#I feel like I should add that tag in case I'm right

[facelessfinest]

Currently like an hour and a half into Ghost Trick and I'm already completely convinced that "Sissel" isn't actually the real Sissel, he just assumed the first body he saw was his, the same way Lynne briefly took on the form of inspector dance pants after her second death before "Sissel" corrected her.

Im like 90 percent certain Ray of Light is the real Sissel.

[suzukiblu]

NaNoWriMo fic, day one: obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Tim Drake had absolutely no intentions of ever becoming anyone's sugar daddy when he met Superboy.

This would have worked out better for him if Superboy had ever had an actual legal identity or an actual legal guardian or just . . . literally anything whatsoever in life. Ever. At all.

Just a bank account, even.

"You're working for Cadmus," Tim says slowly. "Cadmus, as in the lab that stole Superman's body and cloned him without his consent. Cadmus, which you had to break out of so they couldn't put mind control code words in your head."

"Yeah," Superboy replies like that's not literally insane. Tim stares at him.

"Why?" he asks incredulously.

"Food and shelter?" Superboy shrugs. "And I mean, I dunno, where else am I gonna go?"

Tim is not okay with this situation.

"What did Superman say?" he says.

"Just to like, keep an eye on things," Superboy says with another shrug. "Make sure they're not up to anything shifty."

Tim stares at him.

"Superman," he says. "Told you to just . . . 'keep an eye on' the dubiously ethical cloning lab. The specific dubiously ethical cloning lab that tried to put mind control code words in your head. Specifically."

"Yeah," Superboy confirms.

Alright, Tim is actually even less okay with this situation than he thought, apparently. Like, impressively less.

"Okay," he says. It is absolutely no kind of okay in any way whatsoever, of course, but he doesn't want to put Superboy on the defensive. That'd make effectively interrogating him a lot harder, for one thing. Cooperative subjects are best in these situations. "What are they paying you?"

"I mean, like, they gave me my own room and they're feeding me and whatever, so I don't really need much money," Superboy says. "There's a discretionary fund I can use if I need to go on an undercover mission or anything like that? But I'm not really the undercover type anyway."

"Sure," Tim says. So . . . no way for Superboy to save up to move out and get an out-of-lab life, then. Great. That's not fucked-up or crazy or horrible at all. "Do you like it there?"

"It's okay," Superboy says, shrugging again. "Better than literally everybody in Hawaii yelling at me every time they see my face, yeah?"

Tim wants to set the world on fire, but he's trying really hard not to go supervillain before he's thirty and he'd hate to throw out all that hard work.

"They just let me do whatever, mostly," Superboy adds. "They don't really care as long as I'm around when they need me."

He'll go supervillain as soon as Bruce dies, Tim promises himself. Just–he'll give his share of the eulogy at the funeral and then he'll blow up three-fourths of Arkham and the entire GCPD while Commissioner Gordon is on his lunch break. He can time that out, that'll be easy. And then he'll go and personally murder the Joker with the very specific combination of a rusty crowbar and a shrapnel bomb, and then he'll just . . . well, he'll just go with the flow from there, he figures. Do whatever feels natural.

Seriously, the world as it is does not deserve to exist. It really just does not.

Tim figures he can probably convince the rest of Young Justice to tag along for the whole supervillain thing and hopefully Dick and Steph and Barbara too, and ideally also Alfred, in the unfortunately likely event that he outlives Bruce. He's got time to lay the groundwork with them all and all, and also everything really is awful and horrible and really does deserve to burn.

"Are they sending you to school or anything? Or tutoring you?" Tim asks with what little scraps of hope he has left. Higher education would be . . . well, something, at least. And actually it probably wouldn't hurt for Superboy to learn a bit more about genetic engineering from the same place he got genetically engineered, just in case anything goes wrong with his DNA again. Cadmus should at least be good for that much, right?

"Ew, no, thank fuck," Superboy says, making a face. "Like I said, they mostly let me do whatever until something needs punched."

So . . . no furthered education or learning any usable job skills or making real money or literally anything that could, again, lead to Superboy ever getting any kind of an actual out-of-lab life established.

Great.

Just great.

"I see," Tim says.

"It's a pretty sweet gig, considering," Superboy says, and grins brightly at him. It's a very nice grin. Normally being faced with that particular grin would make Tim need to beat down the highly unprofessional urge to kiss it.

Right now, though, he's a little bit more concerned with the fact that his teammate is just . . . living in and working for a fucking lab. As a matter of course. Just as a thing.

And Superman of all people thinks that's . . . fine, for some reason? Like, normal and ethical and okay? Somehow? In some way?

What the actual fuck, Tim thinks to himself.

"You said Superman told you to keep an eye on things?" he asks.

"Yeah," Superboy says, his grin widening. "He took me to his fortress and asked me to do it there. Showed me around a bit, too."

"That sounds really interesting," Tim says, wondering in vague disbelief if that means Superman had never taken Superboy to the Fortress of Solitude before. He must've, right? And just . . . inexplicably not shown Superboy around then.

Yeah. Sure.

"It was awesome!" Superboy says with more enthusiasm than Tim's seen from him since they met Nina Dowd's . . . endowments, seemingly forgetting the need to be "cool" for long enough to lean forward in his seat and outright beam at him. Tim is gonna need a minute to recover from the sight of that expression, probably. "It's seriously freaking freezing up there, but there's so much cool shit in the place. Like, from all over the universe, but from Krypton, even! The only thing I'd ever seen from Krypton before was kryptonite!"

Tim considers moving up his supervillain timeline after all. Like. Just possibly. Just a little.

Maybe he can convince Bruce to take an early retirement off-planet and just go from there.

What the hell is wrong with Superman?

"Oh, wow, really?" Tim says, simultaneously pretending he didn't already know what Superman has in his fortress and trying not to be screamingly obvious about the internal calculations he's running on figuring out how to weaponize red sunlight. Or like, maybe he could look into learning some magic. That's technically an option. Probably more time-consuming and harder to hide the process of, though. Still, it's on the table.

"Yeah. He showed me some of it. Told me some stories and stuff, even," Superboy says, and that excited grin turns just a little bit shy and soft and somehow even more distracting than usual. He ducks his head just a little, and then that soft grin is more like a soft smile, and Tim suffers. "And I, uh–and he gave me something, too."

"What did he give you?" Tim asks, praying to God that the answer is "an emergency contact number" or "an allowance that can cover a semi-decent Metropolis apartment" or "an offer to live literally anywhere but Cadmus, including in the thirtieth century or on a hostile alien planet or inside an active volcano". He's technically an atheist, so the praying thing is probably moot, but times of desperation are times of desperation.

"A name," Superboy says, and his smile widens helplessly. "Like, you know, a real one."

Tim might hate Superman, he thinks. That might actually be a thing now.

Yeah, he's definitely going supervillain after Bruce dies and doesn't need an emotional support sidekick anymore. Better start stocking up on the kryptonite.

"That's great," he says with a very carefully not-forced smile of his own instead of anything more along the lines of "wait, you've been alive and active as a superhero for all this time and no one ever actually named you?!" Superboy would probably take it the wrong way, not in the least because that genuinely never actually occurred to him as being a thing before. Like–he really did just assume Superboy was keeping a lid on whatever his real name was for personal reasons or Superman reasons or something. "Are you allowed to tell me it, or is that a no-go?"

"Oh, yeah," Superboy says with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at his arm. "It's like, a Kryptonian name? Not like a secret identity one. It's, uh, Kon-El."

Of course it's not even a damn secret identity, Tim thinks in absolute frustration and abject loathing. Of course not! Why would it be?! Fuck forbid!

"I like it," he says, because he lies to Batman and therefore there is no fucking way that he's going to let Superboy–Kon–see any sign whatsoever of the metaphorical 9.9 on the Richter scale that is currently happening in his psyche. "It suits you."

"You think?" Kon grins all the wider. Tim can't even calm down enough to want to kiss him, except in the sense that he always wants to kiss him.

"I do," he says, and smiles at him again.

Kon smiles back.

Tim hates everything. All the things. There is nothing that Tim doesn't hate right now, except maybe Alfred's snickerdoodles because he might be having a nervous breakdown but he's not, like, criminally insane or whatever.

Yet.

"Yeah, it's kinda cool," Kon says, straightening up in his seat and then leaning back, clearing his throat and slipping his sunglasses back on like they're not in a literal cave right now. Tim doesn't call him on it, because he has a supervillain timeline to work out and that's much more important.

Also because the teammate he has an inadvisable crush on is in a much, much shittier situation than he ever realized and he has to reconcile that with his worldview and also his opinion of Superman. Tim doesn't especially idolize the man except in the sense of knowing he's one of the greatest heroes on Earth and a very, very good man that Bruce thinks incredibly highly of, one of the best men on the League and maybe even on the planet, but . . .

But if he's such a good man, then why the hell is Kon living in a lab that tried to mind-control him and why has he only just seen the Fortress of Solitude for the first time?

Why didn't he have a real name?

"So do we call you Kon or Kon-El now?" Tim asks, which is a bit of a senseless question but also at least a bit of a distraction. He wants to say this whole situation is a horrible idea, who the FUCK convinced you this situation was a good idea?!, but there is no possible way that Kon would respond well to that. Ever.

Also, Kon had a point. Where else is he gonna go?

Clearly not the Fortress of Solitude.

Seriously, would it be that hard for Superman to give him a room there? At least a place to stay sometimes, so he wasn't exclusively relying on the mind-control cloning lab for food and shelter and basic comforts?

"I think just Kon?" Kon says, frowning consideringly. "'El' is like Superman's last name, I guess? So I think just Kon."

"Makes sense," Tim says, internally seething. Superman gave him the "El" name but not a secret identity? A name from a dead civilization with a bit of sentimental value, maybe, but nothing usable on this planet? Fuck, you'd think Kon didn't already know his secre–

. . . Kon doesn't know Superman's secret identity, does he.

Tim had thought he was lying, when he'd said that stuff about Superman not having one, before. Thought it was supposed to be a cover or a misdirection or something. But Kon actually thinks that, doesn't he. And Superman has just . . . kept letting him think that.

Becoming a supervillain actually might be an underreaction, in retrospect.

"Just Kon sounds less formal anyway," Tim says instead of so just in theory, do you think tactile telekinesis could trigger a heart attack or stroke in a full-blooded Kryptonian, if you could REALLY concentrate on doing it? like not FATALLY, just dehabilitatingly?, because he still has some groundwork to do before they get that far into potential supervillainy. There's steps to the plan. The steps need to be followed. They're very important steps. "You don't want Bart full-naming you every time he's looking for the remote."

"Like he'd even bother, it's faster for him to turn the living room upside-down than actually ask anyway," Kon says with a laugh, dropping his head back on his neck. Tim has some thoughts about climbing into his lap and figuring out if the TTK makes him hickey-proof, and then buries them. Not appropriate. Not professional. Just not.

. . . technically, if Kon wanted a hickey, he could just let his TTK down and ask for–

Tim buries his thoughts deeper.

Much, much deeper.

"Point," he says. "So what time does Cadmus expect you back?"

"Dude, it's a job, not a boarding school," Kon says, giving him an amused look. "I don't have a curfew."

Tim, technically, hasn't followed his own curfew any way but accidentally once in his entire life, but for god's sake, is Cadmus even pretending to be raising a teenager or are they really just being that flagrant about ignoring all the child labor laws they so clearly do not give a fuck about? Like, there must be something illegal about this. There has to be.

If there's not, Tim will be adding "burn down Project Cadmus" to his list of supervillain plans to set up in advance. In red pen. Underlined.

Twice.

God, why is the world like this. Why are people like this?

"I guess that'd be convenient," Tim says, internally ranking various methods of combustion. "Though I guess it depends on the cafeteria hours, too."

"It's whatever, I can always eat later," Kon replies with a shrug. "I think I've still got a couple protein bars in my room anyway."

"Just protein bars?" Tim asks, mentally upping the amount of explosives he was considering going with. Cadmus is going to be a crater by the time he's done with it. "Don't you need more calories than that?"

". . . well, sort of," Kon says, folding his arms and looking very briefly embarrassed. "Superman doesn't have to eat, apparently, but, uh, guess I'm not Kryptonian enough for that. Actually I kinda need to eat more than normal humans, it's weird. Like. A lot more."

"I'm ordering pizza," Tim says, upping his mental explosives count again. "What do you want on it?"

"We're the only ones here," Kon says, looking puzzled.

"More pizza for us, then," Tim says.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Hotel Room

PAIRING: Tangerine x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 2392

SUMMARY: changing plans midway into a mission in Tokyo- you, Tangerine and Lemon decide to stay in a hotel instead of taking the bullet train.

TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+ only. dry humping, pinv, unprotected sex, pull out. no use of y/n MINORS DNI.

A/N: this is my first post and im a little scared to post it, so please plz be kind. I tried to keep it as accurate as possible, however I accidentally made Tangerine kinder than I had originally planned and changed some things about the film plot so it doesn’t create a domino effect in this- aka Tan dying

rewritten 09/12/23 - no change to the plot, just made it less crap

"I don't think we should be getting this train," you mutter like you were talking to yourself, eyes darting across the busy platform of the station. "Guys?" you repeat, turning to see only Lemon behind you. "I don't think we should get this train."

"Yeah?" Lemon hums, sounding distracted.  

"I have a bad feeling. The next one is in thirty minutes. I say we wait," you respond, wary eyes glancing around.

Tangerine joins you both, looking over the tickets he just collected. "What's that now?" he questions, brows furrowed.

"I got intel someone I used to know might be on here," you murmur, avoiding the Twins' focused gaze.

"Like an ex?" Tangerine prods, his tone slightly cautious.

"No— stop it. I'm being serious," you emphasise, eyes squinting to show your annoyance.

Usually, when others act possessive around you, you'd turn the other way - having no interest in games. But when you talk about other guys in front of Tangerine, you'd often notice how his forehead vein would subtly protrude, like he was bubbling with rage from the inside - keeping it hidden. Though you'd always notice. It wasn't hard to tell when he was jealous. His quick, snappy comments are often the main giveaway.

"Alright, alright. Keep'ya knickers on, bellend," he scoffs, crossing his arms and widening his stance as if he was trying to intimidate you - which it doesn't.

"Okay, so, you remember Johannesburg? When we saw that guy— dirty blonde, mid-length hair? Facial hair? Yellow outfit. Looked like a prisoner? That one?" 

"No, not really," Lemon adds, shaking his head - looking clueless.

"Lemon. You shot him— a few times."

"No, not ringing a bell," he continues, just as clueless as before. "Oh, you mean Joburg?"

Tangerine pipes in, sighing. "Yes, you daft fuck."

"Well, I was just checking."

"Yeah, but it ain't important now, is it?" the twins bicker, overlapping each other.

"Oh my god," you mutter, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "Right, anyway, none of that's important. I used to work with him— Ladybug, like way way way back. I got a tip-off he's gonna be getting this train, and he's clearly been assigned to snatch that case," you nod to the silver briefcase tucked under Lemon's arm. 

"We can keep the case safe. We got hired for that reason," Tangerine adds, subtly reassuring you. 

"No, no. That doesn't matter. He's seeing a new therapist, and he's got some weird fate, destiny thing protecting him— like everyone except him gets hurt. I dunno about you, but I don't really feel like getting shot at again today."

You look between the brothers, eyes softening like you are talking without words - telling them things to make them take your side, to make them see that you're trying to protect them. You find it harder to pull away from Tan's fixed blue gaze, feeling strangely hypnotised under his attention.

"Okay," Tangerine agrees simply. "We'll wait," he nods, extending his hands towards you, resting them on your shoulder as if he's comforting you - telling you in his own way that everything will be okay. He rips his hands away when he hears a cough from beside him - Lemon suspicious at the placement.

The kind gesture wasn't long-lived, but it helped. A lot.

You suggest staying in a nearby hotel for the night, offering to try again in the early hours of the morning. The case would be safe, and that's what mattered.

————

You and the twins walk into the quiet hotel lobby, asking for three rooms - preferably all next door to each other. Once collecting the key cards, you make your way up to your floor, letting yourselves into your rooms with a quick nod to one another, silently saying goodnight.

After the nonstop events of today, all you wanted was to shower. To wash away the grime of the day, literally.

You throw your overnight bag on the floor and do a quick sweep of the room to check it's safe, then head into the bathroom, stepping into the shower to begin a lengthy wash.

Afterwards, you pat yourself dry with a fluffy hotel towel, dressing in an oversized tee when you hear a few rhythmic knocks at the door. You look through the peephole to see a wet, curly-haired, ‘stached man - there was only one person that could be.

You tug on the hem of your t-shirt, covering your exposed thighs as you open the door, greeted by Tangerine on the other side wearing a baggy tee and a pair of boxers.

