, the sun is on his face and bouncing off of his glasses, his hair has never looked this good, ever. It’s damp and sideswept and you just know Sirius has been somewhere near it, because it looks particularly soft. You aren’t sure he isn’t actually an angel of some kind as he jogs over to you and the girls in his white tank top and shorts, positively beaming.

“Nice to see you too, potter.” Marlene snarks with a grin as James enters your personal space.

“Oh come on Marls, you know I’m always positively thrilled to see you.” His smile unwavering as he looks over at her, you take that moment of freedom from his gaze to wipe the sweat that formed away from your brow, and to start a silent conversation with lily, which really only pertains you mouthing “help” and her grinning at you happily, thrilled with the confrontation. She hated when you hid from things, from yourself.

“Did you put on sunblock? Sirius has plenty, if you haven't.” James asks you softly as he leads the small group to the tree where he had come running from, you can just make out Sirius and Remus under it, Sirius sprawled out on the grass, head in remus’ lap, who’s back is against the tree as he reads. You’re struck with fondness yet again as you look at them, finding it all too easy to fall back into that habit of loving them from afar.

“I did. Lily made me.”

You answer, with a playful glare at your favorite redhead. James’ smile grows somehow larger at the playfulness. You watch Lily sling her arm over Dorcas, you laugh as Marlene shoves it off, grumbling playfully about how she should go find Mary if she wanted to get all lovey dovey. Despite the tension you can feel, always present it seems, since you fell for James, there is an easiness. Perhaps because of the warmth and the abundance that comes with this time of year, or maybe just because you have found yourself living here, with people who you feel if you didn't already have magic coursing through your veins, would make you believe in its existence. They were just that wonderful.

[neo-kid-funk]

Thinking about how 2016 was like literally the best time of my life when it came to my interests like:

-Haikyuu Season 2 episodes came out on like Tuesdays (I would literally be waiting for the schoolbus after school watching the new episodes shaking so bad because I was excited)

-Yuri on ice episodes coming out on Thursdays (and the kiss being spoiled on tumblr before I got to watch the actual episode,, and then me accidentally spoiling it for my friend bc I reblogged like every post w the kiss I saw)

- RWBY volume 3 on Sundays but seeing spoilers on tumblr the day before bc people that had roosterteeth subscriptions couldn't wait one day 😭😭

-Miraculous ladybug episodes being released on youtube in like parts in the French dub and I'd have to watch it before my mom would make me get up to start cleaning

-BTS released their wings album and the whole conspiracy that Jin was gonna leave the band bc of "awake" and the lyrics 'I can never fly' even tho the album was called wings. And then me only listening to BTS that entire year

-o yah and Steven universe releasing "Steven bombs" like once in a blue moon and me dying for more progress in the story only for it to be like 6 episodes about the fucking mailman, and me truly believing that Lapis Lazuli was secretly Blue Diamond

-O yah and playing mystic messenger for the first time and deadass falling in love with Yoosung

I would do anything to go back to that year I swear 😭😭

[libraryspectre]

I wanted to talk about the Black Parade uniforms and it kind of turned into an entire essay. My ideas on the intention behind each costume and their cohesion as a group really evolved over the course of writing this, and I think it brought into focus a lot of things I knew subconsciously but hadn't articulated. I also noticed a lot of details I had never seen before. This has futher convinced me that 1) costume design and what you can say with it is really fascinating and 2) this is S-tier costume design of all time. And it's really long so I'm putting the rest under the cut.

What I would have loved is a Weezer-style picture of the five of them standing side by side, full bodies visible, but unfortunately that doesn't seem to exist. They're either covering each other up, or posed in such a way that details aren't visible or cut is hard to compare, so I'll have to provide a variety of visuals. This weirdly blurry poster is the closest thing I could find to a Weezer picture, so take them in as a group and refer back as necessary. I want to start by saying, obviously, that they look amazing both individually and as a set. "Dark marching band of death" is a really fun concept that is very well executed. But this isn't their first time doing a look as a group - think back to Revenge for a minute, when they really started to think about their costuming as a band. Gerard has talked about how then, they were kind of closing ranks against the vitriol coming their way. They needed to feel like a team, a gang, and dressed like one. I think some of this mentality has carried over into the Black Parade uniforms - they're less defensive, (there's no bulletproof vests), but in taking on new, nameless identities they have removed themselves as individuals from the equation, which is protective in its own way. What's left are stage personas, and the more you look the more you see that these were designed by someone who is very familiar with the history of the band and how each member presents themselves on stage. It's absolutely genius costume design, because when everyone is in uniform, the little differences are more noticable and tell you so much about the intention behind each variation.

Before we really start, I have to confess that I have no history in costuming or even a lot of familiarity with marching or military bands. I can only say I find costuming interesting, so I've read a little about it, and I went to high school in America and almost all my friends were in marching band. Someone who is more educated in these things could probably give more specific insights and have a better vocabulary to talk about it, but do not underestimate me. I am deeply obsessed with MCR and got A's in English, so let's find some meaning in symbolism! But please remember that with all art, there is no one interpretation. And remember going forward that these costumes were designed by Colleen Atwood, based on sketches she was given by Gerard, so there's no telling what elements were brought in by her and what elements Gerard had planned originally. If anyone has sources on that, PLEASE let me know because I'm very curious about the design process.

