#but because it was unusual for me personally

[tofixtheshadows]

Hot take: Laios wouldn't actually mind an arranged marriage. Obviously "reluctant royal being pressured into marriage" is very fun for shipping purposes. But I have harlequin blood, so bear with me. Join me on this journey of character theorizing/shipping nonsense that makes it abundantly clear I have a Scrivener document I'm neglecting.

Laios was promised to someone from a young age. He and Falin both were; it's probably how their parents ended up together. They both broke it off by leaving their village, but it didn't seem to be a factor in Laios's own decision. And when Marcille, presumably, asks about his hypothetical love life (bicorn chapter), he not only brings it up readily, but actually seems kind of flattered? lmao

I love when smug Laios comes out. Underrated factor of Laios's personality for me is how much he enjoys being seen as cool. I think you'd expect Laios to be embarrassed or uneasy over this line of questioning, and the fact that he isn't is fun to me.

So when Yaad and his other old advisors bring up his need for a wife, Laios is ready to go along with it. Not necessarily thrilled by the prospect, but he was raised to think of marriage as a business arrangement you do because it's beneficial for your household/bloodline (as was often the case historically). He's already made the big step to claim a throne, and the idea of becoming village chief after his father seemed to have been vaguely in the back of his head all his life. Besides, if he has to do it anyway, I think he'd take comfort that there was a formalized process for an otherwise socially messy undertaking.

This dovetails neatly with my personal headcanon that Laios is gay but unaware of it. He comes from kind of a repressed culture- or at least I can imagine he does based on context clues- and has spent most of his life being ostracized in one way or another, feeling like he's on the outside of humanity. So he doesn't realize that his lack of attraction to women is unusual- he assumes that nobody really enjoys romance that much. It's not like his own parents married for love. It's just something people play up for stories, right?

It's all tangled up with his fraught desire for human connection and platonic companionship anyway. Meanwhile he's blithely unaware that the things he says about Toshiro are not normal bro things. Oh you'd totally marry Toshiro, Laios? Tell me more.

I see this in Marcille too. Firstly due to her unstable development, which has only recently allowed her to reach maturity (I headcanon her as somewhere between 20-22) and secondly due to her being a half-elf (infertile+a too-long lifespan), I think she has the expectation that she's simply not destined for love. The half-elf character she relates to in her favorite books says as much. So she, too, confuses a genuine lack of heterosexual attraction with the belief that this is just because of her half-elf status distancing her from it. Plus, she spent over a decade as a student/researcher in a nice little sheltered academic bubble, at an all-girls academy populated by adolescents. She's the most sheltered of all the characters: she's only spent the past year in the "real world", and she still focuses all her romantic attention on living vicariously through her favorite characters or her friends (except for Falin, conveniently!).

And Marcille would absolutely want to live vicariously through Laios and his future wife. She would not want him to go through a dispassionate formalized process: she wants her bestie to have a fairytale romance! What is the point of being a heroic king in a mythic castle if you can't even get a love story for the ages out of it?

This would result in a lot of Laios meeting with eligible bachelorettes at Marcille's urging, looking to Kabru for help the entire time and being grilled by Marcille afterwards about what he liked best about each girl. "She had nice, um, teeth?" They're both so close to getting it.

Kabru, meanwhile, is agitating for Yaad and the other advisors not lock the country into a hereditary monarchy, they have the chance to do something radical here, to break away from the systems that the elves and dwarves uphold. At the very least, let Laios marry for love, or formally adopt an heir and name them his successor if he wants, he's already sacrificed enough for the sake of Melini. Don't make him jump through these circus hoops for the chance of some trade agreements, we can get those without a royal marriage. And even if Laios was willing to go along with it, he does look at Kabru like he's his hero for sticking up for him.

The vague unhappiness Kabru feels at the idea of Laios being married off is easy for him to ignore. Kabru didn't actually get better at honoring or even recognizing his own wants just because he's moved past the dungeon. And Laios hasn't gotten the hint about his crush on Toshiro and is still 50/50 on saying casually shocking things, so when he remarks that he doesn't need a wife anyway when he has Kabru, he has no idea why that gets him the looks it does. After all, where he's from, men marry women to run their households, but Laios has castle staff for that, and Kabru is handling the rest?

That comment alone ticks one month off their collective gay awakening countdown.

Anyway. How many repressed gays in their twenties does it take to run a country?

Answer: Yaad can tell you.

[honeipie]

THE WIFE

izuku midoryia x reader

synopsis: you’ve been asked to do an interview after your husbands cute little story blew up. now it’s your turn to express your love for him

authors note: to the anon who did the ask i am SO SORRY. i posted it by accident then fucking deleted it in a panic.. don’t worry though i got the gist of it! for the people who don't know it was getting the reader's POV of how they fell in love with izuku as well. also sorry if i went a little off track. i js wanted to give reader a lil opinion and personality ☺️

you can find part one here

this was out of your comfort zone.

you sat in a plush chair across from a woman who was currently fiddling with the microphones. your husband izuku had done an interview with a popular podcast about a month ago. it wasn’t only popular because he was the number one hero. there was a charm to the episode that others couldn’t fake. the way he talked about you as if you showed him colors for the first time. everyone loved it.

now people really wanted to get into the lives of the midoryia’s, which included you. about a week ago you had gotten an offer to be on another podcast. you made sure to check out some of her work before you leaped into it.

the host's name was aiya, and she was absolutely amazing. not only were you laughing with the one episode you did listen to, but so did izuku since he was kind enough to watch with you.

"are you ready mrs. midoryia?" aiya asked going to put on the headphones. taking your own set of headphones, you placed them on as well.

"i am! plus you can just call me y/n. i really don't mind"

"thanks for letting me know," she clicked a button on her computer which started the camera up "hello everyone! it's aiya here! on this special episode we have the wonderful, and very lovely y/n midoryia in the building"

you gave a shy smile and waved to the camera "hello everyone!" you faced the aiya letting her smile ease your tensions "i just wanted to say thank you before we start. not only for inviting me on your podcast, but just being so respectful and kind as well"

aiya nodded placing both hands over her heart "you're just too kind! but girl you don't have to thank me for doing the bare minimum"

"no i really do have to. because there are a lot of other people out here that i've talked to and are not as professional and sweet like you. it's really crazy" you shook your head when you heard yourself start to get off topic "i'm sorry i don't want to control this whole interview. i think i got the rambling from my husband through the years"

both you and aiya laughed at your statement.

"don't worry about it! this is not a place where i will every cut you off from rambling, seriously. plus i want to get into some of that as well. what is your experience with the whole ‘being a wife of the number one hero’ thing? like you said before people can be unusually cruel to you for absolutely no reason"

you scoffed dramatically making aiya laugh.

"so when people ask me this in person, which has never happened ever" you made direct eye contact with the camera before turning back. this had aiya laughing more now than before "being married to izuku is great, but being married to deku can be.. iffy on my end. does that make sense?”

"yes and no"

"okay so what i mean is that being deku's wife is stressful. not only because of the major backlash that i get from the internet, tabloids, and gossip shows, but also because of my safety. the backlash is something that doesn't go away but gets easier as time goes on. for me it was easier to just laugh at how stupid they are. like one article called me fat, cool, but then another one from the same company called me pile of bones skinny" you tilted you head slapping one hand down on your thigh "now you just look fucking stupid because you can't pick one and clearly can't run a business. cause like how didn't you know that both of these articles were coming out?" you shook your head "they piss me off more than make me upset"

aiya listened carefully letting you go on with your rant.

"but when i say i love being izuku’s wife i really mean it. i love that man more than i love anyone else. i love the way he looks when he wakes up in the morning. i love the way he gets excited every time we see cows when we're driving. he is who i was meant to be with and i believe that with my whole heart. i see deku and izuku as two totally different people because i get to see it from both perspectives. i can understand how some people might not understand where i’m coming from with this and that’s okay. this is just how i’ve been able to express the way i feel about the whole situation”

“wow.. thank you so much for sharing your point of view on things. i hope this really opens the eyes to some of the haters out there”

“ugh me too” you played with the ring on your finger “i feel bad now. when this episode airs i can just imagine what he’s gonna say, ‘oh so my episode was me spewing my undying love for you and all i get is i hate my husband?’”

the two of you laughed thinking about it.

“no, but we’ve seriously talked about it before and he understands where i’m coming from. i love that he’s so understanding about everything”

“speaking of love,” aiya pulled out a piece of paper coming from her lap “we’ve got questions”

you clapped your hands together excitedly.

“oh! hit me”

“okay so of course deku did a podcast episode where he made all of us singles jealous by describing the moment he fell in love with you. so now people are wondering what was the moment you fell in love with him?”

you had been preparing for this question ever since you read the email.

“i actually fell in love with izuku pretty early in our relationship. maybe like a month in? i’ve honestly had a crush on him since year one, but we never got the chance to interact.”

it was early off in your third year when you had come down with a bad fever. the only reason you could assume the sickness took over you was because everyone had just moved back into the dorms. bringing whatever kind of diseases they wanted back.

“hi izuku”

the phone was placed on the pillow beside your head. you didn’t have enough energy to hold it up. hell, you’re surprised you even had enough energy to accept the call. everything on your body was just hot. they only thing you felt you needed was a cold compress on your forehead, but getting up just wasn’t an option at the moment.

“y/n you’re making me worried. are you sure you don’t need recovery girl?”

“i should be okay,” you stopped in the middle of your sentence to take in a long breath “plus i don’t think she could help with what i have anyway”

izuku was slipping on his training uniform as he was talking to you. he didn’t know if you could hear yourself, or if you even cared, but he could probably picture what you looked like. comforter thrown to the floor. medicine bottles scattered on your dresser and not knowing which one to choose.

“are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“i should be fine izu. just focus on- on training for the festival. bye now”

izuku had wanted to get a couple more sentences in to ease his anxiety, but you quickly hung up the phone without a second thought.

once you found yourself a semi-comfortable position you took the chance of drifting off to sleep.

the nap lasted about thirty minutes before you woke up to the feeling of a cold compress being laid onto your forehead. slowly, your eyes opened to reveal your boyfriend making sure it was in the right spot.

“izu” you mumbled going to sit up but he placed his hands on your shoulders laying you back down.

“nope, you’re resting”

he still had his training uniform on from the time you had called him.

“but you shouldn’t be here. you should be training”

the newfound coolness on your forehead felt amazing, and part of you wished he had came sooner.

“i can take a day or two off. it’s fine”

you shook your head gently.