His eyes leisurely travel over you, slowly pulling away from your thighs that you subtly tried to hide. He coughs, clearing his throat like he's refocusing, diverting his attention from your lower half back to your fresh face.

"Just doing bed check. And you are... ahem," he masks the pause in another cough. "You are accounted for. So that's. That's good."

"Right, okay," you murmur, purposely keeping your gaze fixed on his face - stopping your eyes from glancing lower.

He hesitates, lingering like that wasn't all he knocked for. You wanted to invite him in. To hang out for a bit. But you get all finicky and squirrely when it's just the two of you, and you never know what to say or do. It was like you couldn't think straight, his aftershave and biceps acting like a barrier in your brain. Besides, it's not like anything can happen between you anyway - he didn't like you in that way.

He clears his throat once more, scratching the back of his neck. "My tv ain't working. I don't wanna watch Lem's shit, so can I watch some in your room?"

Letting out a small puff of a sigh, you agree and move aside, allowing him to walk past. He settles in almost instantly, shimmying himself under the covers and flicking through the channels, trying to find something good to watch.

You sit down awkwardly beside him, leaving a safe and comfortable gap between you, subtly scootching away when he moves closer to you.

"What's up with you? You're being well weird," he asks, diverting his attention from the Japanese game show to you, looking over you with furrowed brows.

"I'm not being weird. You're being weird," you divert, crossing your arms over yourself, trying to minimise space. "Just trying to get comfy."

"That's cos'ya hanging off the bed, knobhead. Get closer, then."

He swiftly pulls you closer, gently dragging you towards him so that both of you are leaning against the headboard, his arm draped over your shoulder.

It was the complete opposite of what you were trying to accomplish - now smushed up close to his side, forced to smell his masculine shower gel. You had no idea what to do with yourself.

You have only been this close in proximity a few times. And on those occasions, one of you would always be drunk - never to be brought up again. But when you're sitting so close to him, both completely sober, your brain can't help but stir up those feelings you've been trying to suppress.

Lewd and vulgar thoughts spiralled around when you feel the steady sound of his heartbeat against your arm, everything so casual and natural - like everything was a breeze with him. Your mind begins to wander when you feel him shift beside you, legs spreading, groin adjusting like he was making himself comfortable - like he was situating himself in your bed for the night.

In your line of work, you don't often experience genuine human interactions - ones that are soft and gentle, ones filled with tender love and care. Every encounter lately has ended in a blood bath - literally. 

So when you feel Tangerine's hand slip into yours, you can't help but overthink it. It was so unlike him to physically show how he felt, so it was tricky not to question his motives.

His thumb swipes over your hand, softly squeezing yours, so you decide to look up at him, but he is already focused on you - the tv a mere thought away. The way he looked at you was so unexpected, so different to all the other times. 

All you could offer under his concentrated attention was a faint and gentle smile, nose softly scrunching as you held his gaze. He returns with a boyish grin, tache twitching with the movement.

You momentarily break eye contact, quickly glancing down at his lips. You thought you were sneaky, but the way his breathing ever so slightly faltered told you otherwise. 

He slowly leans towards you, his movements articulate and calculated as he pulls you in for a kiss, working over your lips carefully and considerately. His large palms nestling on the side of your face, cupping your cheeks as he deepens the kiss - everything turning somewhat desperate. Hasty.

His mouth travels away from your slightly bruised lips, now working along your jaw and down the side of your neck. Muttering faint groans into your skin as you tug on the damp curls at the back of his head - holding him close to you.

Tangerine's movements remain dominant. In charge. Guiding you and bringing you down the bed, laying you flat on your back so he can situate himself between your spread legs - hovering atop of you with his chest pressed to yours.

His cock feels firm against you, tucked and slotted perfectly between your thighs, nudging and brushing your clit with every subtle move he makes. 

It wasn't long before you found yourself whimpering into his mouth and toying with your hips, the dry humping working you up more than you had thought.

He parts from your lips, looking into your hazy, blissed-out eyes -ones that mirror his own- and begins to lazily push up your tee, stroking up your stomach, exposing just what he wanted to see; plushy tits and cute soft tummy. 

You help him out of his t-shirt, wanting to see more. Eager fingers trailing over the contours of his stomach before pulling him back to you, his happy trail brushing against your abdomen - chests sandwiched together. 

He trails a faint line of kisses down your neck and along your collarbone as he slips himself from your grasp, sitting on his knees between your thighs. He picks up your hand, sliding his gold rings onto your fingers. "Look after these for me, would'ya?" he whispers, kissing the back of your hand.

It's then that he finally slips a hand between your legs, faintly trailing up and down your slit, teasing you as he palms his cock through his tented boxers, circling over the wet patch of fabric - right by his head.

His gaze remains lidded, lazily looking over you as he dips his hand into the waistband, rolling over his aching cock a couple of times. Your eyes respond pleadingly, silently begging him to hurry up.

Your keen fingers make haste movements, brushing over his boxers like you were trying to strip them from him - doing his job for him. 

He answers your prayers and tugs down the fabric, flinging his briefs to the edge of the bed, letting his thick, hard cock spring free. He grips himself at the base, guiding his head towards your slick hole - rimming his tip around before slowly easing in. 

He goes slow, steady. Like he has all the time in the world. Letting you adjust and accustom his size, deeply filling you. Bottoming out.

With his cock stuffed inside, he leans over you once more, hovering over you and caging you to the mattress - your arms and legs clinging onto him, wrapping around him like a monkey on a tree. 

"Fuck me," Tangerine blabbers, voice hoarse and incoherent. Hot grunts against your throat as he winds into you, cock grinding inside you. "Christ."

He brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks, holding you still so he can lap over your lips, swallowing your whimpers - your sweet pretty sounds muffling against his tongue. 

Your touch mirrors his, moving your hands from his back to hold either side of his face, pushing away a stray curl that fell. Holding him close. Keeping him there.

Tangerine quickens the pace, fucking into you a little better. More deliberatly. The curve of his cock rubbing against your gummy walls in the most sinful way.

He chases your release, wanting to feel you shudder and tighten around him - wanting to feel you cum on his cock. So, he parts from your lips and trails messy open kisses over your cheek, halting when he reaches under your ear. 

"You feel so perfect wrapped around me—  you're so perfect," he hazily whispers, talking low. "God— yeah, that's it," he nods slowly, encouraging you. "You're right there, pretty girl. I can feel it."

With his soft praise, you find yourself gripping onto his dick, tightly clamping around him as you cum. Moaning sweet cries senselessly into the crook of his neck.

Your release triggers his own, pumping his thick, warm load onto your stomach, biting back broken groans as he milks the rest of his cum onto your jittering tummy. 

He leans back over you once more, placing a lingering kiss on your lips before pushing himself off the bed, heading for the bathroom.

Returning with a lusty smile and a wet washcloth, he sits on the edge of the bed beside you, gently wiping it over your stomach before doing the same with his cock, rubbing the fabric over his leaking, messy tip.

"We should've done that years ago," you whisper, flattening your tee down your stomach.

"Fuckin' years ago," he coyly grins, raking back his now-dried curls.

Your smile widens, meeting his eyes. "You, uh... you can stay over? If you want... so you— you can watch tv?" you offer, trying to persuade him - finding a reason for him to stay.

"For the tv," he chuckles, nodding. Playing along

He slips into the bed beside you, tugging the covers up and settling himself next to you. His large, warm arms find you under the sheets, holding you to his side.

"We got an early start. Get some sleep, love," he whispers, placing a delicate kiss on your temple. "Goodnight."

[fatesundress]

⭑ sunlight parallel pseudostars. tom riddle x reader

summary. your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose.

tags. gn afab reader, part one of an inevitable part two but this one is just pining because nonny asked so nicely, yes there is fluff but it's a tom pov, so... i do what i can, post-hogwarts, mutual pining (but emphatically, arduously, overwhelmingly tom), tom and reader were hopeless fools in school who never confessed their feelings for each other, legilimency/occlumency training as flirting, reader definitely filter searches the slow burn tag, self-cockblocking, i can't tell if this is ooc even by my own delusional standards, hopeful 'ending' as an apology for my last tom fic, please accept this humble offering

note. finished my first request!! who knew i could do it! i apologize first and foremost for my inactivity and i want to say WOAHHH thank you so much for 400! i'm hoping to make up for my absence by turning this into either a two-parter or a longer mini-series. i did actually forcibly refrain from ending this in smut because i want to try my hand at a slightly slower-burn since my usual preference is like... at least 100k words of longing stares before they even hold hands. i'm trying my best.

word count. 4.9k

There’s something, at least, in the far table at the right side of the bar, that makes the process a tad less dull. It’s somehow quieter here than his flat over Knockturn, sparse with a few old wizards with beards caught in the froth of their cups, Tom’s bend of the pub warm from the fire, crackling with kindling and the scratch of his quill, drizzled in moonlight tealish enough to remind him of the Slytherin common room when little else does nowadays. Something — yes. A tolerable reprieve. The sort of monotony he likes.

As opposed to Caractacus Burke’s constant, doltish solicitations; Tom ponders when the day will come that the man strikes a deal so dumb it lights the tip of someone’s wand green and kills him. It doesn’t drive Tom to any immense grief to consider. On particularly tedious days, he staves off boredom by imagining doing it himself.

But this reprieve can only serve him so well. Tom doesn’t drink — certainly not the dreck they serve here, though he doubts even the finest of wines could tempt him to obfuscate his better senses — doesn’t dance, doesn’t take anyone home even on the rare occasion there’s someone in this pub of bearable taste (except the one time, and that was more a case study than a surrender to gratification). Essentially, he sits at his table and steals the heat and the barkeeps are wise enough to let him.

He’s mused over the exact verbiage of this tome for days. Alchemical equations are the one thing that still occasionally stump him, and Tom is eager to rectify that.

He puts quill to parchment. It bleeds when he comes up short of words. He holds infinitesimally tighter, and the ink spreads like tendrils imagined in the dark; the sort of amorphous shapes that appear on the ceiling when all the lights have gone out. He stares. He lets the shapes form, but finds nothing informative in them, and so sets his quill down and watches leaves fall from the chestnut tree splitting open the sidewalk outside.

Cold air wafts in when the door groans open. There’s the click of dress shoes and a murmur at the bar, followed by a tumbler shaking and a glass being poured.

“Oh, no — er — that one always sits alone,” he hears the barkeep say to the dress shoes.

Tom refrains from turning his head.

 “Doesn’t like to be bothered,” he adds, dress shoes skidded to a halt.

A pause. A sense of eyes on him Tom elects to ignore.

“I know.”

There’s a smile in that voice. He remembers it. The teeth of it, the lips, the tongue that sometimes darts between them.

It must be very late.

He’ll look up and realise there are things other than wine that can addle a person. Too many books, not enough books, not enough sleep, a day gone by without a single spell cast, an itch for control, wanting and not having, and,

you, after all this time.

The lattermost two have for a long time been the same.

Your hair is different than it was before, your figure presented in the rarity of your own clothes when he’s so accustomed to your school robes, but it would be rather bizarre if you ever wore those again. You’re too modern for muggle and magical alike — trousers and a formal shirt, hair somewhere between kempt and wind-blown, the aforementioned nice shoes Scourgified to a squeaky black as you come closer. (You’re coming closer. What a revelation.) A drink floats beside you, your fingers undulating softly to maintain the charm.

“You,” he says, like he doesn’t remember.

You grin. “Me. Sharp as ever, Tom. You look it too.”

The nebulous shape of acumen returns to him and it’s disarming enough to be disarmed — on principle it should not be occurring — but you also should not be here.

He stands. You present your hand as if practised for the proper convention of having it taken, October-cold gloves soft when his lips press to one and he wonders if the skin beneath is softer, or if callouses mar the mounts of your palm. He lingers as the thought does. (What are you up to now? Are you tried by new labours like he is; your knuckles hard from the work? Would they feel voltaic to touch as they once did?)

“Sit, please.” 

Increments of re-introduction tie him to the tangible instead of unfurling from the knots of why you’re here or how you’re here, which cannot possibly be tethered to reality because for all the hours he’s been with you, none in the last three years have happened awake.

There are the dark shapes on his ceiling again. The scraps won’t last. He’ll need to know the details. 

You’ll want to tell.

You take a seat in the chair he pushes out for you, glass sinking onto the table where the condensation immediately shades a ring into the wood. “This wasn’t where I’d expected to find you, you know.”

“No?” Tom asks, returning to his seat, “I wasn’t expecting you to find me anywhere, so the surprise is mutual.”

“I’d have written to warn you, but it was easier to find the places you frequent than the one you live in — wouldn’t know how to get my owl to you directly, you know — and I’m sure that’s not an accident.”

“I feel strangely as though I’m being accused of something.”

“Mm. Your guilty conscience.”

He smiles reflexively. Old habits. “I’m sure.”

You smile too, at least. “You know, when we left school, I gave it — what — two years before you were the youngest Minister of Magic in British history?”

“Then I’ve disappointed you.”

“No, I think I knew you well enough once to know even now that the fact that you aren’t only means you have something better in mind. I’ll have to trust your judgement, because I can’t imagine what that could possibly be.” You take a sip of your drink, twirling your straw as you do. “Come to think of it, though, brooding over a book in an establishment you patronise enough to have all the workers trained to leave you alone despite not even knowing your name is… very Tom.” 

“That one appears to have done a poor job,” he says with a glance at the barkeep. “You’re over here disrupting me. I think I’ll rescind my tip.”

“Still funny, too.”

“Still indecorous.”

“Still saying things like indecorous. You’d better tip, Riddle.”

“Be good company and I might.”

“Oh, I see. I need to prove that I’m a worthy disruption.”

“I was reading a very good book.”

The book was rubbish. His moleskin has roughly four lines of notes jotted on its open page, which he closes promptly, and hopes it doesn’t seem done with too much gravity. Your eyes like to wander, he recalls. Your hands, absentmindedly, too.

Torturous creature you are.

“I missed you,” you say, like you’ve never had the good sense of holding your tongue, or armouring your heart, or not feeding an animal without first seeing the size of its teeth. 

You are so withholding with your work, and so generous with yourself. He wishes you wouldn’t offer him so much. He’s never had the kindness not to take everything you let him.

“You missed me,” he prompts, already asking for more. 

“I missed disrupting you. No one else lets me — or calls me indecorous, and still lets me.”

“You were quite studious, in case you’ve forgotten. More literate than disruptive.”

You raise a brow. “My, I’ve never had a man call me literate before, and I’ve been courted plenty. I’m swooning.”

(Note: you’ve been courted plenty?)

“Inventive, then? Erudite?”

“Do go on.”

“I shouldn’t. I believe you were describing the manner in which you missed me.”

“It was just the one, unfortunately.”

“Why did you find me?”

This generates pause, at least, and that intrigues him.

Addendum: “Why now?”

“I was around,” you decide on, “and I haven’t been in a long time.”

You wanted to continue your studies after Hogwarts. He thinks he remembers that conversation; academics were the topic of most of your discussions, after all. Anything deeper was incidental, crumbs scraped off a plate at the end of a meal.

“Where did you go?”

You drink again. “Portugal, after school. But that was — it’s a bit of a story. I ended up at an academy in Iceland doing a few very boring, ultimately useless courses on spell creation and wandlore. Will you be horrible if I tell you I’m here because I left in the middle of term? Because then I didn’t tell you.”

“I suppose I knew you well enough once to know even now you wouldn’t have left unless you had something better in mind.”

You beam at him, and he acknowledges briefly that it feels like a reward the same way solving a problem does.

“I found you —” (You are far too generous; the question was already answered and here you are offering more) — “because I considered everyone I wanted to see again and you were the first person I thought of. I don’t like to deny myself the little things.”

“No,” he says, “you don’t.”

Rain trickles down the window, and the cool dark of autumn obscures half of your face. He wishes it didn’t, and that’s bizarre.

“I’ll be doing a course in Occlumency in Norway in the new year.”

Oh?

“I know you were always quite good at Legilimency, so don’t start,” you add hastily.

He itches not to smile. It is truth and not arrogance to say that quite good is an understatement.

“I didn’t know you had an interest.”

You scoff. “Please, everyone has an interest. It’s just hopeless for most of us, and painful to be hopeful to learn something so hopeless.”

“Well-put. A terrible ego punch for you, I’m sure.”

“It was. Until I tried Occlumency and realised I’m quite good at that, and then the wound closed a bit.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re honing the skill?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“And — you’re here seeking a teacher?”

“Oh, stop. I told you why I’m here. But if you’re — oh!” You frown suddenly. “Didn’t you say that you were going to apply for DADA after graduation?”

Ah, that. “Denied, unfortunately.”

“Seriously? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m too young.”