Also, I'll be using the uniforms as they appear in the WTTBP video as the standard, with acknowledgements toward variations seen in posters and the FLW video. It's worth noting that in many live performances they wore different, less unique jackets, and often forewent the pants for black jeans. This is almost certainly because they were easier to perform in and they didn't want to subject the originals to the sweat and rowdiness of regular shows. Ok, here we go! Here are some pics to refer back to throughout.

Starting with the band as a whole, I want to point out two things: first, marching bands evolved from military bands. The individual costumes vary in how "military" they look, but you can definitely see the influence when you look at them as a set. I imagine they leaned into that a bit because of the military elements on the record - the suggestion in Mama that the patient was a soldier, maybe even a war criminal. We also know they've done military aesthetics before, in The Ghost of You music video, and that the band was formed in response to 9/11. Suffice to say, the military is on the mind, and this is a continuation of that.

They also look a bit like skeletons. Obviously they would occasionally do the face paint, but the uniforms themselves suggest a ribcage with the horizontal silver lines, and at some angles the stripes on the pants also really contribute to the image. I know most people have already realized this, but I wanted to point it out explicitly because it took me an embarassingly long time to see it.

Alright, I'm gonna talk about them individually now, going from my personal least to most favorite. Taste aside, they're all individually really interesting.

5. Bob

(I can't find another good Bob picture, just scroll up to the blurry one)

It's not just because I don't like Bob, I genuinely like this one much less than all the others. It might be because it's less tailored - the others look much sharper, he looks almost rumpled in comparison. The lose fit might be because as a drummer, he needed better range of movement, but I'm not a drummer so I don't know. The cut of his jacket looks kind of naval to me, which is interesting. His stripes are also very minimal compared to the others. Overall, his looks the least like it's part of a set. I don't necessarily think they meant to set him apart, but maybe they did, considering he's the only non-original member (I'm counting Frank as an original member) and the only one not from New Jersey (which, I only point out because they ALWAYS point that out to people who mention they're a Jersey band. We're from Jersey, Bob is from Chicago.) Maybe it was a subconscious thing, or maybe as the drummer his costume was designed to make the most of what would be visible sitting and partially obscured by the drum kit. It does have a very dramatic collar. That's probably also part of the reason they gave him a more distinctive haircut for this - I'm not gonna talk about hair much, but it's worth mentioning. Overall, I don't have a ton to say about Bob because I don't think of him much (sorry, but not really).

4. Frank

Frank's is really interesting. His is the least traditional-looking, which is why it's here in the ranking, but I like it and I think there's a good reason for that. Those stripes on the sleeve are a really strong look, and the material of the silver has kind of a tarnished/dappled look you can see better in other photos. I've seen people say it's a subtle camo pattern, but I'm honestly not sure - I think he's supposed to look a little less new and shiny. The blockiness of it widens him and gives him a lot of presence that might be lost if he was dressed more like the others, and it compliments his performance style well. That's particularly important in the WTTBP video - on that float, he simply doesn't have room to be as wild and energetic as his standard performance was at the time, so this uniform helps him stand out and draw attention to what thrashing he is able to do. As far as bucking tradition, he also is the only one without shoulder tabs (those little loops). There's something funny about that - those tabs are meant to hold loops and eupalletes that would signify rank, placement, or achievement, which apparently you could not give to Frank if you tried. I think this lack of traditionality is reflective of Frank's more punk sensibilities, having come up in the Jersey scene. His playing style evolved over time as he and Ray influenced each other, but at the start he was very much their punk guitarist and coming up in that scene continued to influence how he conducted himself as a musician. I think this uniform marks him as a non-conformist even within the group.

He also has that patch with a red cross on the sleeve, the only bit of color on any of them. I don't know what to make of that, maybe it's just for the Catholic vibes.

Honestly, Frank's feels the most like what people would expect from an "emo" marching band uniform. Especially considering the poster, where he's found a hole to stick his thumb through. I don't think he's wearing it in the video, but in that poster he has this belt with some kind of weapon?? Maybe?? We get it, he's a dangerous little man.

3. Mikey

Mikey's uniform is by far the most military - it's not just the medal, it's also the cut of the jacket. And he's the only one with a fun little belt, which helps keep the silhouette look nice and tailored even though the jacket flares a little at the waist. We all know the medal is a reference to his death in The Ghost of You video (there's no way they didn't know we would make that connection) and it wouldn't surprise me if the rest of his uniform looks more military because it was built around that idea. But also consider Mikey's stage presence at the time - due to his discomfort on stage, he used to be really stoic, standing in the back, getting the job done with little showmanship. I think that presentation lends itself well to a classic military figure. Mikey is also pretty thin, and the long jacket and it's strong, solid construction keeps him from looking too Victorian-orphan waifish (especially with how pale they all are), and more like a dead soldier boy.