“i don’t want you to miss it because of me”

“y/n are you me?”

“no”

“are you my teacher?”

“no, but-“

“then don’t worry about it. your health means more to me than training. i’ve been working hard for the past two years, so if i have to take a day or two off to take care of my girlfriend then i’m jumping at the opportunity”

it was right then and there you felt some of the weight lift of your shoulders. this felt like confirmation of what you had assumed you were feeling from the moment you first saw him.

you loved him.

you loved him so, so much.

taglist! @sagejin 🫶🏾

lmk if you’d like to be added

[theotherbuckley]

Love your page! Do you take fic requests? Really wanting an angsty fic where Tommy is hurt and an ignorant hospital worker tries to keep Buck from seeing him.

Thank you for the kind words anon💜 here's the fic:

i thought it would be me

bucktommy | 3.7K | T

Buck really thought he would be the one to get hurt first. He’s pretty sure the universe is out to get him, and he’s had a near-death experience every other year, so he really expected he’d be the one in the hospital.

He should have known his bad luck would lead to Tommy being in that position instead—because that hurts more.

Getting a call at three AM is far less unusual than it should be, and yet, it still doesn’t prevent his heart from working overtime, pounding in his ears as he reaches to grab his phone from the nightstand.

He’d thought Tommy would be home by now.

Buck’s at his place, in his bed, wrapped in his sheet because they had plans tomorrow, and Tommy had told him to just spend the night, that way they could wake up together.

They’ve been dating for a little over four months now—and Buck has his key.

He still can’t believe it. It makes him feel a little giddy every time he remembers—he has to take his keys out of his pocket every time just to stare at them and smile.

With Tommy, everything feels so right. It’s not weird that he’s in Tommy’s bed because it’s just normal. He loves how Tommy enters the room, trying to be as quiet as possible, but Buck wakes up anyway. He loves the way Tommy creeps into bed and hugs Buck to his chest. It’s always the best sleep he ever has.

Except tonight, as it’s three AM, and Tommy’s shift was supposed to finish at twelve, and Buck’s alone, in a bed that suddenly feels all too big and much too cold.

His phone is still ringing in his palm.

His hand shakes because he knows what they’re going to tell him, but he wants to delay the inevitable for as long as he can.

It feels like an hour has passed when Buck finally accepts the call. He doesn’t even manage to let out a shaky “hello” before there’s yelling on the other end of the line.

“Where the fuck are you?” Smith’s voice practically growls through the phone.

He’s confused, but the ringing in his ears doesn’t let up. Smith is one of Tommy’s coworkers. He seems like a cool guy, not that Buck’s spent much time around him. Tommy tells him that he’s one of the best, the first person at harbour to really make Tommy feel like he could be himself.

“Uh…” Buck says eloquently, his voice breaking through layers of sleep.

“I told the hospital to call you three hours ago, so where the hell are you?” Smith seethes.

The word “hospital” stabs through Buck’s chest like a knife.

The ringing in his ears reaches its peak until the only thing Buck can hear is “hospital” over and over and over again.

It’s like tunnel vision in his brain—he can’t hear Smith still speaking through the line—can’t think—can’t blink—can’t breathe.

His breaths are too shallow. He tries to ask Smith what he’s talking about, but only a pained whimper leaves his throat.

He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the tinny voice coming from his phone. Then, patting his lips together, he forces his mouth to work, and says, “What—what happened?”

continue reading on ao3

[dark-frosted-heart]

Get Drunk, Get Me Drunk, Drown - Roger Barel

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

NSFW, Minors DNI

I parted ways with Liam, who was on going to the theater, and started heading home when—

(That back…)

Before I could even tap his shoulder, Roger turned around and grabbed my hand.

Roger: You must’ve really wanted to see me if you saw me and came running, huh?

Kate: N-no!

(That’s right, Roger must have known I was behind him because he could hear my footsteps…)

Roger: If you’re just passing through, let’s have a drink.

Roger pulled me toward a seat.

The beer in his hand looked like it was glittering.

Roger: By the way, what’re you doing out here all alone?

As I told Roger how I ended up here, he nodded along and drank his beer—

Kate: Aren’t you drinking too much…?

Seeing as how the alcohol was disappearing faster than usual, I was going to check on him when he suddenly grabbed my cheeks.

Kate: Mn?!

Roger: You two really are alike.

Roger’s face looked red.

Kate: W-what are you talking about?

Roger had a strong grip on my face and I couldn’t turn away as he stared at me—

Roger: Dog.

Kate: Huh?

Roger: Didn’t I tell you? You look just like the family corgi. If you became an animal, you’d definitely be a corgi.

Kate: I’m human! How can I turn into a dog?!

As he cackled, I felt my face turn red as I downed my drink.

Roger smiled at how well I drank, but…

(I drank too much while we were bantering…)

Roger: We’re here. Jeez, you drank too much.

The way he roughly patted my head made me smile involuntarily.

Roger: What’s up?

My heart leapt as he looked at me with unusual gentleness.

Kate: I’m…glad that I’m a person… If I were a dog, then I wouldn’t be able to talk or drink with you the way I do now. So I’d rather be with you as a human.

(What am I even saying?)

(It’s like…)

Roger: Kate.

His large body shrouded me in darkness as I sank into the bed.

Kate: Roger?

His eyes burned with lust.

Roger: Sounds like you wanna do stuff with me that dogs can’t do.

Kate: Huh? Nnnnn…

Greedy kisses stole my breath and melted away any sense of reason.

Roger: I definitely don’t think a woman who unconsciously gets someone worked up like this is a dog. 

I couldn’t detangle my hands from the sheets.

Kate: Roger…ahhh

Roger: A simple kiss gets you like this.

He drew out a sweet cry as he pinched what poked through my blouse. 

Roger: You like a little pain. 

Kate: Aahhh

As he said that, he bit my nipple, making my body jolt.

Roger: See? Just like I said.

I couldn’t help but be captivated by Roger’s sexy, muscular body as I looked up at him through my tears.

When I realized our size difference, I felt wetness between my thighs.

Roger: …Let me tell you something nice.

A hand reached out and rested on my underwear.

Roger: Your footsteps aren’t the only thing I can hear. Your heartbeat gets louder when you’re with me, Kate.

Kate: Nn, aahhh!

Wet sounds echo in the air as thick fingers slip through my underwear and into my core.

Kate: No, Roger.

I writhed in pleasure and squeezed the hand that pinned mine to the sheets, but it seemed like that action backfired—

Kate: Aaahhh!!

—As his fingers pumped faster, making me see white.

The moment I caught Roger’s gaze in the midst of my half-conscious state, I realized something.

(He’s going to consume me)

He was like an animal with his sight set on his prey, with his gleaming eyes, hot breath, and large stature blocking my freedom.

Like a small cage.

(But,)

Kate: Don’t. I won’t do it.

Roger: Even though you look like you wanna?

Kate: I’ll only do that with my lover!

After denying him with what little sense of reason I had left, Roger let out a sigh after a moment and leaned over me.

Kate: Ugh…

Roger: Go to sleep.

He removed his glasses and hugged me with those strong muscles of his.

Kate: …Do you want help?

Roger: I’d love to get off now, but you don’t want to do that.

Kate: I see…

Roger: Also, going back to my room’s a pain. Just go to sleep.

The small cage that withheld my freedom was now gently surrounding me.

The rhythmic tapping on my back put me at ease—

The next time I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw were pecs.

Kate: ?!

(I fell asleep against Roger’s chest)

I had felt so safe and protected that I had let go of my consciousness.

(What a night…Not to mention, Roger’s body)

Roger: Your heart’s pretty loud this morning.

Kate: Roger!

Roger laughed as I broke free from his arms in a panic.

Roger: What were you agonizing over?

Kate: I wasn’t!

Roger: You can say whatever you want, but sounds won’t fool me.

I got up and faced him, but—

(I can’t look at him after remembering what happened yesterday…)

Roger: …Kate

Kate: Yes?!

When he called my name, I instantly looked up and was nipped on the nose.

Kate: ?!

When I froze, Roger burst into laughter like a boy.

The genuine smile that lacked its usual teasing nature made my body heat up.

Roger: You really are like a dog.

I don’t think I’ll ever sober up from this intoxication.

[newtonsheffield]

I cannot stop thinking about 5 years later Kanthony. Please can I beseech a snippet of those second chance clowns??

Think about how confused Kate would be feeling. She’s arrived and she was already dreading Anthony, well aware that the feelings she assured him would fade actually never did. She thought maybe he’d have lost the boyish air in his smile or it wouldn’t matter anyway because he’d most certainly have married someone else. But he hasn’t. He’s a confirmed bachelor, instead. And the very first thing he does is ask her to dance.

Her entire body prickled with the awareness of his When he lead her in the waltz and then he insisted on being allowed to call on her the next morning and she still doesn’t know why. The last time they’d danced together she’d wanted to beg him to ask her to stay. But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t asked so what possible reason would he have for wanting to see her again.

“Unusual.”

Kate shrugged at her sister’s mused comment, trying to ignore the pointed stares as Lord Bridgerton strode away from her and straight out the door of the ballroom. “Perhaps he had some sort of… business to attend to.”

“Not that.” Edwina rolled her eyes, “I’ve just not seen him dance at one of these things since… well, I think the last person he danced with was you.”

Kate’s stomach dropped. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Perhaps, but I think not.” Edwina nudged her, teasing, “He’s still very handsome.”

“He’s still very vexing.”

“We’ll see.”

She hardly knows what to do, sat beside Anthony on the sofa with her mother and sister staring at her.

Anthony had stood as she’d entered the room, not thought to expect him so early. He’d inclined his head in a small bow, holding out an enormous bouquet of tulips.

“Miss Sharma. Good morning, I hope I find you well.”

“You do, my Lord.”

He was still holding out the flowers. “Might I… ask you to… accept my gift?”

“I- yes. I suppose I could do that.”

His eyes shone at her. “I can see that our time apart has rendered you no less forthright.”

“Should I be less forthright?”

“Not with me, surely.”

It’s still so confusing when he leaves after he’s asked her question after question about her life. Asked her about her Favourite things in India, and the things she’ll miss this season and he inclines his head.

“I thought I heard your mother mention, that you were to attend my mother’s party this evening.”

“Yes,” Kate swallowed, “She was kind enough to extend an invitation when we were reintroduced last night.”

Anthony nodded, straightening his jacket. “Forgive me, I realise this is considered impolite but I don’t want to miss my chance. Might I secure you for the first dance? And perhaps if you’re agreeable the next?”