That and the matter of Albus Dumbledore and the air that is ceaselessly wasted on his breath.

“Oh, please; half the staff are over eighty, I imagine it might be nice to have a professor who doesn’t forget to grade their assignments every other week. You were Head Boy! That’s completely mad.”

“You’ll have to write an owl.”

“I could.” And you sigh, and stir your half-empty drink of what must be less than ten percent alcohol and ninety percent spice and apple. “Would you… would you mind, though? If your schedule isn’t terribly busy?”

“Teaching you?”

“Helping me with something I’m already good at,” you correct, “as an excuse for me not to go back to a very frilly muggle hotel by myself after coming all this way to find you.”

He echoes the part of that sentence that matters least — your invitation is all that counts, but he has no wish to make that obvious when you’ve always done this, always tugged on a string you seem unaware even exists. “Frilly muggle hotel?”

“What? I used to go to them when I was on holiday. Didn’t I tell you that?”

No. He would have clung onto it if you had. He didn’t even know you had the money for things like that after two wars, but then maybe that was something new. How would you have attained it while in school, though? An untimely familial demise? A wealthy suitor? You wore no ring. You came back to him.

Illegible signs for him to attempt to read.

“Well?” you ask, pulling two sickles from your pocket and leaving them on the table.

His answer is yes, naturally. 

It’s absurd you even feel the need to ask; your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, because of the small thing you were, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose. You didn’t stumble upon each other in the aisles of a shop after years gone by, pressured into empty conversation for the courtesy of it. You missed him, so you found him — and Tom thinks he’s been missed before, in some vague sense by some people blurred long ago by unimportance, but — found? He reconciles not finding you himself by assuring he will make something of this.

“For a worthy distraction,” he says, putting down two sickles to match.

You grin, and he takes your arm again as you thank the barkeep and depart into the slow drizzle of the street.

You tell him of Ponte de Lima and the rootless craters of Myvatn, of old cathedral spires and covens masked as monasteries. You detail the scenery like you detailed your essays in school, and it makes the ennui of London marginally better — that you are walking it with him, talking about beautiful things, in a night dark enough he might not notice the usual absence of them here.

And then, as you step onto busier streets, you say you missed this too, and he is jealous beyond sense of the architectural blemish of Piccadilly Circus.

He glances away from you and the invisible path to your hotel for the first time since issuing Wizarding London for Muggle.

It’s a crowded tableau. The post-war square is spangled with flashbulb advertisements and buskers and skinny double buses orbiting Eros atop his fountain. People skip from hotel bars and teahouses in trench coats and long skirts. Someone outside the Trocadero looks dressed for burlesque. Storefront letters hiccup light through power abscesses and imminent bursts, and the lights… The lights herald cigarettes and chewing gum and Coca Cola and performances at the theatres on Coventry Street. 

You light up with them, sunlight parallel pseudostars. Tom feels half-blinded. He isn’t sure by which.

“You missed London?” he asks. It’s hard to hide in his tone how much he cannot imagine a reason why. All of the things you described in your travels sound better than this.

“I missed home.”

He possesses only a theoretical understanding of what that must feel like. The word itself is a thing long gone. There was Hogwarts, but it was never his.

“Well — I miss this,” you amend, “which I never remembered being like this, and maybe it wasn’t. All I saw in anything growing up was shelter. I’d look at buildings and imagine which ones could survive bombs, and which ones would shatter under gunfire. Since coming back, I’ve liked seeing it a different way. The lights, the people — The Criterion; they’ve a section called the Witches Cauldron, which is very risqué. You would hate it.”

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Risqué?"

“Mhm. Women with skirts over the thighs, men with skirts over the thighs, music with questionable lyrics, and really, borderline indecent comedy. But I think that's the heart of muggle theatre — the good kind, anyway."

“So I was right in calling you indecorous.”

“Hardly. I’m an observer.”

“Upstanding, then.”

You tug playfully at his sleeve. “Saintly.”

“You might revisit those churches in Portugal.”

“And you might learn to let something go. We’re here.”

He looks up at the little dais of steps before the big arch of your hotel door, stones cracked here and there, cigarette stubs smushed at his feet, and back at you, an inviting smile on your face.

“Come on.” You take his arm again and guide him in.

The lobby is all dark wood carved like lace. Fretwork in the moulding, fretwork at the counters, fretwork in the thick columns bolstering the mezzanine; and there, tables with seats turned to face the sound of music, the dulcet flicker of candlelight over plates of food that smell sweet for the hour. As you lead him up the stairs, he gives you a look that warns this was not what he was promised, but you shush him and he abides.

You are lucky for his intrigue. You are lucky for the dullness of his teeth at the maw of his hunger. He doesn’t pretend to understand — he thinks he likes not understanding.

The music gets louder. He can see the entire mezzanine from the top of the stairs; a woman is singing, a man is playing saxophone, the tables are set for dessert, and the plates are almost all licked clean.

You’re watching with the flicker of candles caught in your eyes now, grip imperceptibly tighter on his arm as you lean in to whisper. “There’s something new every night. Yesterday there was the most beautiful pianist. And they served this lemon pudding  — tonight I think it’s… torte? It’s chocolate, at least. It smells amazing.”

“Did you want to stay?”

He did not. It was a courtesy question.

“Just for a song?” you ask, rather more sheepish than suits you.

Just for a song, then.

You press against his shoulder. You’re warm, despite the cold walk.

“Do you ever practise on them?" he asks.

“Legilimency?” You shake your head. “I usually refrain from digging into the thoughts of innocent muggles.”

He raises a brow. “And the bad muggles?"

“I should like to do worse to the bad muggles."

He smiles. You smile too, though you resist it for a moment. “You're as wretched as you were in school."

“Wretched, was I? And what would I have found, if I'd sought out your thoughts back then?"

You laugh, face canted toward the performance. “Thoughts of Os on every O.W.L, what Slughorn meant by a semi-formal dress code, how to get into the kitchens at night..." You turn to him again. “And you? Do I dare ask what I would have found in yours?"

“Hm. Secrets.”

“Damn you.”

The saxophone swells before the last note fizzles out, the contralto timbre of the woman’s voice washed out by a small round of applause. You clap with the other guests, glance over at Tom, frown, take his hands and force them together. He doesn’t resist, but he certainly doesn’t aid the motion. His hands are instead idly patted together, palms hitting the sleeves of his coat and making for a very poor ovation. 

You give up without much effort, fingers looping beneath one of his cuffs to lead him back to the staircase. 

“Wretched,” you repeat.

You search your coat pocket for your key as you walk up the stairs, remarking the artwork on the walls and evidence of a drunk muggle man who spilled champagne on his way to bed last night — you tell him to watch his step, and he averts the side of the stairs where dark spots pepper the carpet. The place is fine elsewise. You mentioned the risqué of The Criterion and he can see notes of it here, in the late night music and the drinking and a few ogling men among the guests, but it’s nicer on the inside than he’d assumed by the exterior, and you can certainly handle yourself amongst debauchees without wands.

Tom stops when you do. Your room is the furthest at the end of the third floor corridor.

“Welcome,” you say, as the key clicks and the door swings open.

A frilly muggle hotel indeed. You flick a switch and the chandelier ignites, dim but extravagant. You go to light a few additional candles at the dresser and windowsill, clipping floral drapes aside as you do. The bed, a queen, matches the fabric of the drapes, with a thick lace skirt and golden brass rails. There’s a small table and two chairs, plush with cushions that loop through the spine and knot like hair ribbons. You tuck your wand away after the room has been brightened and fix him with a look that says, I told you.

“It’s clean,” is all the opinion he offers.

“Hard to make a mess in two days.”

A rather uncharacteristic thought crosses him. He can imagine ways which would not be so difficult.

“Of course.”

“Did you want anything? I could call for room service. Wine? Chocolate torte?”

“I’m more curious to observe your Occlumency firsthand.”

“Right. I’ve been depriving you.” You sit on the edge of the bed and slip off your coat. “I meant what I said, though; I’m good at it.”

“A battle of wills, then.” And he pulls a chair from the little table by the window, sitting it across from you.

You make a face. “This is why I studied with you and never challenged you to anything.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps… I might have saved myself from the predicament I’m in now.”

“You brought me here.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy the predicament,” he guesses.

You smile. “I do.”

He leans in with his arms at the wooden rests of his chair, fixed on the space between your eyes and then the apples of your cheeks, looking for new scars or freckles or stray eyelashes to cast wishes on. Mostly he wonders what’s underneath. That you have presented him the opportunity, even to wonder, feels almost like a wish granted. And Tom is not the sort of man to make them.

But here you are, and the room is quiet, and your gloves sound soft rolling off your fingers, and he should take a chance on one now. He should be greedy. He should want for more.

“Shall I count to three?”

He does. He does want more.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you say, and he can see you steel yourself before his soft surge into your mind.

Your resistance is like a cliffside. His effort is a wave, lapping at the rocks, seeking erosion. It’ll come. It never hasn’t.

You stay there in the cracks between the rocks, not pushing against him as much as shielding yourself from him. He leans an inch further from his chair and inclines his head. Your mouth falls open, breath caught on the sharp edge of his next intrusion. He eases forward but you only hold stronger. An impasse is reached — immovable object and unstoppable force.

Tom’s mouth curves at the corners, patient, persistent and proud. The chase is half of it. Your capability is the other.

“How did you discover your gift?" he asks.

“Don't distract me," you answer, and the softness tells him it’s an exertion for you to speak through this.

Tom nods, though distraction suddenly seems a tempting venture. If he pushes otherwise it will be painful.

For a while he just searches — between the old moss atop the cliff, the space where water strikes and memories propagate in verdant clusters, little runnels in the stone to keep little thoughts. He can see the outlines of those moments you’d described to him on your walk, but nothing deeper, nothing untouched. The abacus on either side of a Portuguese church but no hint of the nave or the apse. The flat horizon of Myvatn lake but none of the pseudocraters.

And still the walls stand, and the wave trickles through the runnels only to feed the moss.

You’re good. He wants to break you. He wants to be gentle. He wants to know if there is a way to do both.

Yes, he thinks there is.

Tom inches his chair closer. There’s perhaps an arm's length between your knees and his, and your expression flickers as you glance at the way it shrinks. A forearm, now. A ruler. Nothing at all, if you look long enough, think about how easy it would be for the space to vanish altogether. And he is thinking about it.

Your eyes dart back to his and he glides through the first crevice of your confusion he can find. A second’s glimpse is all he gets — words on an image of the skin unclad at his wrists, like words on the storefronts of Piccadilly Circus, they spell his name. There’s the cadence of a question. He resists the urge to sink back in his seat in honest pride; that the first thought he’s carved out of you is of his hands and sudden curiosity.

Perfectly innocuous, he rolls his sleeves to his elbows. There’s a quick twitch at your mouth.

“Do you know,” he says, searching again, “there’s something in particular I want to find.”

You indulge him carefully. You must anticipate a trick. “What’s that?”

“The moment you first missed me.”

It is a hard thing to be reminded of a moment and not draw it immediately to the surface. He can see on your face that you have to push the misbehaved thing down with force. But that’s only evidence that it exists, that it’s true, and he must see it like it’s his own. 

Is your missing him not his, in some way? Is his missing you not yours?

“I wonder if you missed me over quill and parchment,” he says, “in old libraries, at a café in Paris… Did you remember me by certain colours? By times of day? Or was it —”

There.

It’s the Athenaeum of Madrid, under the ceiling of the assembly hall. You’re craning your neck to admire the art, and you’re thinking how much he would have liked a place like that.

And then he’s back in the frilly hotel, and your face is in something like a gasp. You’ve swallowed it down, batted him away, but he can see it even from the outside; the curiosity is still there despite. The question unposed but sitting neatly on your tongue ready to be asked.

Tom smiles. “I didn’t know you went to Spain.”

“Well, I thought I might leave something for you to learn instead of be told.”

“Ah, so you let me in?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you?”

You glance involuntarily at the gap between you. Has it shrunk again? He can note the details of the face he’s missed without trying.

“Will you let me in?” he murmurs.

“I don’t think they teach this method of distraction at school,” you say softly, and now the words have been put in the air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifts his chair ever closer. His eyes go to your lips. And he does mean to look away but your mouth quirks the slightest degree upward and he stays there a moment because he was expecting something else.

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been courted before?”

“Plenty,” he recounts.

You lean in. Your knees brush his. You incline your head so your eyes find the path of his, the smile on your face finally full. It’s an error of time that he doesn’t expect it because it must not be an error on his part. “Then you should know to make a greater effort.”

You hold a hand to his cheek, watching the motion as your warm fingers trail from jaw to white collar. And then you pull back; a breeze in the place you sat when you get up. 

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

He recovers quickly, but there’s a lingering heat at his jaw and a curiosity he was faulted to have planted himself — he’s suffering the barest satiation for the million more questions he has. But you missed him, and you invited him here, and you wanted to see him in your mind, so he must wonder if you meant to plant some curiosity too.

“And tomorrow?” he finally asks.

There’s rummaging in one of the cupboards, the twist of cap from its tube, and the quick rush of the faucet before your face peers out from the bathroom’s thick archway, still with that smile.

You flick the light on and brush your teeth like he isn’t there. For whatever reason it’s the most disarming thing you may have ever done, and it reminds him that he had considered you torturous like it was something incidental, which means he’d begun the night with only one equation still able to stump him, and ended it with two.

He could sooner solve alchemy (the entire subject) than this.

“I’ll be out,” you say when you’re done, “but you’re welcome to join me.”

“And what might I be joining you in?”

“Tourism.”

“Tourism?” He inches out of his chair, rolling his sleeves back down.

You lean against the bathroom archway and the candlelight makes a sculpture of you. Your silhouette is a blaze tenderly burning the dark.

“It only feels right after years of doing it in other places, don’t you think? Every street I discover something I didn’t notice before.”

Tom looks at the toothbrush fitted in your hand like an unlit cigarette and imagines putting it back like he’d stomp one out, kissing you and tasting apple and cinnamon and mint stuck on the corner of your pretty mouth.

“Well? Is it below you?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Eleven,” you say, and your breath hitches beautifully at your bare collar when he glides into the archway beside you. “Is that all right?”

He brushes the dab of toothpaste away from your lip. “It’s perfect.” 

Your eyes flit down his face, and now it’s him smiling.

He places a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you through dark lashes and a smirk as he mutters your name, a soft remembrance, a rekindled wanting. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

The noise outside his flat that night is trivial. He has not for a long time sat awake at night watching the sky instead of the shapes on his ceiling. He has not for a long time thought of you with the tranquil knowledge that he will see you again.

[babycharmander]

TW ANTISEMITISM. THERE WILL BE DEPICTIONS OF ANTISEMITIC ARTWORK AND TEXT IN THIS POST.

Okay so, this is not the kind of post I normally make, ever, nor a sort of post I ever wanted to make. But this is an incredibly important issue that goes beyond fandom stuff, and I've talked with a few other people about it to confirm that it is something concerning.

I want to start by saying that I am not Jewish, but I know that you should never let antisemitism get its foot in the door. (If anyone who reads this is Jewish and needs to correct me on anything, please do so immediately.)

This was posted to the tags yesterday:

[ID: A screenshot of a post from @/liu4ka. The caption at the top reads "well he looks at me / and i look at him / and then he smiles" in very small, stylized text. The image below is artwork of Otto, facing right, with his eyes squinted and his mouth in a skewed, toothy grin, with his hands held up in a strange way. /end ID]

This picture looks perfectly fine at first glance... but the thing is, that caption you see there was not the original caption. I managed to get a screenshot of it before it was changed, and the original caption was this:

[ID: A screenshot of the original caption of the above post, which reads "well he looks at me / and i look at him / and then he smiles like sly jew" /end ID]

That's... a weird way to describe a smile. I'd wondered if this was referencing something, and apparently the first two lines are lyrics from a Weird Al song, but the third line is definitely not. That was making alarm bells ring in my mind, along with the pose Otto was in (which I'll explain in a moment).

Still, I wanted to give this user the benefit of a doubt, because it's entirely possible to unknowingly say something that sounds Bad. So I looked at their other account on VK (which is a Russian website that is, as I understand it, similar to Facebook--they have the same name there and post some of the same art). It didn't take me long before I found... this (photo taken with the google translate app). (I hate sharing this, but I need to show proof here):

[ID: A photo of a computer screen taken from the Google Translate app. It features a character facing right, with their eyes narrowed and with a toothy grin on their face and their hands clasped in a specific way in reference to the "happy merchant" Nazi meme. The caption reads "SCARY JEWISH MUSIC PLAYS." /end ID]

It's not in the screenshot here, but the post this was in also had a song linked with it whose title directly referenced the "happy merchant" meme.