Additionally, Mikey's costume leaning so hard into the military side helps them look more military as a group. It keeps the association in your mind when you look at the others. Also, he's wearing a little necklace here, which I've never noticed before, is he wearing that in the videos?? I think it's an anchor, which is fun considering he died on a beach.

2. Gerard

Yes, Gerard's is #2 in my ranking. I'm sorry, I might have a slight bias knocking it down from #1. But maybe not, let me defend myself when I get there. Anyway, Gerard's is the most classically marching band, which makes sense considering he's the frontperson. In fact, he has one of those braided loops on his shoulder we talked about earlier, demonstrating.....something, it seems to vary a lot, but we're probably meant to think leadership. He's not wearing it the WTTBP video, but it's there in Famous Last Words. He also has that fancy little star thing on the shoulder, which definitely seems to suggest rank. Otherwise, his uniform is very basic. He's the template that the others' uniforms are variations of. And it's a great look! He's also got nice big buttons compared to the others, three whole rows of them, which is a nice touch to make it look a liiiiittle more feminine. Because, of course, the back of the jacket is corseted, in a genious stroke of gender that puts the entire outfit in a new context. I think this is a good example of how Gerard likes to play with androgony by balancing masc and femme elements. The cut of his jacket makes his shoulders look wide and his waist narrow, but not so narrow it looks terribly feminine (just a little, taken on its own). A lot of this is achieved by the piping - notice how on Bob, Mikey, and Frank, the top row of piping (I might be using that word wrong but let's go with it. I'm talking about the silver stuff across the chest) is pretty much the same length as the bottom row? On Gerard, they start out wide way up on his shoulders and get progressively narrower at the waist. It's still a mostly masculine silhouette, but then you have the counter balance of the big buttons and his little white pixie cut, both of which lean just a little further toward femme than masc. It's an androgynous look that leans toward masc as a whole, until he turns around and, boom, corseted back. Showstopping. He also had those black leather gloves that give some nice formality, and maybe a touch of impersonality. They make it so that when he's in full uniform, the only skin you can see is that of his face. They're like an edgier version of the usual plain white marching band gloves.

1. Ray

Going purely by aesthetics, Ray's is my favorite. It's the fancy one, most obviously distinct by the flourishes around the buttons on his jacket. He Mikey are the only ones with pure silver shoulder loops, and Ray has more silver piping on his jacket than the others. In some pictures he's wearing this really ornate knotted tassle thing? You can see it in one of the group pictures above. He isn't wearing it in any of the videos, which makes sense as it could be really annoying while playing. The cut of his jacket at the bottom also looks formal to me, but I'm not sure why. Overall, the ornanamentation could be a reflection of his playing style - the same caveat here applies to Frank, in that they influenced each other through their parnership as guitarists, (and Ray has a lot of influences from different genres), but at the start he was their metal guitarist, and the guitars in metal are often complicated and showy. And he's their soloist, they need to show him off a little.

Additionally, the construction here is giving him an absolutely wild silohette. Like Gerard, the piping on his jacket gets progressively narrower to suggest a smaller waist, but without the really long stripes at the top to make the shoulders look broader. Those vertical lines across the front add to the effect because they're curved inward - which is interesting, because everyone else's uniforms are composed of entirely straight lines and sharp angles. And his jacket is cut REALLY high on the side. I can't tell if Ray's pants are more high-waisted than the others, or if it just looks that way because of the cut of the jacket. You see the stripe of the pants go all the way up his hip, and since he's already tall with long legs, it really accentuates that. It's hard to tell, but I think his pants are even a little more form-fitting than the others. The other day I saw people commenting on a gif of Ray in the WTTBP video about how they never noticed how long his legs are - this is why!

We talk about how part of what makes Ray such a compelling performer is how he moves, and I think this costume was designed to compliment fluid motion. The tailoring and curves of the piping avoid making him look too rigid or blocky, as a marching band uniform could easily do, and the high cut of the jacket lets the line of his legs continue uninterrupted. Honestly, this is a favorite look for Raygirls (gender neutral) for a reason - I think they knew exactly what they were doing putting him in a pretty, well-tailored uniform that accentuates his movement. (Caveat here that I'm a Raygirl (gn) so I'm definitely biased, and they all look great in their uniforms, but I do think Ray's is.....uniquely flattering, and I don't think it was an accident).

Conclusions

So now that we've talked about all of them, I think we have some interesting contrasts to make. Gerard and Mikey both have very classic looks, but Gerard's is more marching band and Mikey's is more military. Mikey and Bob both have very military looks, but Mikey's has a much more solid construction. Gerard and Ray are both on the marching band side of the spectrum, but Gerard's is classic while Ray's is ornate. My favorite contrast is between the guitarists - Frank's is blocky and rigid and tarnished, Ray's is curved and fluid and shiny.

The interplay between similarity and contrast is what makes this so compelling as a group costume - just by looking you can tell who's the leader, who's the tragic figure, who's the outcast, who's the rebel, who's being spotlit.

In closing, thank you Colleen Atwood and Gerard Way for designing these and the rest of the band for wearing them, I will never get tired of looking at them.