“I… Do you really think you ought to act now or miss out? I don’t think you’ll have much competition.”

He made a small shrugging motion, “Perhaps I’m not willing to take the risk.”

Still she doesn’t allow herself to hope even as she gets ready that night not until she sees Lord Bridgerton waiting by the door, bustling forward past his mother even when she arrived.

[hwaslayer]

favorite things | pmylm drabble (jyh)

⇢ favorite things - drabble one // ft. the pmylm couple

summary: yunho's been having a rough time adjusting to the 'real world' and gets upset when he can't have the person he needs the most right away.

words: 2.8k

warnings: cussing/mature language, jealousy/insecurities, yuyu is upset and doesn't really know how to control his feelings rn cause he is just a tired boy 😭, a small lil fight, the awkward silent treatment, yuyu and yeo talk thru his feelings for a bit, kissing/making out, sorry if i missed anything i quickly whipped the rest of this in bed lol

a/n: whipped this baby up because i just felt the need to and i missed my babies!! (+ this lil IG inspo hehe) more drabbles to come 🫶🏼 love you in slow motion update this weekend annnnd i’m gonna have to push back the fallen angel hwa fic cause im all over the place 🥹 but we’ll do better!! lol stay tuned!!

Yunho has entered the real world and he is exhausted. When his mom used to joke about living and working in this so-called real world, he used to think it was just a thing to keep him on his toes, shake him up a little bit.

Nope, that shit was all real.

And he hates it.

He hates it because it's the one thing that brings another fight to the table for your relationship. Ultimately, Yunho knows all he has to do is adjust and he'll be fine in the long run. Both of you will be fine in the long run.

But today, that feels like a stretch and he is short of patience. Unusually short of patience than usual. He knows you don't mean any harm but for some odd reason, today he feels like the world is going to swallow him alive and everything is triggering.

The first thing is the fact that he has to stay a bit later than usual to finish up a project he had been working on. He was hoping to rush home and spend some time with you before you were off to practice for the evening, spending 2-3 hours with your friends and the group.

That didn't happen.

So, when he gets home and you've already texted him saying you've left with a sad, crying face, he's bummed. He gets himself comfortable anyway, heating up a cup of ramen since he's not too hungry. Maybe he'll get some food with you when you're out— it's one of his favorite things to do.

Now, the second thing that makes him a little more irked is the fact that 2-3 hours go by and you haven't texted. He knows practice can run long, but it's also a little unusual for you to not keep him updated. You finally do a bit past 8pm with a quick:

you: hi baby, sorry! practice was a bit busy, i was caught up during breaks. i'll be home soon then i'll come over after i shower, okay? wait for me (: we should go on a food run! hehe

yunho: sounds good, love. i'll be here.

It closes to 9pm and Yunho isn't hungry anymore. The cup of ramen will do since there seems to be a dim chance of getting food with you, especially when you tell him you'll be over in a quick second but you’re still nowhere to be found. Yunho charges to the door anyway and is hoping to greet you when he swings the door open. Instead, he's greeted with you laughing and giggling with Hyunjin downstairs in the lot as he hands you a bag of to-go food.

Let's set the record straight— Yunho loves your friends. He knows he can trust them, and he knows they're all genuinely good people. He's always been happy you had a good group of people around you.

It's just today, he really, really missed you. After a long ass day. And he knows you [and Hyunjin] mean no harm in your actions, but he can't help but feel a tad bit insecure [and slightly jealous] that you aren't rushing over to see him after not being with him all day. He knows he can blame this on the fact that he's exhausted and a little short on patience. God knows he really did try to keep it cool and brush it off.

He couldn't help it.

Yunho shuts the door again, leaving it unlocked for whenever you feel ready to come upstairs and hang out with him. He sits on his computer chair, irritated, and throws on a game to distract himself momentarily. Maybe it'll help ease whatever he's feeling,

But, nope.

It doesn't.

Because when you walk in, you're still yelling out to Hyunjin and whoever before you shut the door, place the food on the counter and walk into his room. You throw your arms around him from behind and Yunho lets out a small, audible sigh. That was already alarming enough for you, but you still dip your head to the side and try to grab his attention.

"Hi." You place a quick, chaste quick to his cheek, but Yunho doesn't move.

"Hey."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Is all he says plainly. "I was just waiting for you."

"I know, but Hyunjin stopped by to give us food—"

"I thought we were gonna grab food together?"

"Oh." You frown because it completely slipped your mind, or else, you would've left the food at your own apartment to save it for tomorrow instead. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't think he was gonna swing by with food. We all left each other earlier without any plans of—"

"It's okay." He taps your arms as a signal for you to let go of him. "You should go eat."

"We can share, there's more than enough—"

"All good." It's petty of Yunho, he knows. For him, it's the fact that you told him you wanted to go on a food run after practice. Another small, but meaningful thing you two did often. He doesn't blame Hyunjin for anything at all, no. There was no way of preventing that, and who the fuck was he to make you reject food from a friend?

He just wished he could take you to get food. Watch you order your favorites and do your happy dance in his passenger's seat. It's another one of his favorite things.

"Yunho." You slowly step aside and sit on his bed, your appetite all of a sudden gone from how distant your boyfriend is being. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset."

"It's fine."

"Is it really? Because something feels off and I wanna know what I did so I can fix it."

"It's nothing, Y/N." You almost flinch at the way he calls you your name instead of his cute endearing nicknames. It throws you off guard so much that you resort to a flimsy, broken:

"Okay." It's barely above a whisper. You stand to head back out to the kitchen, quietly eating a bit of Hyunjin's extra to-go thai food before setting some aside in a tupperware for Yunho and placing it in the fridge. The rest of the night goes.. like that.

In silence. With weird tension.

You hate it.

You wish you could just fix whatever you did wrong, or that Yunho would tell you no matter how 'silly' it may sound. He's always been so good with communicating, even during small disagreements, you weren't sure why he was avoiding it this time around.

You quietly get ready for bed, brushing your teeth and flossing before changing out of your sweats and hoodie to Yunho's shirt. You pad into the room, slipping yourself deep under the sheets and pull up some vlogs on Youtube that you need to catch up on.

"Tired?" Yunho asks from his computer chair, still playing his game.

"Mhm." You look at him, hoping he'd come over to kiss you, cuddle you. Shut off the computer and lay next to you, show you any kind of affection. He doesn't budge, though. You feel your bottom lip trembling, your heart slowly cracking in various places. You have to take a breath to prevent yourself from crying, and Yunho can feel it. He can feel your gaze on him, he can tell you're seconds away from crying. So, Yunho stands and shuts off his computer. But, he starts to head out to the living room and you're on the verge of breaking down. His way of avoiding the issue and getting more upset was to shut down. Deflect.

This wasn't like Yunho at all so you knew something was wrong; something was that bothersome to him.

"Baby." You call for him softly, and he just looks at you. You can tell he's conflicted between keeping this up and dropping it entirely, but it doesn't seem to be enough. It's not enough for him to drop it because his expression doesn't change. He still seems cold, distant. Tired. Unlike the Yunho you're so, so used to seeing and having.

"I'm just tired. Go to sleep."

"Where are you going?"

"The living room."

"Let me come with you."

"Y/N. Please go to sleep. I told you nothing was wrong." You watch the way his jaw slightly ticks before brushing you off completely and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. A loud sigh escapes his lips as he treads to the couch and plops onto it, leaning his head back onto the edge. He shuts his eyes, giving himself some time to sort through his feelings because what the fuck, Jeong Yunho?

He knows this is much needed, though. He needed to step away for a second to regroup. He doesn't want to unintentionally hurt you by saying or doing things that he doesn't mean. He's tired, and he's acting like a fucking baby because he just wanted you at so many points today— yet, the universe just didn't let him have you. That wasn't your fault.

None of this was your fault.

He needed to do better. Just because he was exhausted, didn't mean he had to act this way towards you.

"Yo." Yeosang walks through the door, dropping his duffle bag to the floor as he steps out of his shoes. "You good?" He furrows his brows at the sight of Yunho just resting his head back with his eyes shut close.

"Mhm."

"Where's Y/N?"

"In the room." Odd, Yeosang thinks. It's not like you two to be separated like this. It's pretty obvious Yunho is bothered by something and that you've probably gotten into a small fight over it. Yeosang isn't one to meddle much, especially when it's not his business to. But, he is concerned seeing his roommate like this. It's probably one of the rare times he ever sees Yunho upset.

"You sure everything's okay? I'm not really used to seeing you sitting out in the living room in silence like this." Yunho lets out a tiny chuckle that's barely audible, but he finally turns to Yeosang and purses his lips.

"I guess. Just exhausted lately."

"I bet. You've been working your ass off." Yeosang looks into the fridge before stepping away with a cold water bottle and heading towards Yunho. "Y/N put some food in there for you, by the way."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. It has a little sticky note on top." Of course you did, why wouldn’t you? You always thought about Yunho no matter what.

"Fuck."

"What?"'

"I've been such a dick to her tonight."

"What'd you do?"

"It's so stupid." Yunho begins to explain how his day has just been all over the place— from work, to staying late and not being able to see you before practice, no updates until 3+ hours after practice, looking forward to a food run that didn't end up happening because of Hyunjin. All Yeosang can do is laugh a bit and shake his head.

"Dude, we all have bad days. It's inevitable. You're still adjusting so don't be so hard on yourself. It's hard going from a routine you were so used to, especially with Y/N. Then, having to switch it up and play tetris with your time. It's not easy. But also, I'm sure Y/N has been feeling the same way. She's just doing what she can to support you first and foremost. She'd never hurt you intentionally, and I know she'd always choose you in the end." Yunho's head drops as he leans onto his knees and sighs again.

"Fuck, you're right. I don't know why today was so difficult. I guess it all piled on for me and I didn't know how to sort through it."

"All good. Shit happens." Yeosang shrugs. "Anyway. I'm gonna head to bed. You should probably do the same. I know she's probably waiting for you."

"Thanks." Yeo gives him a little dap before he's off to get comfy and end his day. Yunho stays on the couch for a few more minutes before he brushes his teeth and washes up for bed. He stands in the bathroom for a few more seconds before gaining the courage to finally talk to you about everything that's been going on today. When he walks in, you're still bundled under the sheets, but your phone is against the wall and a video is playing. He can hear you sniffling through the video though, and he knows you've been crying.

God dammit, Yunho.