If you're not familiar with that meme, please look it up, as I'm NOT comfortable putting that image on my blog. But it's an image people should be familiar with because it is VERY FREQUENTLY referenced by white supremacists and nazis, and that's what's being referenced here.

Obviously not every single piece of art with a character giving a sly look is going to be a reference to that meme, but CONTEXT is important. The Otto image isn't posed exactly like the meme--the hands are not the same--but alongside the original caption AND given the other art this same artist has drawn, I don't think there's any room for doubt here.

What also doesn't help the case is that there was misinformation going around that Otto was canonically Jewish, so I don't think any of this is coincidental.

I feel awful writing this stuff up. I never wanted to make a post like this, but this was a case where I felt like I should not remain quiet. Once again, this is something that goes beyond fandom. Antisemitism is not something you ever, EVER want let through the door, ANYWHERE. I do not want it in this community, and you shouldn't either.

If any member of the Jewish community wants to correct me on anything or add to this, please do so.

Thank you.

[antianakin]

Antianakin's Second Anti-Anakin/Pro-Jedi Fic Rec List

Same general idea as the first one, this rec list is dedicated to fics that are critical of Anakin Skywalker. That can mean anything from just emphasizing that the Jedi's philosophies are right even if it means Anakin is wrong, to killing Anakin off in the most gruesome (and probably cathartic) way possible as a consequence for his choices. Since I know there are differing levels of feelings towards Anakin in the people that follow me, I'm going to add in some new helpful terms and redefine the categories slightly. Please note that these are MY personal interpretations of the fics, not the authors' stated intentions.

Helpful terms:

Unfinished - Any fic that is marked as incomplete, or a series where the fic(s) in it are still incomplete and cannot stand alone.

Ongoing - Any series marked as incomplete, but the fics in it are marked as complete or can stand alone as they are.

Critical - The fic critiques Anakin's philosophies and choices, but allows for more sympathy towards his character and situation should the reader desire it.

Anti - The fic specifically presents Anakin in a very negative way without any sympathy for him or his choices.

Anakin/Consequences: Anakin experiences consequences for his actions, but does not die. These fics can be anywhere between "critical" to fully "anti" depending on the author's take.

Spoiler Alert, He Doesn't Make It: Anakin experiences the specific consequence of dying. These fics will likely all fall under the definition of "anti" as opposed to just "critical."

The Galaxy Deserved Better: Focus of the story is more on characters' reactions to Anakin's choices or using other characters and their relationships to critique Anakin's choices in canon. None of these fics will be "anti" Anakin probably, since the critique of Anakin is at best a catalyst for the rest of the story.

I've had people ask me how to FIND more anti-Anakin fics, so here's my tips:

Look at your favorite authors' bookmarks. If you like something someone wrote, chances are they like reading the same stuff you do.

There's always the option of looking into tags, but I've found that very few people actually use "anti" tags on fanfiction, so your best bet is to look into pro Jedi/Jedi appreciation tags as much as possible, and the ones that are truly pro Jedi are often also critical of Anakin simply by design (if he shows up at all).

A lot of these fics take things like the Tusken massacre, Order 66, and Anakin's treatment of Padme, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan, and the clones very seriously. Please take that as a warning if any of those things might be triggering, and keep an eye on the tags for all of the fics included here just in case.

There is no specific order to this. I tried to group fics from one specific author together, but other than that, I didn't place anything in any specific position for a reason.

This is not an exhaustive list of good anti-Anakin fics that exist, obviously. If your fic or your favorite fic isn't on this list, please feel free to rec it yourself in the notes, leave a reply or reblog with a link. I'm happy to read more anti-Anakin fic, especially if it's very Pro-Jedi!

One final reminder: NOTHING IN THIS LIST IS ANAKIN FRIENDLY! That means it's likely not going to be friendly to Anakin specific ships either, particularly Obikin and Anidala. If that's going to bother you to read, please just skip this entire list, it's not for you.

Anakin/Consequences

Blood-born Memories by Siderea (anti, 725):

Quinlan touches Obi-Wan's robe after his "assassination" by Rako Hardeen and ends up picking up some memories and emotions from Anakin that give him some heart-breaking revelations about Anakin's true nature.

Technically this one ends just before any real consequences and so the consequences are more implied, but I love the way Quinlan reacts to the revelations he has in this fic. Quinlan is so obviously horrified by it and heartbroken on Obi-Wan's behalf, but also strong enough as a Jedi to know what he needs to do now. He's already grieving his friend, but he has to set all of that aside to deal with this now more important issue. This fic is supremely unlikely to ever get any follow-up, but thinking about how Obi-Wan would deal with this development upon coming back from his stint undercover is delightfully angsty.

Malfunctions & Mutiny by BitterChocolateStars (anti, 6k):

Obi-Wan loses on Mustafar, but Anakin takes him prisoner and proceeds to kill Palpatine and make Padme Empress. He puts Cody in charge of guarding Obi-Wan, and one day Cody's chip breaks when Anakin tortures Obi-Wan. Cody starts working on an escape plan for everyone, Jedi and clone alike.

The nice thing about fics post Order 66 from clone perspectives is that Anakin tends to be represented as an unforgivable monster and little else. Cody's priority is saving everybody he can and getting them as far away as possible, so he's not interested in trying to understand or sympathize with Anakin when it doesn't serve his purposes. One of the things I really like in this fic is the way we see Rex and Ahsoka react to the revelation of Anakin's betrayal. Ahsoka takes it a lot better than she does in canon, but we get a nice sort-of outsider perspective of Rex struggling with believing it until he doesn't have any other choice and the way this impacts his relationship with Cody.

The Temple vs Order 66 by LauraBWrites (anti, 4k):

The Temple has become semi-sentient over the years and starts preparing to protect the Jedi in the eventuality that Anakin Skywalker fails.

The Temple itself being a character is really fun, and I quite loved the way it was almost arguing with the Force about Anakin and how to handle the growing darkness in him and the galaxy. I also really appreciated that, while Padme ultimately leaves Anakin behind, her selfish choices during the war aren't swept under the rug, either. I liked that it insists that Anakin is taken care of and not just left to rot, but that whether he gets better or not remains up to him. It doesn't matter how much therapy he's given by the Jedi, he has to choose to accept the help or it won't work.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost by LacieFuyu (critical, 19k):

Anakin doesn't get left in the dark about the Rako Hardeen mission and it goes disastrously as a result. Everyone has to live with the consequences of that choice.

This one takes place within the Rako Hardeen arc, but it does deal with the revelation of the Tusken Massacre and the Anidala marriage as well. There are a lot of truths being thrown at Anakin in this particular fic by the people around him who start to discover more of what he's done and who he truly is, most of whom choose not to sugarcoat anything for him. Several of the characters choose not to forgive Anakin for what he's done, even as some of them continue to work to help him figure out how to heal and get better. There is hope left for him at the end, but the consequences for him in this feel very real and substantial, it goes far beyond Anakin just having to live with what he's done. He loses a lot of the people he cared about, he loses certain privileges and ranks, and they leave open the possibility that he might have to face a pretty serious consequence for the Tusken Massacre from the Tuskens themselves. So while it's sympathetic, it takes Anakin's choices seriously, which I appreciate. I also liked seeing some of the ways other characters were dealing with their own pain and betrayal, the ways they were taking comfort from Jedi teachings and loved ones to heal in a more healthy way.

Spoiler Alert, He Doesn't Make It

here on the edge of silence, half afraid by Siderea (anti, 4k):

Pirate/Mer AU where Fox and the Guard work on Palpatine and Anakin's ship and Fox manages to kill Palpatine, causing Anakin to throw him overboard only for Mer!Obi-Wan to save him.

I like the development of Fox and Obi-Wan's relationship in this one, from some very understandable mistrust to attraction and the beginnings of a friendship. The glimpses we get into a wider world and a rebellion of sorts and how Obi-Wan being a merman fits into the Jedi still existing and fighting alongside the clones under Palpatine are SO tantalizing. Fox's opinion of Anakin is immensely low and Obi-Wan himself is far enough along from whatever betrayal Anakin committed in this AU that he is able to criticize Anakin's behavior and obsessions with people. Anakin never actually appears in this fic, he remains a far-away obstacle to be removed, and I love that for him.

The Galaxy Deserved Better:

Ahsoka is Mace's Padawan series by SkyeBean (ongoing, anti, 442k):

The title of the series speaks for itself for the most part, but this is an AU where Mace chooses Ahsoka to be his Padawan around a year prior to AOTC and it follows the various consequences of that change both to Ahsoka herself and to the galaxy at large. The first fic goes all the way through the end of the Clone Wars, but other fics in the series continue beyond that to at least the end of ROTJ and explore the impact of the Empire on the Jedi as they struggle to survive.

I made an entire separate post strictly about this series because it basically changed my brain chemistry for the week it took me to get through everything, and I know several other people have recc'd it in various lists, but I'm putting it here again for anyone who hasn't yet seen it because it's just that good and that worth it. This fic understands how to make Ahsoka develop and mature without making her some angel or goddess of light without flaws. It is BREATHTAKINGLY pro Jedi and especially pro Mace Windu. There's some really great exploration of Ahsoka's relationship to the clones both before and after Order 66 as well a lot of delightful diversity in her relationships to other Jedi. This fic does not pull punches with regards to Anakin, Padme, and Anidala, or the consequences of their choices. If you were disappointed in how the Ahsoka show treated her reaction to Anakin and his atrocities, this fic is the OPPOSITE of that.

After the War (Part the First) by KChan88 (critical, 7k):

Instead of Obi-Wan, Mace and Yoda choose Quinlan to be the one who goes undercover during the Rako Hardeen arc. Obi-Wan, who has been in an off and on relationship with Quinlan since they were teenagers, reacts to the loss.

This is actually incredibly positive towards Anakin, but I'm leaving it in here as "critical" because pretty much any fic that has someone else reacting to the Rako Hardeen act is sort-of critical of Anakin's canon behavior by design, and the underlying issues that ultimately lead him to darkness. Obi-Wan reacts like a Jedi should, letting go when he believes Quinlan to be dead, and understanding when he has to face Quinlan after he knows it was a lie even as he is still angry at the circumstances putting Quinlan in that position in the first place (not the JEDI, just the war and the way it's forcing the Jedi to run themselves ragged and put themselves through the wringer). That anger gets acknowledged and accepted and Obi-Wan and Quinlan are shown to have an incredibly healthy relationship with each other that's incredibly sweet.

After the War (Part the Second) by KChan88 (critical, 6k):

Quinlan manages to catch up to Obi-Wan during his confrontation with Anakin during the Obi-Wan Kenobi show and the two have a reunion after things settle down on Tatooine.

Part of the same series as the above, this one lands more sympathetic towards Anakin than positive, since it's set post Order 66 and, for obvious reasons, it's pretty hard to be positive about what Anakin's done and what he's chosen to be at this point. But it's not unsympathetic, both Obi-Wan and Quinlan remember good times with Anakin, Obi-Wan has a line about having felt some kind of light in him during that last conversation they have in the show, and Quinlan makes comparisons to Anakin sounding like a scared and lonely little boy. So the critical aspect of it is relatively soft and minimal aside from the obvious references to his betrayal. Much like the fic above, I really love the way Obi-Wan and Quinlan's relationship is represented and the dynamic they have with each other.

Meet in the Middle by BilbosMom (critical, 9k):

Baby Luke and Leia are working on some Force shenanigans to try to find a way to speak to each other through a middle ground within the Force, but have trouble getting to each other on their own and end up recruiting Rex and Obi-Wan to help them.

This one is also pretty positive about Anakin in that it talks a lot about how Luke and Leia are going to save him by reminding him of how to love and things like that. I'm leaving it in here because it is also set post Order 66 and does reckon with the impact of that, especially on Rex who is finding out this betrayal for the first time, so it's hard not to end up at least a little critical just naturally. Anakin has done some particularly heinous shit and is still DOING some heinous shit. That remains true whether he can be saved in the future or not, whether he used to know how to love selflessly or not. I particularly like the structure in this one, the way it bounces back and forth between Obi-Wan's perspective with Leia and Rex's perspective with Luke. I like the way that Luke and Leia land sort-of wiser than their years due to their stronger connection to the Force but also still very much children who get impatient and annoyed with the adults around them.

scraps series by grumpyhedgehogs (critical, 9.5k):

Cody's chip fails when Obi-Wan dies on the Death Star and he goes searching for Rex and the Rebellion. He deals with his grief and guilt along the way.

Cody isn't Anakin's biggest fan, obviously, but both he and Rex acknowledge that Anakin USED to be a better person. The focus of the story is on Cody's relationship with Obi-Wan and how, even after he's died, that relationship still helps Cody move forward from his grief and find some measure of peace. I like the way Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka all connect over the different ways Obi-Wan had meant something to them and the ways he impacted their lives.

may you inherit his light by notbecauseofvictories (critical, 2.5k):

Leia reflects on her relationship to Bail Organa and the impact of his loss in the years after ROTJ.

Leia is also not Anakin Skywalker's biggest fan and dislikes that she inherited anything from him. I appreciated that Leia never forgave him in this. Even in the moment where she claims to wish he showed up, it's so she can rage at him for being the reason she ISN'T Bail Organa's daughter instead. It's a heart-wrenching story and dive into Leia's character, the ways her life at constant war have defined her as well as her experience as an adopted child who wanted nothing more than to have something physical to connect her to the family she loved and to make them proud. Mon Mothma saying Leia reminded her of Bail about made me cry.

Thank the Gods, I'm Not Alone by BitterChocolateStars (critical, 16k):

Obi-Wan and Rex from ten years post Order 66 both get sent back in time to the Clone Wars and work together to make sure it doesn't happen a second time.

Since Obi-Wan and Rex are primarily dealing with an Anakin who HASN'T betrayed the Jedi and the clones yet (depending on whether you count his marriage to Padme and his murder of the Tuskens a betrayal of the Jedi or not), they both have to figure out how to forgive this version of him that hasn't committed the crime they're angry about yet. He's the same person who DID go down that path before, but circumstances change enough to make different choices this time around. I appreciated the acknowledgment that it's okay to choose not to forgive the version of Anakin that DID make those choices, even as they recognize that it's not fair to hold this version of Anakin accountable for things he didn't do.

Gentle Welcome by Miandraden1 (critical, 1k):

Short and soft post-Rako Hardeen one shot where Obi-Wan reflects on Anakin's reaction to his stint undercover but gains comfort from the people who understand.

I love Obi-Wan discussing his worries about Anakin with Mace, it's such a nice call back to AOTC where he was more explicitly pushing back against the Council's decisions and had less faith in Anakin, whereas here he's so clearly trying to continue to have faith in Anakin's ability to grow and learn, even as he can tell Anakin's struggling. There's no lack of acknowledgment of Anakin's continued struggles, but there is a choice to continue to believe in him. I love how sweet the clones are in how they react to the Rako Hardeen deception, in some ways this is just another Tuesday for them, but Waxer explicitly leaving Obi-Wan a little gift he knows he'll like says something slightly different and it's adorable.

The Temple of Hope series by Zarz (ongoing, critical, 93k):

Obi-Wan, Anakin, and their battalions stumble across a very old Jedi Temple that reveals certain truths about both the Jedi and the clones and changes everything.

This one is also mostly about just forcing Anakin to face his own truths and fears while everybody else gets to make their way to a happy fix-it AU as a result. One of the tags on the first fic is "anakin skywalker faces consequences" but the primary consequence is just Anakin feeling bad about what he's done more than anything else. It's overall a sweet, soft, Force-sensitive Clones!AU with a lot of pro Jedi vibes to it.

"... if you remain his student" by Peppermint_Shamrock (critical, 4k):

The Wrong Jedi arc doesn't happen which leaves Ahsoka at the Temple during Order 66 and she was never going to be enough to save or stop Anakin.

To be perfectly honest at this point, this is the ending I'd have wanted for Ahsoka. It wouldn't have been able to happen in canon given she's not in ROTS, but like... this is probably one of the most impactful ways for her story to have ended (and one of the kindest, given how shitty her character has become). I love the way this fic insists that Ahsoka isn't enough, any more than Padme or Obi-Wan were, he'd have cut her down the same he did the others, no matter what he might have felt for her once or what she believed he felt for her.

Reversi by LacieFuyu (critical, 2.5k):

Anakin and Obi-Wan's roles are reversed in the Rako Hardeen arc and Anakin is startled by everyone's reactions to his deception.

This is yet another one that is critical by comparison to canon. Even Anakin himself acknowledges by the end of the fic that he's pretty sure he wouldn't be reacting this compassionately and calmly and reasonably if their positions were reversed, something we know to be true. There's also a small moment where Anakin begins to doubt his choices regarding the Tusken Massacre, but instead of actually reflecting on it, he buries the feeling all over again and chooses to learn nothing. It's very in character for Anakin.