"Baby?" You hear Yunho softly call your name as he slips into bed and wraps his arms around you.

"Mhm?" You respond, still facing away from him.

"Can we talk?" You sigh and exit the video, locking your phone before turning towards Yunho and setting your phone onto the table.

"Don't force yourself if you aren't ready to."

"I am, and I'm sorry." He looks at you with those puppy dog eyes and it instantly feels like you have your loving, incredibly sweet and attentive boyfriend back.

"What happened?"

"I don't really know. To be honest, I don't have that great of an explanation. I was just tired and I was really looking forward to seeing you before practice. I couldn't see you then because of work, so I was even more excited to see you after practice and to go on our run together. But, you came later and the whole thing with Hyunjin—" He pauses and shakes his head. "It was so stupid and childish of me. I didn't need to act that way, and I'm so sorry I was such a dick to you over that." You cup his cheek and caress the surface with your thumb.

"You should've just told me, babe."

"It's so dumb, though?" He furrows his brows, mainly at himself.

"Nothing is dumb. Whatever hurts you, hurts me. We're in this together, remember? We're on the same team. I just need you to communicate and be honest, like you always tell me. Okay? I'll do anything to fix it and make it better. I'm your safe space like you are mine."

"I know." He leans into your touch before placing a soft kiss to your palm. "I'll do better."

"We have our bad days and that's okay. It won't make me love you any less. Tell me if you need space or if you need anything from me. I want you to be happy and comfortable."

"I know."

"Okay. And I'm sorry about the food run. I promise I'll keep my end of it next time."

"Wasn't your fault, baby. Nothing could have prevented that." You give him a tiny, toothless smile before kissing the tip of his nose.

"Are we okay?" He nods.

"I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” He repeats before leaning in to peck you on the lips. He holds the kiss before parting and looking you in the eye, brushing the hair away from your face. He dips in for another kiss— this time, it's deeper. More passionate. His hand comes down to the small of your back as he presses against you, slipping his tongue in to fight for dominance against yours. The kiss is so full of love and neediness, but there's no push or pressure to make anything out of it.

So, Yunho continues to kiss you. Pushing up against you ever so slightly while parting from your lips to leave a trail across your jaw.

Your chin.

Your neck.

Back up to your lips.

He loves the way you softly sigh in content, listening to him repeatedly whisper 'I love you' against your lips. Into your neck. Across your jaw. He loves the way you gently bite onto his bottom lip as a way of asking for more. He loves the way your fingers tug on the ends of his hair, the way you press your lips against his cheek, forehead, nose. The way you caress his cheeks and never let him go.

It's amongst the many on his list of favorite things.

He continues to coo you and praise you in between kisses throughout the night, smiling while hearing your giggles and smothering you with more kisses until you find yourself getting sleepy. He holds you close and sings a soft lullaby, playing with your hair as you drift off to sleep with the cutest smile on your face. He can’t help but admire you, fighting the exhaustion that’s been hitting him all week for a little longer. He fights it until he can’t anymore but fuck it, it’s all worth it.

Because sitting at the very top of his favorites list is you.

⇢ permanent taglist: @asjkdk @bintificreads @interweab @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ OT8 Stray Kids Showing You They Love You ♡

♡ Just some ot8!stray kids showing their chubby!fem!gf how much they love her and what some of those things might be.

♡ The biggest of thank yous to @tryingtolivelifeblog for requesting this. It's such an adorable idea. I just love it to pieces and hope you do too!

♡ Genre: fluff

♡ Word Count: 1.4k-ish

♡ Bang Chan ♡

It isn’t unusual for your boyfriend to be up on his laptop all night, headphones in, chipping away at the next track for his group. That’s what you’ve assumed has been happening these past few weeks but you couldn’t be more wrong. He has been working on a song but it’s for you and only you. It’s much softer than what he’s usually known for with instrumentals that feel like a warm blanket on a cold night. You can feel his vulnerability in every word he sings. So much that you can’t even question if he really means it when he says that your gentle heart makes him fall for you more and more each day. Or that the sweetness of your voice brings calm to the chaos in his brain. He dedicates an entire verse to the brightness of your smile and how your laughter’s his favorite sound. By the end of it you’re trying not to cry which is fine because he is too.

♡ Changbin ♡

You have no clue how much self control it took for Changbin not to buy out the entire Build-A-Bear store getting those cute little teddy bears that say phrases when you hug them. It would’ve been easy for him to send someone else to get them for him but he does it himself instead, pretending to be at the gym while he picks out the perfect dozen for you. Once everything’s perfect he leaves them around the apartment for you to find with notes that say “Hug Me”. When you do you hear your favorite voice telling you that your eyes are so beautiful and brimming with love that he could stare back into them all day. He loves how you see him, really see him, for who he is and he never has to hide behind a mask with you. You’re his #1 cheerleader, always reminding him he’s good enough when he doubts himself. There isn’t a safer place in the world for than with you and he'll spend the rest of his life doing everything in his power to be the same for you.

♡ Hannie ♡

With your boyfriend’s hectic schedule, it’s important to him that he makes time to have special moments just for the two of you. This includes game nights which he takes very seriously, going all out to make sure the atmosphere’s ultra romantic and you have all of your favorite snacks. When you settle in for your latest game night you’re clueless when he presents you with an already built tower of blocks with hearts on the exterior of each piece. As the game begins you realize that each block you pull out has a reason he loves you handwritten on it. All 54 blocks. His hand cramped up 1,000 times doing it but it was worth it for you to know that spending an eternity cuddled up to your soft body would be the sweetest fate imaginable. That he never dreams better than when you’re there beside him, fingers running through his hair, singing him to sleep. That, even though it hurts sometimes, you make him miss you more than he has anyone else.

♡ Hyunjin ♡

Hyunjin’s never told you this before but he knew that you were the one since the day you first met. There was simply no way he was going to let someone as special as you get away. In the year since then he’s been drawing pictures of you in his sketchbook during moments when he’s feeling particularly sentimental. You’re always too respectful of his artistic process to peek at his work unless he asks so you don’t know until he shows you that he has such gorgeously vivid drawings of you making breakfast for him in the wee hours of the morning before he has to catch a flight. A few pages in there’s another of you playing with kids at the park when they needed one more person for a game. The last page is you sitting on the balcony of your hotel room, waiting to comfort him after an appearance he’d been dreading. The way you’re so thoughtful, lovely, and kind live in those moments he never wants to forget. 

♡ Felix ♡

“Felix, I think there’s…paper in this cupcake?” When Felix surprises you with cupcakes at work and sees you bite into the first one it dawns on him that he probably should’ve considered that maybe cupcakes don’t work exactly like fortune cookies do. But his heart was in the right place and you can’t bring yourself to care about biting into a little paper when you see what he’s written on them. He watches with the widest smile on that freckled face as you read how much being with you keeps him grounded in a life that can leave his head spinning sometimes. It means everything to him that his fame doesn’t make you treat him differently. You dance with him beneath the stars and kiss him in the rain because you love the Felix that’s just a silly kid from Australia and not the one on the magazine covers. You make him feel fearless because he knows even if he shoots for the stars and misses you’re here to catch him. 

♡ Lino ♡

Some people have this picture in their head of your boyfriend as this grumpy black cat who doesn’t quite know how to show affection but you know better than anyone that isn’t true. In reality you couldn’t imagine finding a guy more loving and thoughtful than Minho. What other guy would surprise you with a hike through a picturesque forest, hiding the cutest lock boxes at special landmarks along the way that hold his favorite pictures of the two of you together? A sentiment that particularly tugs at your heartstrings because you know he isn’t a picture guy but for you he is and always will be. On the back of each picture he writes something he loved about you at that moment. The warmth of your hand as he held it at the cat cafe in Tokyo or the scent of your perfume as you cuddled up to him on a neverending train ride that exhausted both of you. It’s the small things like the way you never hesitate to join him in making funny faces in front of the camera that make love you like he does.  

♡ Innie ♡

I.N could give you a bouquet of flowers that say “I love you” and call it a day. He knows you’d still treat it like he gifted you all of the diamonds in the world. But he wants to do more than that. Instead of giving you a bouquet all at once, he gives you a flower for each day of the week and, in place of a real flower, he gives you a glass rose that shimmers marvelously in the sunlight. Engraved on the side of each rose is something he finds special about you. Like the patience that you have with him while he figures out who he is in the world. You never pressure him to become anything or stay the way he was. Whoever he becomes he knows it’ll always be enough for you. Your kisses are like magic, cheering him up when nothing else can. And that counts for all kisses. If it’s on the lips, the neck, the forehead, wherever. They spark a joy inside of him that he isn’t quite sure any amount of words or roses could do justice to but he hopes this comes close. 

♡ Seungmin ♡

No one ever thought the day would come where Kim Seungmin got all mushy over a girl. Yet, here he is, head over heels in love with you, and he dares anyone to say something about it. Not that anyone would, it’s a well known fact now that you mean a lot to him. So much that wherever he is in the world he makes sure to bring you back something that reminds him of you. It’s left you with a collection of things from more places than you’ve actually visited. There’s the goddess carved in polished wood, nestled in the arches of a crescent moon with her curves on full display. When he saw it he joked how lucky he was to have one of his own at home, only prettier. Then there’s the music box that plays a song neither of you have ever heard before. Still, it reminds him of your melodic voice whispering to him between the sheets on rainy Sunday mornings. There was no way he could leave the shop without it. He knows one day you’ll run out of room for wind chimes that sway as gracefully your body when you dance, even if you don’t think so, but that’s okay. He’ll just buy you more room.

[alphajocklover]

Hello. Was wondering if you could help me. See I've always dreamed to have a muscular body with slightly hairy pecs and an easy going attitude. Problem is I can't put up muscles on my body. Sure, after a year of sport i lost 12 kg, but i just don't see any muscular definition showing. Here's where you can help me. Last day at the gym a guy came to me and said he could help me with my training. Saying that all i needed was a bit more sport knowdledge to kick the muscle memory in. I said yes because a personnal trainer is pretty expensive, then he smiled and pushed me against the mirror. I blacked out from the pain and woke up just a few minutes ago. He is looking at me with a weird smile. Help me!

I can’t believe it. It shouldn’t be possible, I mean, it literally shouldn’t be possible. From what you’re telling me, I have to assume you’ve been pushed into a Retsam Mirror. They’re very rare, in fact until today I thought that the only one currently not shattered into dust was in my Uncles garage. It shouldn’t be possible that you found one… but it looks like you did. Or more accurately your new ‘personal trainer’ did. You probably should have been more suspicious of him, but it’s not that unusual for a jock to offer help to another less experienced gym goer. Still, if you had been more suspicious, well… it could have saved you.