[poetrysmackdown]

some informal thoughts

hello! hope the holiday season has been kind to all of you. and i hope all my jewish followers had a lovely hanukkah! anyways, since i said a few months ago that i’d pick poetry smackdown back up sometime around this time of year, i thought i should make a post. the gist of it is that i’m still quite busy, i have a break that’s about three weeks shorter than I was planning on, and i don’t currently have the mental bandwidth required to read, contemplate, and sort through poem submissions in a way that does justice to them, even if i were to recruit some friends to help out. since running a tournament format requires at least five weeks of continued engagement once it’s underway, and since i’m not at capacity to offer that right now due to the change in my schedule, i’m gonna have to bow out for now. sad bc i was looking forward to it!

my hope is that i’ll have some more time over the summer to hunker down with it, in which case you’ll be hearing from me. it’ll frankly depend on the kind of job i land in for the summer, but i find that my unemployed spirit can typically keep me doing stupid shit regardless of workload...to a point. i don’t want to make any promises because i don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up just to let them down again LOL. i do admit the amount of exposure the first tournament got has made me feel like more of a perfectionist this time around, doubly because i don’t feel that i’m very suited to being a public online presence (even a relatively quite small one)—i’m bad enough at responding to emails for my own real life responsibilities, let alone tumblr asks for the silly responsibilities i invent for myself lol. that’s not to say i no longer want to do it, or i don’t enjoy it, or even that i don’t feel capable of making a really interesting bracket—just that if i am working to put something new together, and if people are taking the time to submit poems they care about, then i don’t want to half-ass it.

my second admission is something like this. I made the original bracket as a celebration of poetry and our relationships to it. yes it was silly and competitive, and the poems were very tumblr, but still, celebration was the intention—I wanted to have conversations about poetry. I stand by the bracket format as a fun and valuable way to foster conversations about poetry, but truthfully, the poems i’m wanting to have conversations about right now—the poems that we should be talking about right now—are ones that i'm not comfortable putting in a bracket. I reblogged The Baffler’s Poems from Palestine collection on here earlier, and Najwan Darwish’s “Who Remembers The Armenians?”, which I still often find repeating through my head when I'm traveling from one place to another, walking home or riding the bus. I came across this beautiful thread recently where people have been translating Dr. Refaat Alareer’s “If I Must Die” into their own languages (this just makes my translator's heart sing!!!!!!). @havingapoemwithyou has been posting some great poems from and for Palestine as well—check out their tag here.

There's always more to add, and I'll be posting more on here as I come across it, but that's what I feel anyone should be focusing on right now when it comes to poetry. i think poetry can be an escape but it should never be a distraction. does that make sense? i wouldn't be against doing a one-off poll here or there, but it feels weird to be making a tournament for poetry right now, or anytime soon. i feel like what free time i have right now is still best utilized helping my friends with organizing in the real world. and god, a bit off-topic but while I'm talking, fuck poetry foundation—I have so much respect for all the poets keeping up the boycott, because while i think it's a simple decision, it's not always an easy one (Aurielle Lucier discussed that here).

anyways, if you read all of this, thank you for your time!! I could go on and on, but really this was just meant to be a message telling y'all that there won't be another tournament for a while lol. even so i'll be trying to use this small silly platform as best i can until palestine is free because that's the absolute least i can do.

[chrisbangsbf]

Minho/Jisung

Explicit | 728 words

Tags and Warnings: accidental voyeurism to consensual voyeurism, developing relationship, masturbation

AO3 link

Minho hadn't meant to catch Jisung masturbating, he really didn't. He was just here to give Hyunjin his sweater back. He truthfully didn't even know the younger boy was even home– thought maybe he'd be at the company with Chan and Changbin. But after hearing soft groans coming from Jisung's room, he decided to check in on him before leaving, just in case something was wrong.

He should have known better.

Everything felt like it happened in a flash. How in the world he went from standing wide eyed in the door with Jisung nearly screaming as he scrambled to cover himself up to sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Jisung touch himself is beyond him. But he takes a second to appreciate that the best possible outcome has chosen to grace him. 

They have been tip-toeing the line of best friends and dating for a long time now, sharing kisses and wishful words in the rare moments of privacy they'd get, but they'd never gotten to this. Nothing besides some heavy petting and naughty texts. Nothing like Jisung shyly spreading his legs to show off the shine between them. 

He's beautifully flushed from head to toe, hair tousled and lips swollen from where he had undoubtedly been biting them. He looks so debauched that Minho has a hard time not pouncing on him right away.

"It's not that I don't want you to fuck me," Jisung pauses, hissing as he squeezes the tip of his cock, "I just want to take things between us a little slower."

"I know– it's okay," Minho reassures him, hesitantly resting a hand on his out-spread knee. He's so warm. "I'm okay with just watching," he adds mischievously, making a show of letting his eyes scan up and down Jisung's naked body, "–if you're okay with that, I mean." 

"Oh," Jisung gasps, twisting his hand in a way that makes a deliciously wet noise. Minho shivers. "That's really fucking hot, actually."

"Then show me how you get off, jagiya."

And fuck, is it a beautiful sight. Jisung continues jerking his cock and pinching at his nipples until his body is shaking, quiet moans making Minho's own cock throb desperately in his pants. All he does is press a palm down over himself to alleviate some pressure, wanting to focus all his attention on the other. But it becomes even harder when he watches Jisung slip a hand between his legs and press a finger to his lube-slick hole.

"Hyung," he whines, adding the slightest bit of pressure.

Minho gulps, without even looking up. "Yeah?"

"Can't wait until this is you," he says, sliding two fingers past his rim at once, lips falling open in pleasure. 

"Fuck, me too, baby. You look so pretty right now," Minho curses. He feels much less embarrassed to be staring so hard when Jisung's eyes start fluttering open and closed, working a third finger inside himself as well.

Either the stretch must feel incredible or his words are affecting Jisung much more than he's letting on, because Minho sees his dick twitch in his palm, precome pearling in his slit. Minho so badly wishes he could lean forward and suck it clean, but it's immediately spread down Jisung's length to make the slide even wetter. He can tell he's close.

"Let me see you come," Minho mutters, eyes half lidded and so so desperate to see Jisung fall apart. It feels like all he needs in life at the moment. "Go on, come for hyung."

Time sort of seems to stand still for a moment when Jisung finally arches off the bed and reaches his high. Eyes screwed shut, he comes with a choked whimper, and Minho watches in awe as his hole clenches, as come drips down his knuckles and pools at the base of his tummy. It's incredible.

When Jisung reopens his eyes, they're heavy and tired and they immediately flick from Minho's flushed ears down to where he's still digging his palm into his crotch. Jisung smirks. He doesn't offer to help, and Minho doesn't ask.

"Maybe next time, you can touch," Jisung pants, reaching out to drag Minho down by the collar of his shirt.

Next time.

Minho blinks down at him. It feels like he's suffocating in the best kind of way. "But?"

"But for now, please kiss me." 

[strawberryradiodemon]

Even if you do add asexual, ace or aromantic to the search there's gonna be those "no fictional thing should ever have to present anything accurately or respectfully ever" people like "as an asexual you have my permission to do whatever you want with alastor's asexuality!" like... who tf asked them? they have an agenda they're trying to push, they do not speak for the ace community as a whole 🙄

Yeahh, even with the aro and / or ace tags we're not entirely safe unfortunately.

Such things do annoy me, I'm not gonna lie. I can understand that romance positive aros, sex positive aces or those who still have sex / are in relationships/ etc use the "aro/ace people can still date / have sex" or remind people that it's a spectrum and some still feel these type of attraction because yes, that's true.

But what annoys me is that saying that to people annoyed about the constant sexualisation/ shipping of Alastor is basically siding with the non aroace spectrum people using that "aroace people can still feel that/ do these things!" who saw that and ran with it purely to be able to continue with what they want to do.

Yes, asexuality and aromanticism are spectrums. Yes, some feel the attraction. Yes, some don't but still engage in these activities. And if you're on the aroace spectrum and it's your case obviously I'm not going to shame you for putting alastor in such scenarii because you're using a character like you to relate, and still acknowledging his aroace identity. The problem is that most people putting him in these situations totally disregard his aroaceness. And when as an aroace (spectrum) person, you say "people can still ship him, I do! Aroace people can feel these things or do them!"... You're basically enabling their erasure of his identity. Deep down you're right, but non aroace people don't care about that, and don't do these things the same way you do.

That's why, to non aroace people shipping alastor, I will remind them that he's aroace. And clearly not on the part of the spectrum where he still feels those things, nor is he interested in pursuing them.

And to the people on the aroace spectrum, I will just say, please, don't mistaken their words for a reel need to showcase the variety of our identity, because most of the time that's not what they want. You don't forget his aroaceness in the way your ship him, they do. Ship him all you want, because I know your heart is in the right place. But please don't defend the others.

As a loveless aroace, it pains me to see him constantly shipped and sexualised by everyone (even though that's clearly not what he'd want), and these things being defended.

I thought I had found a character I could relate to, that I could search stuff about him peacefully without seeing all kind of romantic and sexual stuff. I've been proven wrong, and it hurts. And the excuse they use hurt even more, because it feels like we're only palatable or interesting if we can still feel these attractions sometimes or engage in those things. As if alastor being a loveless aroace is a disappointment, that they *need* to ship him to be satisfied, for him to be enough.

Sorry for the rant, I definitely repeated myself, but I wanted to take the opportunity this ask gave me to give a bit of my opinion on this.

Tldr: I have no problem with aroace spectrum shipping him because I know they keep his aroaceness in mind. I have, however, a problem with non aroace spectrum people doing that because they erase his aroace identity completely AND use the diversity of it as an excuse to continue doing so. And it pains me to see fellow aroace people defending that, because I feel like they don't realise how those people ship him.

[aropride]

how to install dashboard unfucker (for desktop)

hi i use desktop and i use the dashboard unfucker extension by dragongirlsnout and you should too because it's awesome. i don't know much about computers so it was intimidating to set up but ended up being really easy.

but first:

what is dashboard unfucker?

dashboard unfucker is an extention that makes being on tumblr bearable again.

(ID: 2 screenshots of tumblr with urls/posts etc censored. the first is with the new layout, with labels on the left, the ad-free button, "check out these blogs," "explore all of tumblr," the radar, and no easy way to access your own blog. the second is with the extension enabled, the left hand side of the screen is empty, posts are wider, navigation icons are back at the top right, and the only thing on the right-hand side of the dash is the dashbaord unfucker and limit checker and tag replacer from xkit. end ID)

i got it for layout changes like these- the first is cramped and ugly and i feel like i'm on twitter. the second is warm and comfy and i can make my posts wider (i dont like all the empty space). (limit checker, tag replacer, and post color were done on xkit and palettes respectively, not unfucker, btw)

with the dashboard unfucker you can:

hide the following/blog subs/for you etc tabs

get rid of the changes/staff picks/etc carousel

hide recommended blogs and tags

add profile pics back to posts

hide the radar

hide the explore page

hide tumblr shop

hide user badges

highlight bots in ur activity feed

show who follows u in the activity feed

make posts wider/slimmer and move the dash posts position to the left/right

revert messages design (and make the messages box bigger)

revert activity feed to the old design

display vote counts on polls

show poll results without clicking (no more skewing polls or "see results"!!)

disable tumblr domains

add polls to reblogs

disable "post without tags?"

show ns.fw posts

and other things that i probably missed copying this from the settings!!

so how do you do it? it seems scary but it's easy actually. take my hand

(note: i did this on firefox and tested it on chrome, i'm not familiar with other browsers, also use firefox if at all possible fuck chrome)

how to install dashboard unfucker

step 1: install either tampermonkey, tampermonkey beta, greasemonkey, or violentmonkey (if you don't already have it)

note: im using tampermonkey as an example because it's what i use

step 2a: go to firefox extensions/chrome web store/your browser's equivalent

step 2b: look up "tampermonkey" and click "add to firefox/chrome/whatever" and confirm

step 2c: you're done! yayyy

step 2: click this link. look under "installation" where it says "Click on unfucker.user.js to install or update". and click that

(ID: a screenshot of the tampermonkey install page, showing dashboard unfucker v5.7.8 installation information, the source code, and the install/cancel button. end ID)

(it should open in a new tab and look like this)

step 3: click install! (when i did this it didn't look like much happened and i got scared. dont get scared take my hand)

step 4: go to www.tumblr.com and to the right of the dash it'll have the dashboard unfucker label to the right!

(ID: the default dash again, but with the dashboard unfucker title at the top right of the right-hand side of the dash. end ID)

step 5: click the little gear icon and all the options will pop up! u can fuck around with em to ur heart's content. i recommend exporting after ur done and saving it somewhere in case u have to uninstall/reinstall to troubleshoot or smth

you're done! now u can see the results of polls without clicking them and other such things

(ID: a poll i have not voted on. it has 17 votes and 23h 56m remaining. the title is "poll :)" and the answers are "answer 1" "answer 2" and "see results". there are no percentage labels, but the amount each answer has is indicated by light blue bars in each result, as they would be if i had voted. end ID) note: i'm not sure how/if this aspect of the extension is indicated for screenreaders

THIS POST IS TRANSGENDER BTW!

[theamityelf]

How would Hajime, Makoto, and Komaeda dynamic after Komaeda framing Makoto? And if the fun house motive still the same would Komaeda found out Makoto title? How would he react and their change in dynamic? How much it would change chapter 5 because I don't think he would risk a literal symbol of hope

Great questions all around.

I feel like when it's revealed that Nagito framed Makoto, and more broadly that Nagito orchestrated for the killing game to start, Makoto would be really horrified and hurt and looking for an explanation from Nagito, while Nagito is in that state he entered in the latter half of trial 1 where he falls really hard into his hope thing while his personal relationships are crumbling.

So Makoto is like, "Nagito...did you really frame me? Were you really trying to start the killing game?"

And Nagito is just like, "I had to be sure. What Monokuma said suggested you could be an important player in all this, despite being a mere Lucky Student. So I had to test you a little."

"What Monokuma said? You mean...?"

(Flashback to Monokuma saying "If you were just a lucky student..." or something of the sort, because for some reason I'm writing this like an actual Danganronpa game.)

Cut back to Nagito with a big smile, like, "And you performed wonderfully! Far better than I expected. The hope of the spotless outshone the hope of-"

"Nagito," Hajime finally interrupts, looking at him like he's never seen him before. "He's asking why you would do this. Why would you do that to him, to [first victim], to any of us?!"

"Ah...[first victim] really did get the short end of the stick in all this, didn't [they]? I do blame myself for that. Or, I suppose...I blame my luck. But none of that matters anymore!"

"You blame your luck?" Makoto repeats. "You mean-?"

"Getting to see all of you work together like this, to see the Ultimates all contribute and rise to the occasion!"

"Nagito, does that mean [first victim] wasn't the intended victim? Who did you mean for Teruteru to kill?"

(Because I think he still would have arranged for Teruteru to be the murderer, no matter who ends up dying. And also because I want Makoto to pick up on the assumed subtext of that case.)

"I wasn't in control of that part. Things just played out the way they were meant to."

And then Monokuma butts in, like "Now then! Time for the extra special, heart-pounding punishment!" or whatever that speech is, and the subject is dropped.

After that, Makoto and Hajime bond over their messy feelings about Nagito. When they find out Nagito has been tied up, Makoto is the first to bring up, "But he has to eat! And...go to the bathroom! We can't just dump him in a room and forget about him. Hajime?"

Hajime just looks conflicted. It's not like he wanted them to tie Nagito up, but dumping him in a room and forgetting about him sounds better than having to deal with what happened between them.

Mahiru is the one who says, "Makoto's right; it's wrong to just tie him up and leave him there without food." (Maybe to Kazuichi and Nekomaru, she adds, "And if you two are going to start acting like wild animals this early on, then you should run your decisions by the rest of us before acting on your own.")

And I don't want to steal Mahiru's moment of going to check on Nagito, so I think I'm going to have her suggest to Makoto that he bring Nagito some food, and Hajime tags along when Makoto goes because he feels he shouldn't have to go alone to see the guy who gleefully framed him for murder.

Nagito is super excited to see both of them, and Hajime is just as restrained as in canon, and Makoto is his own version of restrained, which contains a more imploring side than Hajime really has; he still want Nagito to just explain himself and agree to not cause trouble. Really, he wants to just untie him, because he doesn't like seeing him like this, but Hajime is like, "No, this is for the best," and also he doesn't want to cause more violence.

So he just makes a point of visiting Nagito from time to time, to make sure he's okay and not lonely. Chiaki goes with him, so it becomes this weird vibe where Makoto and Chiaki are having free time conversations and Nagito is just tied up and also there. Very much that scene in UDG where he's like, "Ahh, friendship. 😊"

After Nagito is untied, he's in a perpetual state of third-wheeling either Hinaegi, Hinanami, or Naenami. (Especially in investigations.) Actually, a perpetual state of either fourth-wheeling Hajime, Makoto, and Chiaki together, third-wheeling one of those pairings, or pairing himself with whichever one of them is alone at any given time. Like, he pretty explicitly favors their company.

Hajime and Makoto are the closest within that cluster, kind of inevitably, since Nagito is Nagito and Chiaki can't help being a little bit distant. Hajime feels this complex mix of concern that Makoto's willingness to engage with Nagito (or really anyone) is going to get him hurt and worry that he'll trust Makoto and be betrayed again. In a way, he is both scared for and of Makoto, and both of those things require trust.

As for the Chapter 4 stuff, Monokuma still gives them the information on the killing school life at rollercoaster time, before the fun house, so the group at large learns that Makoto was in a previous killing game then. I'll say Nagito finds out that Makoto is the Ultimate Hope from that book, and promptly his treatment of Makoto goes from "You're cool, you exceed my expectations, I believe in you," to "Actually you're amazing; everyone should learn from Makoto; we're so lucky to have him here, even if he's unlucky to be in another killing game."

Whenever he talks to Hajime, during that period of time between finding out about the killing school life and the Final Dead Room, there's a tone of, "You must feel so lucky that you traded up. You almost got stuck being friends with me, but now you're friends with the Ultimate Hope instead. I'm so happy for you! And Makoto made a good choice, too." And whenever he talks to Makoto during that time, there's a tone of, "I'm so lucky you wanted to talk to me! We can talk about anything you like! Ah, you're hungry. That's no good. If you want, I can probably get someone to kill me. That way, you can get out of here! No? Okay, I guess we'll just wait..."

Then after the Final Dead Room, he learns about the Remnants, and he gets super hostile to them and himself. Now, not only is Makoto amazing, but everyone around him is both unworthy of his company and a huge threat to his life.

(I wanted to keep those revelations separate, so that we can see every stage of his treatment of Makoto: the friendly but un-invested way he treats him when he's just another lucky student, the intrigued way he treats him when he might be more, the sycophantic way he treats him when he's the Ultimate Hope, and the fanatically devoted way he treats him when he's the Ultimate Hope among Remnants of Despair.)

His treatment of the others is about the same as in canon, except more wary. In canon, he has scorn for them, but he doesn't particularly have anything to lose to them. He wants the traitor to win, but it's more important that everyone else lose. Now, he has the Ultimate Hope here, and not only is the Ultimate Hope not allowed to die on his watch, but also his own sense of self, and his sense of his own use, has a tangible outlet. He doesn't have to weed anybody out in a last ditch effort to put his life to use.

I think his interactions with Makoto take on a desperately self-destructive edge at this point. Kind of a "You should insult me! Call me trash!" energy. And Makoto is able to diffuse the feverish rambling, but that just takes him down to a low energy, "You really shouldn't waste your valuable attention on someone like me."

But I like to think, with all these raw feelings flying around, Makoto is able to get some honest answers out of Nagito. He might have to go behind Hajime's back to have that conversation, but I think Nagito is so convinced of his own idea of hope that he might expect Makoto to be on his side about the others deserving to die, once he finds out that they're Remnants of Despair.

In fact, telling him might be a despair thing, too; kind of punishing himself by, in his view, making sure that Makoto hates him and wants him dead. That way, Makoto will agree to let Nagito help him win this game, as hope is meant to triumph over despair, and he can finally do something right with his life.

But of course, Makoto doesn't react the way he expects; he doesn't want anyone dead.

[watermelonlovershigh]

Cold During Sex (SMUT) /concept/

AN: so i'm currently cold before work and thought of this. enjoy this short concept.

You're in the middle of sex. Harry is hovering over you with the beds blanket draped over his back, in case your little ones decide to enter your room without knocking. The sex isn't rough or fast pace but it's not slow and languished either. It's just a steady speed of him rolling his hips into yours. Rolling so he gets that needed pressure on your clitoris.

Though typically you stay hot during sex because of the body heat and movements, right now you're rather cold. It's getting cooler in your house due to the Autumn air that lingers outside. There is a tiny space between your bodies because Harry doesn't want to crush you but you need to get warmer or you're going to lose all the pleasure you've built up so far.

About three minutes later, Harry hears something odd. It sounds like teeth chattering. He can't really see you because the bedroom lights are all out but by lifting the hand that was pressed flat into the mattress beside your body and gently cupping your jaw, he can physically feel the vibrations of your teeth chattering together.

"Love," Harry pants softly above your face, "r'you cold? You're practically shivering."

Clawing harder into his back muscles with the hands you have placed there, you quietly heave out, "Ju....just a bit. The cool air is seeping into the duvet."

With a bit of a frown, Harry replies, "Awe baby, should 'ave told me. Here, m'gonna lower myself on yah more but tell me if I'm too heavy, okay." You just hum in agreement and that gives him the go ahead to slowly drop his warm body all the way on yours. He is heavy but a grounding heavy, not a suffocating heavy.

You moan at the new warmth your body is receiving as well as from the added pressure his pubic bone is adding to your clit. Plus his cock does feel deeper in this position but that could be made up in your head.

Now wrapped up in his body, Harry continues to roll and grind his hips forward, stroking the foreskin on his shaft with your tight walls as well as rubbing your swelling g-spot perfectly. Not to mention the hands free clit stimulation you're getting. "Better? All warm now?" he questions you.

Pecking a kiss on the side of his face, you answer, "Better. Thank you baby." Then your late night sex continues until you both find your releases.

————————————

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT’S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @japanchrry // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @itfeelslikemytherapisthatesme // @bohogoth // @damnasstyles  // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet  // @meetmyblondemuffins  // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles  // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles  // @skyangel57   // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptresss // @clairestylessss  // @kissmyaxe140  // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore1

// @florencepughily  // @alienorknight //@dancearoundthelivingroom  // @swiftmendeshoran  // @luv-flor7777  // @alohastyles-x // @tenaciousperfectionunknown  // @sleutherclaw // @siredtohybrid // @whoscamila // @a-strange-familiar  // @golden-elodie // @mrspeacem1nusone //  @goldenkhae // @lntwithharry // @mellowkingdombouquet  // @manifestrry  // @mendesblurb // @sunshinemoonsposts  // @depersonalizationsucks // @academiaghosts // @zendayassimp // @reveriehs // @vsnnstuff // @dancinsunflowerkiwi // @quinnsgrapejuice // @theroosterswife24 // @justlemmeholdyou // @stylesmygucci

let me know if you’d like to be added on my tag list in my next post by telling me HERE (let me know if i forgot to add you)

______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

[melancholic-entrails]

found this, felt wholesome, was about to reblog then saw the "proship fuck off thanks" so to respect their wishes, i am going to post a copy of their message here, because all of it was great except the end

( really, how do you say "learn to be a decent person" and then next sentence you say "proship fuck off thanks") i cropped out the username cuz i dont want someone to harrass them/anxious ( just in case). i copied and pasted the text to underneath the image!

[start of text description]

Shoutout to self shippers that don’t like sharing their f/o(s), there’s nothing wrong with feeling jealous, sad, possessive, some characters are very special to you personally, or you just feel so deeply and dearly for them, and that’s okay. I get it. Doesn’t matter if the character is extremely popular or completely unknown, you’re valid. Same goes for not wanting to see canon x canon ships with your f/o!

And if you’re only comfortable sharing with certain people that’s cool to!

Self shipping can be an incredibly personal experience, and there’s no right or wrong way to go about it, you’re not inconsiderate or greedy or annoying or anything for being uncomfortable sharing .

Your f/o(s) love you so much, always remember it’s okay to curate your experience selfshipping online, it’s perfectly okay to block tags and or blogs if you need to. Don’t make yourself suffer by continually exposing yourself to discomfort 👍

This post does not apply to you if you actively hate on / send hate / are shitty to other people that do share your f/o(s). Learn to be a decent person.

[end of text description]

i wanted to add on to their point, because everything they said was good, they were just being gatekeepy- which is their perogative, i just think positivity should be for everybody and i would like to make it accessible. op if you see this, please don't reply as a: i'm in your dni and b: i'm posting this for the sole reason of spreading positivity. so yeah, everything op said also counts for proshippers and profic peeps. <3

[serenpedac]

OC in 15 - Yael Greene

rules: share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you @aztarion, @topaz-carbuncle and @serially-wayhaven for tagging me, I loved reading the ones for your OCs so much! I'm stealing Lucille's idea for adding a link to the fic (if posted) where the quotes are from ^^

“I understand,” she whispers. She turns around before he can see her break down completely. (x) 

“In case you haven’t guessed, and I know you have, you were distracting me. I was thinking that you look very beautiful when you’re concentrating. Very beautiful and very distracting and I would like to—” She shakes her head. “No, one thought.” (x) 

“You know I’ve always wanted a sister?” “Would be fun, yeah? Good thing you have—” Farah falls silent, realisation spreading over her face. “Me. Oh, that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

“But don’t you see, we shouldn’t have to find them. No one should have been taken in the first place. All they want is me.” (x) 

“Or you could… demonstrate?” She bites her lip, his gaze flickering to her mouth at the movement. “Right now?” (x) 

“Hmm, yes. Yes, you did. But it’s part of what makes it romantic, don’t you think? Being lost in the throes of passion, forgetting about anything else. No thinking, only feeling, feeling…”  (x) 

“I don’t think I need to make any wishes tonight, you know. Not when you’re already here with me.” (x)

“Are you sure there’s still space for me between all the bubbles?” (x) 

“Just like me. And each mark tells a story, some are good and some are bad and some might be sad or funny, but they are all part of its history, you know? In trying to remove that it felt like, like they were telling me everything was fine. That Murphy never. That I wasn’t changed.” (x) 

Do you, can you maybe understand? Just a little? (x)

After a few deep breaths, Yael places her hand on top of Morgan’s. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” With a wavering smile, she adds, “I appreciate you.” (x)

“My car didn’t die, it’s just… ill. Yes, it’s ill.”

“You should go help them. I’ll,” she swallows, “I’ll be fine.”

He breaks the kiss when she shivers against him. “You’re getting cold, darling.” “Are you going to follow that one up with a proposal to warm me up?” (x) 

“You could have escaped,” Nate says, vehemently. “You should have escaped.” Tears of anger and frustration burn hot in Yael’s eyes. “I couldn’t. How was I supposed to just leave you? You were— I thought—”

(Yes, nr 10 is me cheating, but letters are a kind of dialogue, right?) Tagging anyone who wants to do this really, but also: @evilbunnyking, @nat-seal-well, @agentnatesewell, @wayhavenots, @ellstersmash, @fauville, @nsewell, @sustainably-du-mortain, @lykegenia, @lukas-du-mortain

[katcoquette]

Who’s Winning?

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x f!Reader

masterlist | taglist

summary: you run into Jake on a night out with friends and decide to make the most out of the unexpected meet-up with another game, and this time, the rules are so simple, you don't think either of you will be able to cheat.

★ word count: 4k

★ tw/tags: SMUT! 18+ please I'm so serious, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, some filthy words, not a ton, but some, sexual tension

★ author's note: i'm baccckk (; part two of Too Many Games (but not unnecessary to read to understand the plot) & two months late but I gotta keep you on your toes. sweat and tears went into this y'all, sweat and tears. this came to me in a dream, and then I got carried away, enjoy <3

The next time you see him is outside of work, but at a bar nonetheless. His face is a welcome addition to your night out with friends at a local western club you’d been meaning to go to since it had opened a couple months back.

It’s a surprise to meet his eyes across the room as you’re waiting on your second drink, but it shouldn’t be. In your many encounters, casual and otherwise, you’d caught glimpses of his southern charm slipping through.

This was exactly the type of place you could picture Jake Seresin being in.

He’s chewing on a toothpick and nodding to the men around him to assure them he was still listening to whatever they were saying.

You drape an arm over the back of your stool and lean into it, solidifying your gaze on him. He quirks an eyebrow at you, and you smile, nodding him over. You watch him excuse himself, and once you’re sure he’s heading over to you, you turn your back to him and face the bar.

He takes the stool next to you, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Howdy, Lieutenant.” You almost add a ‘fancy seeing you here’ to the greeting, but decide that’d be a little too on the nose for the themed bar you were sitting in.

“Been a while, m’dear. How’ve you been?” It’s a playful question, laced with a suggestive undertone referencing your last encounter of a game of darts.

“Oh, you know…” You sigh contently, finally turning to look at him. “Never better.” Except wholly better now that you’ve run into him.

He grins. “Good to hear.”

He turns away from you to order himself a drink, and though it only takes a minute or two, it’s plenty enough for your eyes to fully rake over him. Something was different about him, something that was driving you up the wall, but you weren’t sure what.

You tilt your head slightly as you survey him. It couldn’t possibly be the small addition of a toothpick in between his teeth, could it?

You aren’t sure, but as far as you can tell, that’s the only change in his physical appearance from the last time you’d seen him. Maybe distance had made your heart grow fonder, or in this case, your libido. You take a deep breath to interrupt your own thoughts.

“What’ve you been up to?” You hope it comes out casually, like you’re just returning the gesture he’d started by asking how you were. You’re also curious why you hadn’t seen him around, the bar felt quieter without him and his buddies crowding around the pool table or the dart board.

He gives you a sweet smile, seemingly knowing exactly what you meant, “Work, mostly. I’ve been around.” He chuckles, “Just haven’t had much time for drinking.” He winks. “You been missin’ me?”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d read you like a book, so you just smile and change the subject.

“We should take advantage of this run in, right?”

He laughs, pulling the toothpick from his lips to take a sip of the drink that was now placed in front of him. “Straight to the point! That’s not like you.” He teases.

“You did technically promise me another game.” You smile sweetly, looking up at him. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you-“ your eyes drop to his lips and that damn toothpick, and in a surge of confidence you add, “or your mouth.” It’s a bold statement, and that isn’t lost on him as he shifts closer to the edge of his stool. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, pausing briefly. “You’re from Texas aren’t ya?”

“Yes ma’am.” He leans into his accent, drawing out the word with a teasing grin. He flips the toothpick over with his tongue, and you’re positive it’s because he can see you watching it.

“Then you must know the saying… what is it again?” You lean forward, steadying yourself with one hand placed precariously onto his thigh, and pluck the toothpick from his teeth. You keep your gaze locked on his as you roll the toothpick between your fingers. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy?” You say it as softly as you can for him to still hear it in the loud atmosphere surrounding you, and by the look on his face, you know he does. You smile, settling the toothpick between your own lips.

He clears his throat so slightly you’d miss it if you were any further from him. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

He’s flustered.

You don’t know him well enough yet to notice, his own mother probably wouldn’t. It isn’t something that happens to Jake Seresin often, but it’s no surprise to him that you’re the cause.

You figure you have the upper hand though because it takes him two full beats to come up with his next move. “You lookin’ for one, sweetheart?”

As smooth as ever.

“Maybe.” You look over his shoulder and press your tongue to the back of your teeth. “You think I’ll have any luck with that group?” You nod at a table full of guys behind him, but he makes no move to acknowledge them.

Instead, he slides his arm across the bar so his hand is almost touching yours and leans in so close that you think he might kiss you. You forget for a moment that his toothpick is still between your lips until he’s taking it back and standing up.

“Is that how you wanna play it?” He focuses on a piece of hair in your face, brushing it to the side as he says it, and, regrettably, you lose your upper hand. Who could blame you? He was practically looming over you as you stayed seated, and it was doing wonders for those dirty thoughts you’d been having.

But he didn’t need to know that.

You narrow your eyes slightly and stand up, pressing ever closer to him, partly because you’d craved the contact of his body against yours since the last time you’d been with him, but also in an attempt to rile him up like he’d done to you.

“What are tonight’s rules?”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he takes a step back, and you have to keep yourself from pathetically whining at the loss of him. “The rules of this game are simple. First one to cave loses.”

“That’s it? Seems pretty vague.” He picks up his drink and moves to walk past you, pausing to lean into your ear, “I have a feeling you’ll catch on quick, sweetheart.” He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, and then he’s continuing past you.

You hear his voice behind you. “Can I buy you ladies a drink?”

Oh. Suddenly you know exactly what his rule means. “Alright. Let the games begin.” You mutter to yourself, grabbing your drink and heading back to your friends.

“Jake’s here.” You tell your friends melodically when you reach your table. Eleanor gasps, Mack asks “Sexy pilot Jake?”, and Margot is immediately trying to spot him, despite not knowing what he looked like beyond your basic description.