You’re probably wondering what exactly is happening. While, I’ll just say it outright: You’re inside the mirror. The one he pushed you up against? You’re inside it. The jock who you were talking to used the magical mirror to switch you with your reflection. I know that raises a lot of questions. How is that possible? Are reflections sentient? How do you get out? While, the answers to each of those questions are, in order, I don’t know, I don’t know, and you can’t. You’re stuck. Worse than stuck actually. You’re a reflection.

You can probably feel yourself getting to your feet and smiling, with no control over it. You can probably feel yourself, your other self, flexing his fingers experimentally, an almost manic grin on your face. Now that you’re the reflection, your old reflection is in the real world and has its own will. Well… kind of. Reflections are very impressionable for about an hour after they get swapped. And from what your trainer is whispering in your, I mean his, ear… it seems like he’s using that little quirk to turn your other self into a total jock.

You’ll be unaffected though. Mentally at least. You’ll still be you. But you’ll be forced to do whatever the other you does. So, now that he’s super into working out, you’ll work out too. As he gains muscles and hair all over his body, so will you. When he cockily flexes, you’ll be staring right back at him. Over the next few months you’ll finally turn into the jock of your dreams. I just regret you’ve lost your free will in the process. I hope you’re happy, though honestly I have no way to tell. Reflections don’t talk.

[silverynight]

The haori

It surprises Tanjirou to see Tomioka arrive to the butterfly mansion; he knows (thanks to Kocho) that there's not going to be a hashira meeting any time soon. Also, and he feels relieved when he notices, Tomioka doesn't look injured.

His surprise only grows when the water hashira looks around, almost desperate. As soon as his deep blue eyes find his though, his shoulders relax.

Taking a deep breath, the Pillar sits right next to him on the floor. The sun is shining brightly over the backyard; everything looks green there.

It's really a beautiful day.

"They told me you were hurt."

He nods, although realizes quickly that it's useless because Tomioka is not looking at him.

"Nothing serious," he says, smiling because Tomioka's presence always makes him feel better. "It's just my arm and leg."

Turning his head at him, Tomioka frowns, glaring in disapproval at the bandage under Tanjirou's white pants. Then, he looks at the one under his sleeve like it has personally insulted him.

"Are you sure you don't need to be in bed right now?"

Shaking his head, Tanjirou chuckles; even though Tomioka looks irritated, his nose tells him he's not angry with him; he's worried. Around them, the people working in the mansion start looking in their direction every now and then with curiosity.

"I'm fine. I'll probably get another mission soon."

By the way he grimaces, Tomioka doesn't seem to like the idea of him going into battle at the moment.

Tanjirou is about to ask him what he's doing there when the hashira moves and puts his own haori on the young demon slayer's shoulders.

Blinking in confusion, Tanjirou glances up at Tomioka again only to see that he's looking away from him again. His cheeks are slightly pink.

"You looked like you were cold."

He's not. The weather is amazing. However, he doesn't want to make him feel bad (after all he's done for Nezuko) so he thanks him and puts it on.

Besides, his uniform and his haori are being washed at the moment so he supposes it's fine to borrow Tomioka's for a while.

It smells just like him; like ocean water, like salt... Like a river. All at the same time.

"It's huge," Tanjirou chuckles. It's only natural since Tomioka is taller and stronger than him.

"My haori looks perfect on you," the water hashira says and only then Tanjirou looks back at him, noticing the fond expression on his face.

He sounds almost proud and his eyes glimmer with triumph when he notices the others are watching them.

Aoi gets closer to them and (to Tanjirou's shock) bow at them both. Tomioka nods in approval for some reason.

No, she's never bowed at him. Tanjirou is sure her rank is superior to his.

"I'm sorry to interrupt such an intimate moment," she mumbles, prompting Tanjirou to narrow his eyes in confusion. "But I need to check on Tanjirou-san injuries."

San? Since when she uses an honorific to talk to him?

"Of course," Tomioka says. "I'll go with you."

***

Looking unusually nervous, Aoi does her best to change Tanjirou's bandages quickly. It seems like Tomioka's intense look is making her less confident for some reason.

She looks almost scared.

"You should get something to eat," she tells him, moving away from as soon as she finishes. Relief is written all over her face. "Well, I'm done here."

"Thank you!" Tanjirou grins, but doesn't have time to say anything else because Tomioka takes him in his arms and carries him to the main room.

They eat together; he's so focused on the food that doesn't realize he's still wearing the haori or that Tomioka is staring at him with a fond smile.

When they finish, Kocho tells Tanjirou she has important things to discuss with Tomioka so the young demon slayer goes to Nezuko's room to check on her.

He manages to catch a few sentences of their conversation however.

"You have to tell him, Giyuu! Otherwise you're doing this for nothing! You know it's not fair..."

"I will tell him eventually."

"Probably on your wedding day..."

Tanjirou narrows his eyes, he's not sure if Kocho is just joking or if she's being serious, but thinking about Tomioka getting married makes him feel sad for a moment. He shakes his head though, reminding himself to be kind. He should be glad for his friends.

After seeing that Nezuko is still asleep, Tanjirou decides to go back to the yard, but finds himself in front Murata instead. They almost bump into each other, however, thanks to his nose he could move away in time.

"Tanjirou!" He says, smiling as his cheeks turn slightly pink. "Just the person I was in looking for!"

"Really?" He chuckles. "What do you need from me?"

"Well... Since both got some free time right now I was wondering..." He stops as soon as his eyes fall over the haori Tanjirou's wearing. "Is that Tomioka-san's?"

"Yes," Tanjirou nods, looking down at himself, still amused. "It's really big for me, don't you think? Oh, sorry! You were about to tell me something! What was it?"

Murata shakes his head, looking pale.

"N-Nothig. I didn't know you were already–that you had..." Again, he stops when he sees something over Tanjirou's shoulder. He bows. "I was already leaving, Tomioka-san!"

"Wait!" It's too late, he's already gone before Tanjirou can say anything else. He smells a bitter scent coming from Tomioka when he moves right next to him. However, when the water hashira looks down at him, the smell is replaced by a sweeter one.

"Let's go to the backyard," Tomioka mumbles, trying to hold back a pleased smile.

***

Tanjirou gives him back the haori when it's time for him to leave. With a soft smile, he puts it back on slowly, almost like he wants everyone to see him.

"I'll be in contact," Tomioka promises, caressing Tanjirou's hair, surprising the young demon slayer. "I'll find a way to see you soon, no matter where you are."

Feeling excited at the possibility of seeing him again soon, Tanjirou beams at him. However, his smile vanishes when the water hashira leans, takes his hand and kisses it softly.

It's a shame the Pillar goes away right after that, leaving Tanjirou in a flustered shock for a couple of seconds.

There's something going on. Something he's missing.

He has to find out what it is.

***

Patreon

[yumantimatter]

Death-Neutral Antideathism

[epistemic status: a statement of personal philosophy. questions and responses welcome, but please argue the tractability of ending death with people who are more invested in it as a goal than I am]

I'm pretty normie for an anti-death transhumanist. I haven't signed up for cryonics and don't plan to unless it gets way cheaper and better, I donate neartermist, I have pierced ears and zero other body mods, etc etc.

I still consider myself a part of the movement, because it's straightforward and obvious to me that if people don't want to die they shouldn't have to, and if they want to change their bodies and minds they should get to.

Personally I'm fine with dying someday. I think I am going to grow up into an old person who has had plenty of experiences and is comfortable with not having many more of them. If I found out today that I had a terminal illness, I would rather spend my time and money on fulfilling my bucket list and leaving my loved ones good memories (and donate the rest) than in the hospital desperately trying out low-probability treatments. (See my opinion on cryo)

(Then again, I certainly wouldn't turn down a miracle cure! Or a known, tested treatment with a decent chance of getting me through! Or something that was unlikely to work but low financial and opportunity cost to try! This is also the same as my opinion on cryo)

I don't view death as bad inherently. It's just a change of state, if one that's uniquely impactful in its irreversibility and all-encompassing scope. I don't agree that people dying is always a great screaming moral emergency, that death is a yawning horror for anyone who looks at it clearly, or that we are all fooling ourselves. For me, the way modern culture treats death is actually a pretty good match to how I feel about dying.

But, um, *gestures at anti-deathists more broadly* *gestures at all the people who do try any possible treatment for their terminal illness* *gestures at the instinctive struggle for self preservation when it would be so much less effort to stop* It sure seems like there's a lot of not wanting to die going around! And it sure seems like a horrible idea to just ignore that!

People who make peace with their eventual death even though they'd prefer to live longer are fine, and not making a mistake. People who make a thought-out choice to die or to risk their lives for other goals are fine, and not making a mistake. And people who desperately want to live, who cling on to cryo and fund anti-aging and search for any possible means of continuing on, are also fine and not making a mistake.

I think death is bad for the many many many people who want to continue living, or decide to live, or endorse being alive, and who die anyway. A natural death after a long fulfilling life isn't an exception to that. This is the part where I do wholeheartedly agree with the standard anti-death talking points, and want them to become more mainstream. That competing perspective which validates the desire to not die, and which spurs people into looking for ways to do something about it, is vitally important for the sake of people who don't work like me.

Maybe this is just a long winded way of saying I'm a preference utilitarian (ish) who takes weird and hard-to-fulfill preferences seriously? If so, I'm happy to take up that flag. Weird-preference-fulfillmentism all the way!

(I haven't even brought up the transhumanism, which I support on the same lines - I don't think my position there is particularly unusual in these parts though, seeing as this is the transgender website.)

For now, I am in coalition with the anti-deathists. And I will keep being in coalition with them, until and unless the world shifts far enough to count my viewpoint as neutral.

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter nine

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.5k

It would not be an overstatement to remark upon the folly of those who regard you with such narrow-minded scrutiny. Despite your accomplishments, diligence, and endurance through it all, the people have diminished you from a capable and esteemed Head of Civil Affairs to nothing more than the Chief Justice's attendant wife.

However, you find it not in your duty to rebuke those claims, or rather, think not to bother addressing them outright. The attitude you bring to your office and those beneath you isn’t anything out of the ordinary, per se, but one with a discerning eye can notice the unusual edge and snappiness to your character. 

And the one with the said discerning eye happens to be your husband. 

Multiple questions from him arose over the course of a week before his schedule took him up in its clutches again, and obviously you were one to deny such accusatory things. Oh, how glad you were when you found his office vacant most of the time. No one to pester you, and no one to pester the pesterer. 

But obviously such luxuries come with some demon to tip out the work-life balance. The invite to a ball as a plus one has you lurching for air, and another report on the impending prophecy gnaws at you like a teething hyena.

Today just so happens to be another banal day of doom and gloom. Ruthless court hearings meant Fontaine would see rainfall, and for this particular week it meant every consecutive day — which also meant a certain Champion Duelist is slipping through every nook and cranny for a playdate. 

“If it isn’t my favourite new bride,” she muses, leaning against the doorframe. You notice the difference in the way she quips the last few words, and you subconsciously associate the likeness of tone to that of the Duke; weird — you never considered their closeness up until this point.

You sip on your cup of chamomile tea. “So what you’re saying is that there was a point where I was not your favourite bride.”

“Maybe it’s because you weren’t married, idiot,” she starts, closing the door behind her and making herself home to your small, albeit homely office. “One day you’re all over never finding a husband, and the next day I see an invite on my doorstep that you’re getting married to the one man you hate!”

You wish to strain the lie for a little longer, test how much more you can baffle her straight through your teeth. “Well, Clorinde, fate has many a surprise for those who least expect it. Take the newlyweds that run the new bakery down the street — rumour has it that they hated each other before making out in the store room; oh, the poor manager… So, it really is a trap anyone can just about fall in.”

Her lips twitch as if a lightbulb had switched on near her temple, a subtle trip, but telling of the inevitable. You show indifference. “A trap, you say? So who exactly arranged it? Pray tell, was it Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina, or god forbid, you yourself?”

“...What?’

She chuckles, taking a seat across from you.  “If there’s one person you’re not going to fool, it’s me. You forget I was on the other end of your endless ramblings about him — so why have you exactly gotten married to the very man you so detest?”

Ah, Clorinde, you reply with a soft smile, setting down your teacup. Always one for blunt truths and cutting humour.

Clorinde leans stiffly against the back of her chair, expression hardening. I’m serious.

I appreciate your concern, truly, you reply, a hint of amusement in your voice. But marriage hasn't dulled my wit or ambitions, if that's what worries you.

The Champion Duelist crosses her arms and you catch a familiar shade of crimson dotting her sleeve. “I never doubted your wit, only questioned the timing of it all. You're a force to be reckoned with, and now you have a husband? It all doesn’t line up.”

“Consider it the responsibility of my duty — Lady Furina thought me ‘worthy’,” —you say this while quoting it with your fingers— “of this, and so there she went, thrusting me into another job I did not want to do.”

Given the slight furrowing of her brows, you surmise she is more intrigued than she’d like to come off as. “Oh? And what do you mean, ‘worthy’?”

“Worthy of being a pawn in her stupid games,” you groan, finding interest in the shape of your nails, a roll of your eyes prompted by the repulsive thought of the woman that started it all. “I won’t have you guess any further. Your guess is correct, unfortunately.”

Now she’s truly given herself away; despite the stoicness of her poise, the way she grips the table to bring herself closer to hear you better speaks volumes. “Oh really? My guess was a shot in the dark. Never expected myself to be right.”

“If you did in fact miss your guess, you, my dear Clorinde, would be out of a job.” you three of your fingers inward  to mimic the shape of a firearm.

Arms crossed, she flashes a grin. “I’ll just bail my way out through my boss.”

“I don’t think he’s as merciful as you think.”

“To me, probably. But you’re another story.”

You scoff, your head canting to the side. “You think I’m the exception? Yeah, right.”

“Are you blind? Everyone in the workplace has been either praising or critiquing his bias,” She helps herself with the kettle of tea, slightly leaving her chair to reach for the handle. “But that’s the fun of it all. Keeps things interesting.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your chair. “Interesting is one way to put it. I prefer ‘degrading’.”

“Semantics,” she shrugs, a smirk playing on her lips. “Either way, what Lady Furina intended for your arrangement is playing out just as she planned.”

Time will tell, you muse, taking another sip of tea. But for now, let's talk about the blood on your sleeve, shall we?”

She reaches for her elbow, pulling the cloth toward her to take a closer look. “Oh — this? The usual, really. Criminals.”

“I see you’ve made short work of them.”

“As I usually do, miss ma'am.”

You try for another sip of your tea only to find that your lips come away empty; though with inexplicable reason you feel it as though you have, indeed, taken a generous gulp of it. With your eyes trained on Clorinde, you reach for another tea packet from the pouch.

“Speaking of which, that old man should be making his way over to the Palais in a moment. Saw him leave the Epiclese when I did.”

“Let’s not talk about him.”

Her eyes dart to every part of the room almost erratically, losing track of its target. “Great then, we shall move on to the next topic of conversation.”

In all your impatient habits you cannot wait for her to finish her sentence. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Archons, woman. You’re always so full of questions, you bursting buffoon,” Clorinde quips with a playful eye roll, noting the embarrassed look on your face. “But I was just going to mention what gift I got you.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

You did expect a gift sometime along this week: a lipstick, a gift she had frequented much in giving you, was nowhere to be found on the table, now replaced with a meticulously crafted blade with a sheen so polished it burned shadows into your irises. In one swift motion, a dagger slides onto the table, her hands prodding them forward. Her eyes study the subtle raise of your brow. “Not what you expected, I'm guessing?”

“Certainly so. But it is very in character for someone like you, Clorinde.” You trace the blunt end of the dagger with your finger, allowing your touch to graze the hilt. Foreign was the feeling of it in your hands,  the weight of it a limbo between light and heavy. It had been an undeniably long time since you were in possession of a tangible weapon, your reliability on both martial prowess and vision a dwindling skill since your role of being the Head of Civil affairs. “Thank you — but why?”

“I’m assuming you’re asking me what far fetched reasoning I have for it — but I’ll simply state this: you are now the focal point of public attention. And you know what that can stir?

“Envy?”

“Precisely. Or you could just take it as a token of our spar from a few weeks ago. Or to when we used to spar as children,” She delivers it with a sag into her seat, but beneath that facade, you know she really is just concerned.

You open your mouth to speak, but she interrupts you with an abrupt shift from her posture. “And before I forget — I got you more.” She holds a drawstring pouch teasingly in the air, and judging from the familiar clinking of glass, it’s exactly what you think it is.

You reach up for it, forcefully pulling it towards you. Peeking through the bag, you look up at Clorinde through your lashes. “How’d you know I ran out?”

“I'm your supply. Do you think I miscalculate, let alone forget? Come on, chenapan.”

You look away playfully, dodging the jab. “Shut up.”

Rain begins to patter erratically on the window, and both of you tear your focus to it. You swipe the curtain away to look out into the clouds, but you spot a familiar figure standing, hands poised on a railing. His hair is darkened, soaked by the water that drips down to his feet. 

A deep laugh stirs you from your staring. “I take it as my cue to leave. Have fun with your husband.”

You turn around as swiftly as one possibly can, and find her sitting up from her seat. “What? Already?”

“I have places to be. And you seem to have one in mind,” She gestures with her eyes to the man outside, and you roll your own.

“Are you serious right now?”

She flashes you a brief grin with a scrunch to her nose. “What do you think?” Before you can object, she rids herself from your clutches and slips through the door — and when you make your way to peek out from your office, you see nothing but the closing of the entrance.

Shame compels you to shut the door as you lean back, letting your head find solace against the smooth, polished wood. Your gaze, once fixed on the deathly white expanse of the ceiling, drifts instead to a forgotten frame resting on your shelf, its surface gathering a gentle layer of dust.

With no one to distract you from the paperwork on your desk, you find yourself moving of your own volition. If there’s no one to bother…then…

Tea it is.

Picking at the drawstring, you reach blindly for a packet of tea, letting whatever god decide which flavour would be bestowed upon you. You hope it’s chamomile.

It ends up being mint. You make a disinterested scrunch to your nose before lazily studying the print of the brand of tea out of sheer subconscious curiosity. Whatever you’ve just read draws you out of your stupor and suddenly you’re sitting up straight.

This brand is so undeniably familiar. 

And yet, before you can make the connection yourself, the way your heart picks up in pace tells just as much. The main cause of your mother’s murder. A harmless tea packet, seamlessly packaged with powdered death. It had long since been discontinued, but you make a whirl in your seat and hold up the tea packet beside the silhouette of the man standing far from your window and you begin to wonder. 

A pair of bloodied hands drag you by the throat to your home. Your mind forcibly tears itself open by the seams, flooded by the quiet, harmless serenity of dawn — shattered by gasps of your mother with her hands clutched, clawing at her neck. Your father’s calm, almost rehearsed demeanour as he offered her the cup, his eyes glinting with sinister intention; one of you which you were too blind to recognise.

As you clutch the packet, the print of tea blurs against the well that rim your eyes. Maybe it was what your father always had on his person: a gift, a kind gesture, a murder weapon. 

Given the period of Neuvillette’s station, it would be an educated guess to say that your father had met him several times. You can almost see it: your father charming the Chief Justice with that same smile, his lies wrapped in the veneer of regard. For the first time, you feel a flicker of doubt. Could he be unaware? Could he too have been a pawn in your father’s deadly game?

With the curtain of silence drawn between you and Neuvillette since the rise of never ending contretemps, you think maybe you should ease it a little, but not too much — you are inquiring only of his acquiring of such tea.

You stand from your seat, reaching for the parasol that leans against a wooden leg of your desk. It worries you not at how you drag it across the floor, the rubber end of it leaving nothing but a squeak of friction.

Ensuring the door to your office is firmly shut, you begin to pace through the opulent halls of the Palais with an almost childlike curiosity that stirs within you, urging you to uncover what solace he finds in standing amidst the rain. Each step is measured, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the soft patter of raindrops, growing more muffled than the last imprint of your stride. Avoiding Sedene is a calculated move on your part, slipping past her by briskly walking on your toes when her eyes are plastered on something you aren’t able to discern past the counter.

You slip quietly past the back end of the Palais and push through the heavy barricade of the backdoor. A light coolness touches your head in irregular successions, prompting you to look up at the now brighter sky, a marked change from the sombre gloom it had worn when you last observed it from the inside. 

The slide upwards from the metal skeleton of your parasol scrapes against the gentle downpour, and you eye his figure from behind a white pillar. Nothing seems to stir him from his fixed gaze, one that overlooks the expanse of Fontaine, a land belonging, by technicality, to his people.