You sit down in the corner of the booth, giving you a perfect view of the bar, and the aviator still sitting at it. “Yes, that Jake.”

“Well share with the group! Where is he?” Margot presses you, scooting closer to your side. Mack and Eleanor do the same, searching in the general direction of your gaze. You smirk and point at him. “Right…there.”

“The guy very obviously flirting with the bachelorette squad over there?” Eleanor asks.

“Yep.” You pop the ‘p’. “Does he not know you’re here?”

“He does.” You smile at them. “I’m lost.” Mack deadpans. Jake chooses that moment to glance over at you, and once he sees your eyes are already on him, he touches her arm. Your friend’s watch the entire interaction with wide eyes until it starts to click for each of them. “This is all part of the game.”

A chorus of reactions comes from your friends. “You kinky fucks!” “Jesus Christ…” “He is sexy.”

You laugh at them, “Okay, okay! Enough about the pilot… I feel like dancing! Let’s dance! We should dance.” You pull them up with each reiteration of the sentence, though it doesn’t take any convincing to get them up.

You hold Mack’s arm over your shoulder and lead him and the girls over to the dance floor, cheering at the next song that comes on. You all fumble your way through a line dance or two, giggling and twirling each other around the floor. You’re having so much fun with them that you almost don’t notice Jake leading one of the women onto the dance floor.

It almost spurs more excitement in you, in some backwards way. Maybe it’s because you know that she’s no threat to you. You would end up together at the end of the night either way, this was just a fun detour.

You share a look with him over the woman’s shoulder and give him a two finger salute, then turn to find someone to dance with. Your eyes lock with a familiar face, and you can’t help but grin at how perfect his timing was.

“Javy!” You make a big show of greeting him, throwing your arms around him as soon as you’re close enough. “I haven’t seen you in so long!” He returns the hug, laughing at your excitement. You were familiar with most of Jake’s squad, and Javy was usually with him when he came in, so it was good to see him again. You catch up for a few minutes before asking him to dance.

He seems to know something you don’t, but he still agrees, putting one hand on your waist and pulling you into a lively swing. The poor woman with Jake probably thought she had a chance, but you were actual friends with Javy, so you weren’t leading anyone on. Also, you’d missed seeing him around too, so it was a win-win from your perspective.

“Somethin’ going on between you and Jake?” He glances behind you. “He was talking about you like two days ago, and it seemed like you two were on very good terms.” He teases, and you blush at the thought of Jake talking about you so recently. “We’re good.”

“Alright. Keep your secrets.” He smirks to himself, looking over your shoulder. You dance for a few more minutes before you’re interrupted by the man of the hour. “Yo, Coyote! I want to introduce you to someone.” The two of you turn toward Jake and his date, and you smile. “Hey Hangman.” You greet. “Hey.”

He looks at Coyote. “This is Miranda. I was just telling her about how well I think you’d get along. Why don’t you buy her a drink?”

You suck in a breath, feigning disappointment. “Oooohh. Actually, Coyote and I were just about to go ride the mechanical bulls. Right?” You look at him expectantly and he picks up on the hint, smiling to you and then looking back to the pair. “Hell yeah we were. Sorry man, maybe you can get her something and then meet us over there?” He flashes a grin to Miranda, winking at her, and then he grabs your hand and leads you over to the bulls before waiting for his response. You gesture over the music to your friends in the direction of the bulls, and they nod, following the two of you through the crowd.

Well played Coyote. You’d remember to thank him later.

In another perfectly timed event, Jake and Miranda rejoin Javy and your friends right as you’re, for lack of a better word, mounting the mechanical bull. You don’t notice right away, which is probably for the best, because the alcohol is wearing off and you’ve never ridden a bull before.

But you’re a natural.

You get your hips into a rhythm, grinding as smoothly as you can with the jerky mechanical movements. You get comfortable enough to put one arm up in the air, and when you do you hear your friends scream, prompting a wider audience reaction.

You see Jake standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head with what you assume is a chuckle.

You end up staying on longer than anyone else that night.

The next time you look for Jake, you can’t find him. You get off the bull to cheering and whooping from everyone in the vicinity, but especially your friends. Margot puts her arms around you, “Lover boy’s over by the bar, he seems-“ She waves her arm vaguely. “-frustrated? Wound up? Distracted?” Javy offers. She smirks, “Any of the above. Go get him. We’ll catch up tomorrow.” Eleanor winks, and they push you in Jake’s direction.

You saddle up to the side of the bar and put your elbow on the tabletop. Resting your chin in your hand, you give him a pouty smile. “Who’s winnin’ baby, you or me?”

He doesn’t say anything, throwing the rest of his drink back. He motions to the bartender to close out his tab, and then he’s turning back to you with a contemplative smile on his face. “You gonna let me take you home?”

You almost scoff, he’s clever, you’ll give him that, but you weren’t going to lost that easily. “Bar not good enough for you this time?”

The look he gives you is so intense it almost unnerves you. “No more fucking games, sweetheart. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Then lead the way, cowboy.”

The drive to his apartment is sobering to say the least. There’s a dull buzz in the back of your mind leftover from the pounding music that had been playing in your ears all night. His hand resting on your thigh while the other controls the wheel is just enough to keep the foreplay from the bar at the front of your mind.

You feel antsy sitting in his passenger seat. The last time you’d played a game like this the gratification had been instant. This time, you had to sit through an entire ride, and it definitely wasn’t the ride your body was craving.

“How much farther? I mean, do you live close?”

He chuckles, glancing over at you with a smile as he starts to trace circles onto your skin. “Someone’s eager.”

You clench around nothing, and silently curse him.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take good care of you tonight.” You inhale at the insinuation, resorting to crossing your legs for some relief. He notices, that’s evident by the smirk, but he doesn’t say anything else until you’re pulling up to his building. “Stay right there.”

And then he’s jumping out to get your door. You giggle when he opens it and offers you his hand, despite the curb being barely a step down from his car. “There’s those southern manners I’ve heard so much about.”

“Don’t make me regret pulling them out.” He shuts the door behind you and takes your hand, leading you to his front door. He fingers the key out from the rest of the cluster on his keychain with one hand- a completely ordinary task, but impressively hot in this moment, and pushes the door open, tossing the keys to the nearby table.

“This is me.” He says it lightheartedly, flipping the switch of a lamp. The whole thing is surprisingly intimate, being in his personal space after only ever existing in bars with one another. It’s tidy, comfortable, and you’re not sure if you’ve ever tried to picture his living situation before this.

His voice breaks your train of thought. “Do you need anything? Water or something?”

You stare at him. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

Those words are enough to send him back into the mood from the bar, sobering car ride be damned. He crosses the room in two strides gripping your face and crashing his lips against yours. You grip his forearms as your lips move with his. You break apart breathless, staring at each other as your chests heave.

He searches your eyes, still holding your face in both of his hands. “Come on.” He breathes out, dropping his hands from your cheeks and taking your hand in his for the second time that night.

As soon as you’re through his bedroom door, he’s pushing it closed with a hand above your head, trapping your body against it as his other hand moves to the side of your neck, his lips back on yours. “You don’t know what you do to me.” He mutters against your lips.

You open your mouth and let out a breathy moan. He kisses across your cheek and down your neck, and you move a hand to palm him through his pants. He groans and intertwines the hand that isn’t still pressed above you through your hair, moving back to your lips.

You slide the back of your hand up the door until you hit his, pushing your fingers under his palm. He reacts immediately, linking your fingers together, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

After a few more moments, he pulls away, just enough to press his forehead to yours and look at you again. “My gorgeous girl.” His hand trails down your body, and you suck in a breath when the button on your pants pops open.

He unzips them slowly, pulling his head back fully but keeping his eyes locked on yours. Your heart picks up it’s pace as his fingers ghost over your clit, the fabric of your underwear becoming increasingly frustrating to you.

When he dips his hand into your panties, you have to steady yourself, gripping his shoulder and resting your head back against the door. You moan as he rocks his hand, switching between kneading your clit with his thumb and pushing two fingers into you. “Oh fuck!”

“I’m gonna be getting noise complaints tonight, aren’t I?” He chuckles, but the continuing pressure building in your body prevents you from uttering a coherent reply. “Already a mess and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please Jake.” You whimper. “I need more.” He gently kisses the top of your lips.

“I did tell you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” You nod, desperately pulling his hips closer to your own. He removes his hand from your pants and puts his hands on your shoulders, guiding you over to his bed.

When the back of your knees hit the edge, he pushes you down. You giggle as he leans over you, connecting your lips again with a smile. You lift your ass when you feel his hands reaching to pull your jeans down, making it easier for him to pull them off.

You put a hand on his chest and pushed him up, sitting up with him. You remove your shirt, and he follows your lead. You smile at each other as you undress fully, laying back onto the bed with his lips on yours again the second you’re both naked.

“Jake?” You say between kisses. He hums. “Please fuck me.”

He laughs, “I got you, sweetheart.” You yelp as he pulls you to the edge of the bed.

He keeps his eyes on yours as he pushes himself in, and you gasp at the stretch. His hands find yours, and then they’re above your head again as he slowly and deeply thrusts in and out of you.

You breathe in and out, in and out. This was becoming far more intimate than either of you were expecting, but you can’t take your eyes off him as he fucks you.

“I missed you.” He admits. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you since the bar.” You nod, eyes fluttering. “I missed… ah- I missed you too.”

You lose yourself in the moment, until your eyes widen as you remember what you’d said earlier that night. “Can I ride you?”

His hips stutter. “Fuck. Yeah, you can ride me. Jesus christ.” You smirk at your turn for control, standing up and holding your hand out to him.

Your legs are a little wobbly, but you’re determined.

He takes your hand and follows you around the bed, and then you’re pushing on his chest until he’s sitting. “Against the headboard, cowboy.”

He looks up at you, “Yes ma’am.” And moves backwards until his back hits the wood frame. You swing a leg over his lap, hovering on your knees over him. You press a soft kiss to his cheeks, and then put both hands on his shoulders.

You both moan as you sink down fully onto his cock, sitting completely on his lap. The angle this position provides has you throwing your head back before you’ve even started moving.

Your hips move similarly to how they moved on the bull, grinding down in a steady rhythm. “Shit Jake. You feel so good.” You whine, picking up your pace.

“Look at you. Fuck. Look at your tits.” He grunts, kneading one of them with his palm, and then moving both hands to grip your hips. You can feel him thrust in time with your bouncing, and your breathing picks up pace as you start to feel yourself come undone.

“I’m close.” You mutter, closing your eyes and throwing your head back again. He takes one hand off your hips and brushes your hair messily out of your face. “Come for me, baby. I want to watch you.”

You look back down at him, “Oh my god.” You run a hand through the side of his hair, then lean down to kiss him. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close to his chest as he continues to thrust. “Come on, darlin’.”

His words are enough to push you over the edge, and you moan loudly into his mouth as you come. His hips stutter seconds after you.

You lay breathless on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck as your chests heave together. “Holy shit.” You say finally, leaning back to look at him. His expression mirrors your own. “Holy shit.” He agrees. You let out a breathy laugh, attempting to sit up on your knees and get off of him.

You can immediately tell that it’s not going to happen. “I think I’m gonna need some help.” He laughs, and presses a kiss to your shoulder, then he flips you onto your back.

The loss of him makes you pout slightly. “I’ll be right back.”

He walks across the room and opens another door in the room to what had to be the bathroom, and you can hear the faucet turn on. He comes back a few moments later with a warm cloth.

You lay limp as he cleans you up. “Well you’re just useless aren’t you?” He teases. You shrug from where you were still laying on his bed. “I can’t help it. The ride was too good.”

He laughs, “All fucked out, huh?” You wink, “For now.”

You hold your arms out to him and he gets back into bed with you, pulling the blankets out from under you and then over your bodies, and then wrapping his arms safely around you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He turns his head to kiss you. “-for your number.” You can’t help the laugh that comes out of your throat, and you all but slap your hand over your mouth. “Sorry.”

He grins, nuzzling his head into your neck. “Yes. I’ll give you my number before I leave.” His arms tighten around you, and you rest your cheek on his head. “Tomorrow morning, right?”

You smile to yourself, “Right.” You confirm. “I have a question for you too.”

“Hit me.” He sits up, leaning against his bedframe and putting an arm behind his head while keep the other loosely around your shoulders. You readjust, laying on his chest.

“What pushed you over the edge?” He stays silent. You grin. “It was the bull riding, wasn’t it?

“Yeah.” He sighs. “It was the bull riding.”

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[hot-soop]

don't let me tempt you / ch.2

pairing: angel!seokjin x angel!f.reader ⇢ au: angels & demons ⇢ genre: forbidden romance, friends 2 lovers, comedy(?), fluff, eventual smut (not in this chapter), lite angst ⇢ summary: Seokjin is temporarily banished from Heaven and you're not all that good at paperwork. ⇢ chapter wc: 4k ⇢ rating: fic rating is explicit/18+ for eventual smut; chapter rating is 16 & up bc they're the equivalent of ken dolls rn, but minors please DNI anyway. This isn't for you. ⇢ chapter warnings: LOTS of religious imagery but please remember that this isn't meant to be accurate, it's crack Good Omens style nonsense. Author is an atheist. Swearing. Drinking. Implications of loss of faith. If there's any tags you think I'm missing, please let me know - I'd hate to be the cause of any upset or discomfort ⇢ a/n: thank uuuuuu @ugh-yoongi for reading this over, i adore you

chapter 1 here

chapter 2

736 BC

August 12th. 6:13pm. Sunshine.

It’s been ninety-one years and twenty-six visits to Earth since your first cup of tea. Since then Seokjin has shown you could enjoy so many more earthly pleasures than you thought possible. He makes an effort to show you something new every time you visit, and humans, as it turns out, are so much more creative than angels give them credit for. You’re really starting to enjoy it here. Every time, you wish you could stay longer. And so you learned you could convince Turiel to add routine patrols on all your banishments - by all accounts you’re only ever visiting Earth on ‘Official Business’. 

(‘Managed to convince’ isn’t really the right turn of phrase, more like you briefly floated the idea and Turiel near bit your hand off to add more to your workload.)

Of course the visits mean more reports in theory, but truth be told there aren’t that many banishments to keep on top of, and you spend far less time with the other banished angels than anyone else need know. That isn’t the case for Seokjin’s visits. No, you could spend an entire day in his company and feel like it’s been no time at all. For those reports alone, you need to twist the truth. 

Your stomach growls and Seokjin tuts. 

“If you didn’t wait thirteen years between visits,” he grumbles. “Your stomach wouldn’t be so loud.”

You open your mouth to say that the only reason you have any interest in Earth is because of Seokjin and his friends (though maybe by now they count as yours too, it’s something you’ll have to ask Taehyung) but the sour look on his face gives you pause.

(Ah yes. Taehyung. Your readers will probably be wondering why he’s still alive. Well, they all are. As it turns out the change from human to vampire was irreversible, and all Seokjin had been able to do was make it so they’re not quite as immortal as angels and demons are. In short - one could kill the three of them with a stake to the heart, if they should wish. When you found out Seokjin had omitted the truth (his words) about their lack of demise, that had been the biggest (and only) argument you’ve had in the centuries you’ve known him. Jimin had cried. It was very embarrassing.

Of course, you’d moved past it, because there was little to be done to change anything, and you actually rather like the company of the vampire trio. Yoongi is another anomaly, he should be dead too, and he kind of- he sort of is. Seokjin calls him a ghoul. But having met him, you can’t say he’s as evil as the handbooks make ghouls out to be. A grouch, definitely, but you can see why Seokjin likes to keep him around. 

Anyway, the point of this opening was not Seokjin’s lie of omission. The point is Seokjin’s current disposition.)

“Why are you in such a mood?”

“I’m not in a mood,” Seokjin shoots back.

“You are,” you counter. 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.”

Seokjin flicks you on the forehead. 

“Ow!”

“Please stop,” snaps Namjoon from the corner of the room. “Some of us are trying to study.”

You crane your neck to spy on the book he’s reading. Heraclitian Philosophy. 

Seokjin notices you looking. “Namjoon fancies himself as one of the new age philosophers,” he whispers. “He won’t listen but I keep telling him they’re a bunch of miserable fu-”

“I can hear you,” says Namjoon, pointedly.

You and Seokjin share a private smile.

“We missed you,” he murmurs.

“Missed you too,” you say, cheerfully. 

You dip a spoon into the pot Seokjin is standing over, and he chastises you for tasting too early (it’s not ready, so he says) but it’s so good that you can’t help yourself. 

“Mmm,” you hum, appreciative. “My favourite.”

He’s strawberry red again. 

“Where do strawberries grow?” you ask.

Seokjin laughs. “You always ask such weird questions.”