A wave of hesitation washes over you like a deluge, for perhaps such a matter is best discussed over tea (the irony of it does not escape you, but your preoccupation with trivial details overrides the thought).

Whatever. You loop the drawstring of the pouch of tea in your free hand, twirling it in your fingers as a makeshift fidget toy. The pad of your heels provides a necessary friction against the floor, a main giveaway of your whereabouts, and still he does not stir.

You walk until you are a few metres behind him, amusing yourself with the idea that he has come so far as to ignore your very existence—a foolish notion that has only furthered the distance between you both since the marriage.

He remains unmoved, ever so rigid and uniform in his stance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” you call, your voice carrying a command that transcends the simple utterance of his name — a subliminal message only he can decipher.

He turns slowly, his expression inscrutable as he realises it is you who has come to seek him out.  For a moment, he simply regards you, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Madame,” he finally responds, his tone courteous. “It is you.”

You take a step closer, the parasol offering minimal protection against the persistent drizzle. “Might I inquire about something? I expect you to not think too much of it.” You feel you know him enough to know of his tendency to over inspect on many a detail that come under his radar, so consider this a courtesy for one less burden. 

Neuvillette’s eyes flicker with a hint of something — surprise, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. “Go ahead,” he replies softly.

A scrunch of the small paper packets in the cloth brush against each other as you bring it up to eye level. You reach into it almost as naturally as if you were one of the magician prodigies that made themselves known amongst their covey at the grand festivals of Fontaine, producing seemingly impossible wonders from the very depths of their pockets.

“Does this brand of tea seem familiar to you?”

His head dips from the point of your parasol to the item of interest. Despite his speculated age, the rounding of his eyes seem to take off a few years, easing the wrinkle between his brows. “I am afraid it appears to be just about any tea brand. Is something the matter?”

You take a step closer, the rim of your umbrella shielding but a fraction of Neuvillette’s exposure to the rain. “Monsieur Neuvillette, this specific brand of tea hasn’t been manufactured to the public in five years.” 

Those words, once uttered, solidify your qualms, drawing you back to the very heart of your deepest fears. Yet, a part of you refuses to accept it. It could’ve been any other aristocrat! your mind suggests, desperately grasping for any semblance of hope. But you know such thoughts cannot obscure the harsh reality — and this you know well:

He is alive. And free. 

The man standing before you gazes at you with mounting concern, his eyes reflecting a growing unease. Shadows cast the contours of your face to form a mask of denial, yet you are acutely aware that he does not buy into your falsehood.

“Goodness, is the tea horrible?” he questions, the tremble of his voice a comical degree of concern you cannot help but laugh at. 

Scoffing, you turn your head to the left to avoid his probing eyes. “Why would I give myself the trouble of coming here if that was the problem?” you retort, trying to mask the heat trailing down your cheeks as tears threaten to escape. You blame it on the rain, but you know that isn’t why you are ablaze.

“Tell me what ails you, Madame. I shall fix it,” he implores, his voice filled with genuine worry and a desire to help.

“It is just as I said. The brand of tea. Do you have it delivered to your doorstep? Does it come in bulk?” you ask, questions tumbling out, each more desperate than the last.

He blinks, momentarily taken aback by your line of questioning. Even to your own ears, the inquiries sound strange and out of place — but, they are vital to uncovering the truth, to piecing together something you thought you left behind.

“Well — I had it gifted to me,” Neuvillette begins, his tone measured. “And in turn, I requested more with the intention of always having a suitable gift on hand.”

Your eyes flit to every outline of his features as you try to match the puzzle to the one you find is fraying in your very mind. His eyes betray nothing in your search for a tell, a slip. Everything brings you back to square one. Perhaps your father has already stopped in his schemes — or perhaps (you think with foolish aspiration) his age has taken him. But your father is too resilient and stubborn to die a cretin’s death. 

“Then that is that. I shall take my leave — sorry to bother you, Monsieur.” You wish to continue this investigation elsewhere, for you find that the sombre droplets of water that stain the parts of you that your parasol cannot protect is too gloomy and dismal.

As you bow and turn, you miss your husband’s act of hesitation: to let you go, or to be selfish. He is a man of duty and stature, and to stray from such virtues would be incredibly unbecoming. The topic of scandal rises for a brief moment (he seems to be as forgetting as you in remembering such a tie).

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice barely carried by the wisp of wind.

He himself seems surprised that he had gone so far as to reach for your wrist: an anchor, something to hold on to.

Brows knitting, your mind searching for anything to study — because who knows? A man’s intent can be just as malicious as any other of their kind. “What?”

“I am requesting that you stay,” he says, a little louder, before his voice drops again: “here, with me.”

You tip the handle of your parasol backward in an attempt for a better look — or, for lack of a better word: to appraise.

Your eyes scan him from head to toe. “And what for?”

His grip on your wrist loosens slightly, though he does not let go. “Company,” he confesses, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

The rain continues to fall around you, a gentle, persistent reminder of the world outside this moment. You study his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his posture.

For a moment, you consider pulling away, retreating back into the safety of distance and formality. But something in his gaze holds you in place, a silent plea that begs for you to yield.

“Alright,” you say softly, lowering your parasol. “I’ll stay.”

His shoulders relax, and a faint smile graces his lips. “Thank you.”

You toe lightly until the tip of your heels meet the stoop of the balcony, which diverts the path of your stride so that you don’t nudge Neuvillette with your parasol (if it does, he makes no comment of it). The two of you stand in silence for what seems like aeons, the only assurance of him still being there being the slight rustle of his robes that have grown to latch onto his skin like lifelines. 

After a while, Neuvillette breaks the silence with a quiet, almost offhand comment. You know, he begins, his voice gentle, I’ve always wondered whether it is because I am rigid.”

“And what of your rigidity?” For this you find no reason to look at him — but you think he senses your sceptical brow nonetheless, the rain dulling almost when you find another, more interesting thing to latch onto: that being his response to your inquiry. 

“It is the very quality,” he replies, his tone reflective, “that compels you to resist, to fight tooth and nail against even the slightest inclination of giving me your attention.”

The shift of your head carries the weight of your astonishment. What a far cry! Oh, this man was certainly in your good graces for being so utterly unheeding. “You think that’s the problem? If you are having trouble, picture this — and I am talking from the perspective of those netizens that so revere you — you, the Chief Justice, stand between the very apple of the Oratrice. Do you not see? You are reduced to a mere byproduct, an instrument of Fontaine's justice. And justice always prevails; partiality, love, does not. Despite your greatest efforts, your own prejudices aren’t accounted for on the scales.”

You hadn’t expected to find yourself on such a tangent, but the words flow irresistibly, and you surrender to them. “Consider it, mon chéri.” The term of endearment carries no warmth; instead, it is a taunt, a beckoning.

“Is that what you think of me? Detached?”

The parasol now rests on your shoulder, supported by the balance of it as both your arms find a more comforting rest on the cemented railing. “Oh, I like that word: detached. You stand out here, overlooking the city just about how you might an audience at the Opera Epiclese and it makes me wonder if you are even able to dream.” 

“I do not come here to daydream.”

A bitter smile pulls at your lips, its sharpness cutting through the soft rain. “Do not play that game with me. Your pastime is quite what you are doing now, and it makes you look like a defeated dog. Has no one inquired of it? Ever? Have you never been questioned about the shadows in your eyes, the perpetual distance in your gaze?”

“The inquiries of others matter little to me. I am simply here to seek solace,” he responds, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of weariness that speaks of long, lonely nights and endless responsibilities.

The cuffs of your sleeves are now soaked from the rain, but you find it a small diversion to focus on while listening to his rebuttal. “Proves my point,” you murmur, brushing away droplets as you speak. “Your solitude is not solace.”

A low laugh sounds from Neuvillette. “You mistake my solitude for avoidance, for I have long carried the weight of my duties alone — and changing this is no easy feat.”

Without a second thought, you grasp the handle of your parasol and extend it to shield him from the rain, sacrificing your own comfort for his. In doing so, you are left drenched, the cool droplets seeping through your garments. It is the first time in many months that you have afforded yourself the opportunity to truly study the smooth contours of his profile. His opalescent eyes, so often inscrutable, now glimmer with a mingling of hope — sending a sudden chill of the rain upon your skin that nearly causes you to shudder, and yet you endure it, thinking perhaps it would not be so terrible to experience what he does.

You offer a small, tentative smile. “No, it isn’t. But it is not impossible, either. You must allow yourself to be human, Neuvillette, with all the imperfections and vulnerabilities that come with it. This arrangement shall fail without your empathy.”

He immediately extends the parasol back toward you, the fleeting warmth an indulgence for only a millisecond before the chill breeze takes you in its clutches again.  “Madame, your clothes —”

“You sought out my company, so this is what you receive. Take it as a token of my gratitude, and nothing more — for I’d like us to be on good terms, given our ranking and status as of late,” you push the item in his hand away, obliging him to latch onto it like a lifeline before it blows into the pattern of the wind.

“And do not forget, we have a ball to attend to,” you add, albeit very plainly.

It is a warp of the way light catches on the fine lines of his face — you tell yourself — when his lips quirk into a fatigued smile. “I do not forget important things.”

a/n: hey... hi... do you guys even remember me ive been in hiding for so long I am so sorry school is horrible finals are horrible ive completed my FINAL official exam today but that doesn't mean I won't have any tests for the rest of the term I have left when I tell u I RUSHED to complete this .

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[midnightanxietytm]

Careless Indulgence (NSFW)

MINORS DNI

a/n: Rejoice! Narilamb be upon ye! This time it's actually the smut i mentioned.

Summary: The first time a dream like this comes, he ignores it, shoves it to the back of his mind and does his chores like normal, insults the Lamb like normal, in fact, he barely thinks about them at all.

Gods don’t dream.

But Narinder isn’t a god anymore, so his subconscious is free to generate any ethereal scenario it desires to fill the hours of nothingness that is sleep.

This one, though, is most unusual.

He’s in the temple, a sermon just ended and The Lamb is stepping down from the lectern with a spring on their step and a smile, and walking over to him. “For someone who claims to hate hearing me talk, you pay a lot of attention to my sermons.” They giggle, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

It was true, he paid attention to every sermon, and devotion poured out of him, unwillingly so, but it still did. “Do not flatter yourself,” He said, “You made attendance mandatory, unless stated otherwise, I’m forced to be here…” And the Lamb giggles again, now hugging him by the shoulders. His hands slithered under their fleece and settled on their hips.