You bonk him on the head with your spoon. 

“Answer please.”

“Dunno,” says Seokjin with a shrug. “I haven’t seen any here.”

“In Europe!” Namjoon calls over.

“Thank you!” you shout back.

“Why do you ask?” says Seokjin.

“I want to try one.”

He tilts his head, a curious puppy if you ever saw one. 

“I invented them,” you answer his unasked question.

“You?”

You frown. “Yes, me.”

“You made food?”

“I made lots of things.”

“But you didn’t try anything?”

“Well why would I? I made lovely things in pretty colours just like they asked and sent them off to Agriculture.”

Seokjin smiles sardonically, saying, “such a good little angel, aren’t you?”

You beam even though it’s a non-compliment, and Seokjin rolls his eyes, but this time the look in his eye is one of affection.

“What else did you invent?” Seokjin asks, and off you go, listing all the things in your roster until you lose your breath. 

After dinner, Namjoon goes out to meet the others for a dinner of their own, leaving you and Seokjin sitting in front of an open window, sipping tea and catching up on the happenings over the last decade. 

Seokjin seems down. He leaves his tea to go cold and picks at loose threads on his tunic.

After a while, you ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” 

Your friend’s face falls into a dejected pout. “Time’s almost up,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Thirty years left and I’ve hardly been anywhere. Hardly seen a thing.”

Seokjin always claims he’s not sentimental, but you look at the home he’s built for himself, the friends he keeps, the trinkets that adorn the room, some four-hundred years old, and you deduce that there is little truth to that statement. What he isn’t is someone who tends to feel sorry for himself. 

It’s unsettling, seeing him like this. 

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him. “Once you’re back home you’ll have your miracles, and you can have all of this and more in Heaven.”

Seokjin rolls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I’ll be there too,” you tack on.

His responding smile is a little pitiful, but a smile is a smile, and if that’s all he’s got, you’ll take it.

729 BC

January 28th. 6:56pm. Snowing.

Taehyung says he’s invented a game. It’s called truth or dare, and the objective is to tell the truth when you’re asked a question, or do something at the other player's request. Despite asking on several occasions, there seems to be no clear rules on how to win.

“This isn’t a criticism of your creativity, Taehyung,” you say gently. “But it seems as if there’s no real point in playing if your point scoring system is flawed.”

Taehyung stares at you. Jimin hides a laugh behind his hand.

“How do we know when to end the game if there’s no objective winner?” you ask.

They ignore you, and Namjoon suggests it would be better to write down the dares and questions and draw them from different jars. For yours, you write down things like eat exactly 2/7ths of an apple and what time is it?

Jimin pours drinks, because apparently there’s also ‘forfeits’ in the form of ‘taking a shot’ if you can’t answer truthfully or complete a dare, but you can’t imagine why either thing would be such difficult tasks to complete. 

“Why would I lie, though?” you ask again. “It’s my job to be divine.”

“You’ve lied for me on more than a hundred occasions,” Seokjin reminds you.

 “Nonsense,” you say, haughtily. “That was for the greater good.”

Jimin and Taehyung share a funny look.

Namjoon coughs. “Shall we just play?”

You grumble something about rules being made to be followed that the others pointedly ignore, and Yoongi is the first to draw from the dare pile, and Taehyung- who is reading over his shoulder- shrieks.

Run naked to the end of the street and back <3

Oh. 

Yoongi turns as red as a ghoul can go (which is to say, not very) and says he’s glad he can turn invisible, and promptly disappears from view. The only suggestion that he even leaves the room is the door opening and closing.  Jimin says pointedly that he bets Yoongi is still in the room, but a minute later the door goes again, and Yoongi appears once more at the table, pink-cheeked and panting. Jimin scowls like a child and calls him a spoilsport.

The game continues in this vein until Namjoon gets your dare.

“Put on socks?” he says, confused.

“Yes!” You nod. “It’s very cold.”

Seokjin laughs. “You really are an angel.”

You beam at him.

Namjoon goes to find socks.

“Stop making googly eyes at each other,” says an exasperated Jimin. “I’m bored.”

Taehyung nudges the jars toward Seokjin. “Your turn.”

He makes a drawn out show of searching for the best one while not actually looking, claiming he can tell who wrote it by the way they folded the paper. He pulls out one he says was ‘obviously’ written by Yoongi, but by the gleeful look on Jimin’s face, you wonder if it was really him.

“Kiss your favourite person in the room,” reads Seokjin. He stares very hard at the paper. He’s not even blinking.

Taehyung and Jimin break the silence with a giggle. Namjoon is back, with more socks on, and his eyes dart between you and Seokjin. And now your eyes have turned into curious little fiends too, looking from Seokjin to the paper to Seokjin to the paper, to your hands, which are suddenly very interesting for no reason at all.

Seokjin looks at you for a long time. Seokjin turns red. And then Seokjin kisses Yoongi on the cheek.

“Forfeit!” yells Namjoon.

723 BC

March 9th. 8:02pm. A little chilly, but not unpleasantly so.

Today, the cold weather has you craving kimchi jjigae, and Seokjin has only complained three-hundred times about it. He says he made a table full of food, he asks why you can’t wait until everyone else arrives, he says of course you’d want the one thing he hadn’t made. He makes it anyway, and mutters that none of his other friends are as demanding nor as needy, including Taehyung. 

The reason for the sheer amount of food adorning the table is because today is Yoongi’s birthday, and Seokjin is throwing him a party. Even though he’s sort of dead… and doesn’t need to eat. (It’s both pointless and confusing.)

You sit in front of the fire, bowl of jjigae warming your belly, kicking your legs contentedly while you wait for the guests to arrive. 

Seokjin is anxious. He adjusts the position of the furniture six times. He wipes over his ornaments twice. He sweeps the floor three times and shoots you a glare when you try to help by using a little miracle to evaporate every speck of dust in the entire house. Normally he appreciates the privilege your miracles bring, since he lost access to his own, not tonight apparently. At first you attribute his sour mood to the idea of people he hardly knows invading his space, because while Yoongi is the quietest being you’ve ever known, he’s somehow friends with everyone in a twenty-mile radius. But Seokjin has hosted before - it’s nothing unusual for him to play host for others and dissolve into the background once everyone starts enjoying themselves. 

No. Something else is going on here.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Talk about what?” Seokjin mutters with a scowl, distracted by fussing over a china pot that’s apparently three millimetres out of place. 

“Whatever it is that has you acting like you’re not enjoying my company.”

Seokjin looks up at you, expression unreadable. The silence hangs uncomfortably until it’s interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. It’s the first guests, bringing with them gifts of food and wine. 

People filter in quickly after that. You don’t know many, but those you recognise offer a friendly hello or a polite bow in your direction. You tend to keep your distance from most people, at least those who don’t know your true identity as an Angel of the Lord, but you do enjoy their idle chatter. It’s ever so interesting, the matters that concern them, the small things that bring them joy in their (without any disrespect) insignificant lives. You’d tried engaging a human in conversation once, at a market Seokjin brought you to, but Taehyung had laughed and suggested you needed more practice interacting with people. After that you lost your confidence. 

Perhaps tonight could be another opportunity, if Seokjin has enough wine to make his guests less suspicious. 

You jump up, fetching bottles and cups from the other room and passing them around with a smile. The humans accept them gratefully. There’s nothing like alcohol to get people talking. Thirty minutes later the room is full, and loud, and everyone is on (at least) their third drink. With a wave of your hand, the guests' cups are refilled, and thankfully it’s only Seokjin that seems to notice. He waves you over from the other side.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Helping,” you say.

“We don’t need to get everyone drunk before he arrives.” He stares at the door.

“I don’t think Yoongi would mind,” you say. “Hasn’t he been half-drunk every time I’ve seen him?”

“Oh, not him,” Seokjin says absent-mindedly.

You frown.

“Who then?”

Just then, the door bursts open and a dishevelled Yoongi is carried through on the shoulders of Taehyung and Jimin, with a panicked Namjoon following closely behind - hands outstretched as if that would help Yoongi if he were to fall. 

Everyone cheers. Someone pours them a drink. Seokjin continues to stare at the door.

Weird.

After leaving Seokjin to his own devices you decide to work the room and quickly discover how right you were about the alcohol. It’s been forty-five minutes and you can’t escape a man who doesn’t seem to know whose birthday it is, but is very glad for the opportunity to talk about his herd of goats and all the trouble he’s having with one particular fox. 

“I wouldn’t mind if it was a one off but it seems like the bastard has it out for me.” 

“That’s terrible.” You commiserate, trying to look interested while scanning the room in search of an out. The few people you know well enough to call for help from are otherwise occupied. Taehyung is pouring wine into Jimin’s open mouth. Yoongi and Namjoon are sitting around the table deep in conversation with an elderly woman and her husband. 

“-usually one a day,” he says, slurring his words. “Sometimes two!” 

“Awful,” you agree.

Seokjin is standing by the door, face impassive, talking out of the corner of his mouth to a man who wasn’t here earlier. He’s impossibly tall, doesn’t look like anyone else in the room, all sallow skin and sunken eyes. Seokjin has a wrinkle in his nose suggesting there’s a bad smell nearby. You’d bet your immortal soul it’s the man next to him.

“-at this point it’d take a bloody miracle to save my herd-”

“A miracle,” you echo, hardly listening, too busy looking at how the man holds out his hand. The eager gleam in his hollow eyes. How Seokjin’s lips curl with distaste but he shakes his hand anyway.

“I’m fucked if it carries on,” your companion says, voice breaking.

 “Yeah,” you breathe. There’s a pit forming in your stomach. “Fucked.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, me too,” you say. “I’ve just got to- uh- go… Over there.” And you’re weaving through the people in the room to get to Seokjin and the stranger who has your hackles raised like no one else has had in centuries.

“Seokjin!” you say with false brightness, smile tight. “Who’s your friend?”

Seokjin turns to you, eyes wide and desperate.

“Not now,” he whispers. “Please.”

You stand firm, undeterred. “I’m Seokjin’s friend-” 

And then the man turns his glare on you, and you see it. You smell it. 

A demon.

You can hardly contain your gasp. 

The demon grins. His teeth are unbrushed. “The angel says she’s your friend, Seokjin, and you haven’t told her what you’ve been doing? Who you’ve been talking to. Tut tut.”

Your gaze snaps to Seokjin who looks like he’s about to be sick.

“Told me what?”

“Not now,” Seokjin snaps. 

You’ve never seen him like it, not once in three centuries. Face suddenly hard and unmoving. Not even during your fight about his friend's lack of mortality. The pit in your stomach grows. Something horrible is happening and you can’t figure it out. 

“Go home,” he says, resigned. “We’ll talk later.”

“But it’s Yoongi’s birthday-” you start, but the hard line of Seokjin’s lips tell you your argument is pointless.

“He’s my friend, Angel,” he says, voice raising enough to attract a few looks from the people nearby. “Mine. Not yours. Go.”

Seokjin shouts. Shouts often, in fact. A drama queen if one ever existed. But Seokjin doesn’t shout at you. Not like that. One last wary glance between your friend and the demon at his shoulder, and you’re back at your desk wondering what in Heaven just happened.

723 BC

March 10th. 6:42am. Cold. Uncomfortably so, but perhaps that’s just the vibe in the room.

Seokjin doesn’t notice you’re back. But then he is fast asleep in his chair, several empty bottles at his feet. There’s drool running down his chin.

“Wake up,” you say. The miracle helps him along with stirring. You’re impatient this morning. He blinks awake, and upon seeing you standing above him, he groans.

“M’too drunk for this righnow.”

“Then sober up.”

Seokjin scowls and slurs in an accusatory tone, “you took my miracles, remember? You’ll hav-to wait for me to do it the human way.” He’s very green. “Pass me a bucket won’t you, m’gonna be sick.”

You arch an eyebrow, thoroughly disgruntled, and he groans louder as the alcohol dissipates from his bloodstream.

Now sheepish, Seokjin straightens up awkwardly. He doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t care for the way you treated me last night,” you begin. 

Seokjin nods.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I also don’t care for your meeting with demons.”

Seokjin shifts awkwardly, rubs at his forehead, but the apology you expected is noticeably absent.

You suck in a breath. “Aren’t you going to explain?”

He nudges one of the bottles on the ground with his toe, watching it turn on its side, letting the silence hang heavy around you.

After a minute, you can’t bear it any longer. “Seok-”

“Can’t you see I’m miserable?” he cuts in. 

You sigh. “Well, yes I had noticed.”

You know it’s been a long time since he’s been home, there’s bound to be some apprehension about returning. But you’ll be there too. You’ve got sway with the committee now that you’ve been “putting in the work” with the banished angels, you can put in a good word for him, get him into a position that gives him more freedom to visit Earth now and then. You explain all this, but Seokjin shakes his head, but apparently that wasn’t a good idea because he holds it in his hands and groans.

“Angel, you don’t get it,” he snaps. “Why would I want to go back? Back to that place where they only give a shit about one corner of the world-”

“That’s not true-” you interject.

“It is true,” Seokjin insists. “The past four-thousand years it’s been Jerusalem this, Jerusalem that. Bethlehem and Jordan and Egypt.”

“They’re great places!”

“Yes, but everywhere else is great too. What makes one place better than the rest? What was the point of making all of this beauty if the one book of any importance doesn’t talk about it? If it’s just going to be gone-” He snaps his fingers. “-in two thousand years. All anyone goes on about is Noah, and Abraham, and Joseph and his stupid fucking coat! What is the point of me? Of us?”

“It’s in the plan-”

“Oh- who cares about a coat? What could the plan possibly say about that?” Seokjin is standing now, red faced and pulling at his hair. “What about these people?” He’s raising his voice again. “These people here? The people on the other side of the world? Where are their stories? Why isn’t anyone writing about them?”

“They will!”

“When?” 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. 

“When it’s significant!”

“Isn’t everyone significant? Isn’t that the point?”

Yes. Yes and no. They’re obviously significant to each other, but not necessarily in the grand scheme of things. Seokjin doesn’t like that answer. His frown deepens when you suggest his faith is being tested.

“That was the stupidest idea they could’ve come up with,” Seokjin rants. “the notion of testing and tempting. No one can live without breaking one of these ridiculous made up rules or else our souls be damned for eternity. What’s the point? Be miserable for your entire life or be miserable for eternity. Can’t anyone enjoy anything without worrying for their immortal soul?”

“I don’t like this conversation,” you say.

“Of course you don’t,” says Seokjin bluntly. “Makes you uncomfortable, does it? You know I have a point and you don’t like thinking badly of our Heavenly Mother.”

You frown. “I’m not thinking badly of Her. It’s just- I don’t know. I don’t like it when you make me question things. We’re made to obey.” 

Seokjin scoffs. His eyes are so unusually cold. “I don’t want to obey.”

Your breath catches.

“What are you saying?” 

Seokjin hesitates. There’s a moment where you think he won’t say it, but then - “I hate it up there, Angel,” he says, and your throat goes dry and tight and uncomfortable as you remember the way the demon’s tongue rolled around the word angel, how it’s so different from the way Seokjin addresses you. You recognise the demon now, know him for exactly who he is and what he did to your friend. Leviathan, Prince of the Seraphim, tempting mankind and angels alike into heresy.

“You can’t seriously want to join their side?”

Seokjin’s face goes tight. “Of course I don’t. I want to be on my own side.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

You stare at one another.

“I’m not going back,” he says, brows knitting together.

“You have to.” 

“Angel-” he says it gently, with a tenderness so at odds with the way he spoke only moments before. “I can’t. I won’t be a hypocrite.”

“No-” you shake your head, reaching out and taking his hands in yours. He stares at you, confused by your insistence and your tears threaten to spill over. “Seokjin you don’t understand- if you don’t go back, they’ll know, they’ll kill you for defecting-”

“They can’t-”

“They can,” you insist. “Holy fire.”

Seokjin pales. 

“You haven’t got your miracles. You can’t survive it.”

He drops your hands. Sinks into the chair behind him and stares blankly at the wall. 

“Come back when you’re called, Seokjin,” you say, resolute. “For my sake.”

His eyes flit to meet yours. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” you say desperately, but you don’t know who you’re trying to convince at this point. It might be your home but Seokjin has never liked the way it’s run. But he’ll be safe, and that’s what matters. “I’ll help you.”

Seokjin smiles weakly. “Alright, Angel.” 

“Another thing I don’t care for is the way you’re calling me Angel.”

“Why?”

You reach out, pick a loose thread from the shoulder of his tunic. “It implies we’re too different.”

“Aren’t we different?” he says. 

He’s not looking at you. Instead his absent gaze is turned into the empty fireplace, staring at the ash left over from the night before.

“Not in that sense.”

Seokjin’s lips twist in a way that silently says not yet.