That’s how he knew he was dreaming; if it was real, he would never allow himself to do such a thing. In his dreams, he relishes the feeling of the soft wool beneath his paw. “Hm? You want my permission to skip the sermons? If it’s what you want I can give you.” They rest their head on his shoulder, one of their hands caresses his face oh-so sweetly.

Narinder rolls his eyes. “You’d just find another way to pester me.”

Their breath is hot against his neck, Oh I hate them, Narinder thinks, and holds their face softly before pressing their mouths together. The dream melts together along with the hot feeling in his body.

He’s in the altar, Lamb laid on the lectern, moaning his name like a prayer.

They’re in the forest, He’s laid on the grass , the Lamb, riding him with eyes rolled back and mouth hanging open with gasps.

They’re in the main grounds, a bonfire is lit and the Lamb’s mouth is closed around him and he pants, clawing at the wool on his head.

The first time a dream like this comes, he ignores it, shoves it to the back of his mind and does his chores like normal, insults the Lamb like normal, in fact, he barely thinks about them at all.

The second one is admittedly unexpected, but he still manages to deal with his hard-on and move on with his day.

After almost a week having dreams like those, he can’t take it anymore.

By now, every place in the cult grounds has been lewd up by his mind, and every mildly suggestive thing the Lamb says or does has already featured in a degenerated scenario in his dreams; The temple, the farm, the forest, behind the temple, the kitchens, both of their shelters, against the statue the Lamb had erected in his likeness — a personal favorite of his—, against the Lamb’s own statue, during rituals, in the table after a feast…

At some point, Narinder is sure the Lamb doesn’t even need to read his thoughts to see the debauchery of his late-night fantasies, because of that he’s been avoiding the Lamb like they were a plague.

But they still manage to find him, like a little predator stalking prey. 

They corner him after two messily days of avoidance, pulling him back after the sermon and promptly closing the temple doors. “Nari, I thought we were past this stage already.” They say, their voice echoes.

“You thought wrong, Lamb, as you often do.” It’s no use lying, so he chooses to dodge the question entirely.

His usurper, though, doesn't plan on letting him escape that easily; they march towards him with drive, and Narinder tries to pretend he remained unaffected by leaning back against the column behind him. “You're hiding something, I can see it, Nari.” They say, hands on their hips and head tilting, making the bell around their neck jingle softly.

Narinder wonders if it would jingle when he shoves the usurper onto their back and—.

“There!” The lamb exclaims suddenly. “You stopped your own train of thought! What was that? Are you thinking about murdering me again? Are you dissenting? You don't look like you're dissenting!” They ramble endlessly.

Oh, to hell with it! Narinder thinks. They will just read my mind anyways. And before the Lamb can predict his next action, Narinder pounces.

He takes them by the face, with both hands, and smacks their lips together. The lamb lets out a surprised gasp, then promptly melts in his hands, so he lets go of their face in favor of their hips, then reverses their positions to pin the Lamb against the column.

He’s quick to add his teeth into the mix, he bites the Lamb’s lips until he feels the metallic taste of blood, then he licks it, and It's all a mess from there.

The damned Lamb moans into his mouth, matching his energy and his every action. Soon, Narinder is holding them up by the thighs, their legs wrapped around him as they both bite, lick and moan against eachother's mouth.

  Disrobing is not easy, but they manage to do a quick job of it, and Narinder lays the Lamb on their back on top of his own discarded clothes almost tenderly, before biting into their shoulder with force only to feel their blood on his tongue and to hear the pathetic bleat they let out. “You wanted to know what I was hiding?” He asks, rhetorically, because he shoves a finger inside the Lamb and knows that they won't answer through their moans. “This is it. I've been wanting to fuck you, dreaming about it.” He shoves a second finger, moving his hand in a slow rhythm only to hear the Lamb finally gasp some air, just to moan out again.

“Narinder!” They call in-between their moans. “Wait- more, please more” They are almost incoherent, Narinder smiles, his hand moving faster as was requested.

“It's so much better in a godly body, isn't it? It's like divinity enhances it.” He taunts, then kisses the already fading bite mark he had left. “Let me fuck you, my Lamb?” He whispers sweetly. “You wanted my crown? Fine, I’ll show you all it can do for you.”

The Lamb nods with fervor, the bell on their neck chimes. Narinder removes his fingers from their quivering hole and holds their legs open before shoving himself into them with a slow but fluid movement.

The Lamb’s body greedily takes in the new sensation, their back arches off the ground and they let out a divine, long and pleasured moan.

Nothing was better than this, nothing could possibly rival the union of their bodies, no nectar or ambrosia would ever be more innebriating than the taste of each other. Their ecstasy mixes, they begin to move against each other in a heated frenzy.

Their moans fill the temple, sounding holier than the prayers, their rhythm dictated by the chime of the Lamb’s bell and the sound of their hips meeting with each thrust.

Lamb thinks they will become addicted to this; the mutual devotion this carnal act brings them, the feeling of being so full, the sound of Narinder's heavy breathing and raspy moans.

This is true divinity, this raw and passionate and carnal desire is so utterly mortal that it circles right back into godhood.

Both chase their highs with desperation, bodies rutting against each other.

And when they reach it, it's devastating, both gasp for air like it's their first time breathing in centuries. Their bodies finally still against each other as they come back to themselves.

Silence hangs in the air for a few moments, then the cheeky Lamb opens their mouth; “You’ve been dreaming about this?” They tease. 

Narinder rolls his eyes and fights the smile that insists on crawling up to his lips; “Shut up!” They only hum in response, hugging him by the shoulders and making him lay down by their side.

“I’m glad I could fulfill your desires, then…” They smile up at him and lay a soft kiss on his lips, Narinder stays silent, purring contently despite his expressionless face.

If I told yall this is the second smut I've ever written in my life, would yall believe me? Cuz I'm quite proud of it. Hope you guys like it too

[saintsenara]

Molly/Snape/Arthur? The Weasley kids+Harry figured the first Weasley family Christmas since Fred died would be a bit uncomfortable and emotionally fraught… and they were right, they just never could have imagined the exact reason

thank you very much for the ask, @silentgirlspeaksout!

i entirely back the idea of shipping snape with both molly and arthur individually, and so i think that - unusually for the throuples i deal with in this series - this is actually going to be a non-toxic triad...

one of the things which i think is really undervalued by the fandom is how the domestic role both molly and arthur [molly especially] play within the order is absolutely central to the order's ability to do its job. this is the case for molly's domestic labour - the resistance needs people who can cook and clean just as much as it needs people who can fight - but it's also the case for the emotional support both molly and arthur are shown in canon to provide for order members [especially tonks and lupin in half-blood prince].

snape existing outside of these experiences - refusing to engage with the order as a community by not eating or socialising with them - is a metaphor for the isolation his role as a spy brings [as well as a way of keeping the reader guessing about where his loyalties actually lie...].

but i think it's entirely plausible - especially given both molly and arthur's canonical willingness to take in waifs and strays - that both weasleys attempted a lot during order of the phoenix to get him to join them for meals and chat.

and i also think that one of the most profound examples of love - one which the series, which prioritises love-as-suffering and love-as-sacrifice [which snape's silent work in lily's memory encapsulates], hugely underappreciates - is love-as-comfort. i think you could do a lot with snape - a bitter, lonely, cold, hungry man - being cajoled by the twin forces of molly's nagging and arthur's affability into staying for a bit of rhubarb crumble, and this single act sparking something genuinely compelling between them...

[after all, as those of us in both snapemort and snumbledore nation know... he definitely has a weakness for being told what to do...]

because snape must respect molly and arthur - at least as much as he ever respects anyone. he doesn't insult them [at least in harry's hearing], arthur's mere presence in the room is enough to stop him and sirius fighting in order of the phoenix, and - of course - he puts himself in genuine danger [since voldemort doesn't strike me as the sort of person who'd think it was automatically fine for snape to have cut off one of his fellow death eaters' hands - even if it was "an accident"] to try and save george's life.

and so i also think you could do something really interesting with this triad post-war.

both molly and arthur - who, after all, stays in post at the ministry after voldemort's takeover until april 1998 - are well-placed to appreciate what snape had to go through as a spy. they are also - especially following fred's death - well-placed to appreciate how utterly grief changes your life, how you would do anything to soothe the pain of your grief, and how some of the things which help distract you are duty and fear - which means that, without the immediate need to keep going which war brings, your grief crashes down all the harder.

i'm always struck by sirius’ statement in order of the phoenix that arthur is a man who understands that “there are things worth dying for” in war. but i think that [very much unlike sirius...] arthur also demonstrates throughout canon that he understands the flip-side of this - that there are things worth living for, but that it's often harder to live for something than to die for it.

a snape who’s miraculously survived nagini’s bite [something else he and arthur have in common!], who finds himself unmoored in a world in which he’s just… free is a trope i adore. and i am very much invested in the idea that his extremely complicated journey towards being able to carry his grief without buckling under the weight would mesh very nice with molly and arthur's own, by providing an outlet for molly's canonical interest in caring for people and arthur's canonical interest in fixing things which allowed them to feel like they were doing something which made not just falling to pieces worth it.

[grasping-earth]

For the record, I'm walking the rare and unusual path of not hating Guild Wars forever because I didn't like their last releases but also not getting hyped for the next thing as if it will fix everything. I'm cautiously optimistic that the next thing will be better, but still not expecting it to be what it was at the peak of living story.

To be fair, I think one of the most important things they slipped into the retrospective post was including in their reasons for changing the content model, "enabling ArenaNet employees to have a better work-life balance."

Certainly making money for parent company shareholders will have a role in it too, and I'd personally rather have less frequent new content that was higher quality, BUT, having the company run sustainably and the people who do the work able to have their own lives and remain happy to be doing it is important too. We should all be in favour of getting less if it means the people making things we love have better work lives. So I'm definitely going to let ANet experiment and hopefully improve on a model that might not be the best model for me, but might be the right compromise overall.

[altschmerzes]

every time a post/poll goes around about being aspec and fandom shipping enjoyment/engagement/whatever im like. NOW can we stop acting like being an aromantic person who enjoys shipping is some kind of Weird Outlier Situation? can we stop acting like this is an Unpopular Opinion or even Persecuted Outcast Take rather than idk, the default standard, just like everywhere else? idk romance repulsed aromantics Yes Including Fiction aren’t the default or even a significant majority and it really drives me nuts when people act like aros who enjoy shipping are somehow Not exactly that.

[goldkirk]

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