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#not that transformers have any notion of sexuality

starshipsofstarlord · 2 months

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pretty eyes (3)

summary. picking up where you left off isn’t always the easiest thing to proceed with, especially when you and daryl are still bickering. but there are ways to make amends

warnings. smut, fingering, a lottt of making out, swearing, slapping, brief angst

a/n. again there will be another part, i apologise for this having taken so long 🖤

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

He was rough yet tender as he cupped your face, his thumbs tracing the structure of your jawline as his mouth devoured your own, the broad and crisp sunlight bringing heat to your skin. Your noses traced back and forth together, your heavy breaths became one notion of inhaling and exhaling. There wasn’t a thought surpassing your mind as you physically reconciled after your stubborn disdain at one another, moulding together as though you could melt after the other’s touch.

Alas you were forced to part from the oxygen that your lungs required, and you breathed heavily, your chest rising in a rapid motion as the two of you wordlessly stared at one another. His pupils were transformed into an enlarged size, there wasn’t anything that could surpass the silence that brooded scornfully between you, as neither of you both were sure on how to proceed. You could feel the swollen lining around your lips, and you bit nervously at it, attempting to scratch an itch to make the quiet around you less tense.

“Shoul’n’t a done tha’.” Daryl stated, however he seemed less appalled by the contact that you had made than he had shown previously. His cerulean orbs raked across your face as his feet jaggedly trudged backwards, committing some distance from you. He felt almost drunk from your kiss, and that made him feel absurdly foolish. It wasn’t in his nature to be so astounded by a simple touch, but it was definitely affecting him.

His pulse raced in the depths of his flesh, and his bloodstream pounded heavily in his ears as he awaited for your response, hoping that you would agree with him. It was a mistake, one that certainly shouldn’t happen again. Those damning eyes of yours were distracting him from his shield of resentment, and he tried to shun them from his sight, however you were staring straight ahead at him, which made it defiantly impossible.

“Daryl,” the sound of his name escaping your plush lips had him desperate to hear it fall from your lips over and over… No. He wasn’t some idiot that was willing to fall head over heels, he was simply attracted to your physical form, that was all that it could be. It was all that he would allow it to be. He never wanted anyone close, he’d be a pussy as Merle would call him if he had any feeling for you and his brother were here.

“Don’ got time for this.” He remarked as he swiftly turned around with the purpose of getting as far away from you as possible, however he hadn’t anticipated for you to follow him like a lost lamb, with a frown written upon your face. “Why the hell ya followin’ me? Huh, ain’t no one else yer wanna fuck ‘round here?” In truth, he’d inwardly resent it if you shacked up with one of the other men in your group, but he’d silence the qualms he’d have with your sexual relations.

“Honestly, no.” You crossed your arms once again, and he battled with looking in your eyes to your raised breasts, sucking in a much needed breath. “But again that’s not why I’m here Dixon, we have to sort this tension between us out; and I didn’t come on my own accord, Shane sent me here for the sake of the rest of the group. It’s not about me and you screwing, it’s about being civil. I think we can do just about that, right?”

Daryl scoffed, shaking his head. “Ya listening to Shane now.” He laughed mockingly and you rolled your eyes at his behaviour, already wishing you hadn’t bothered. You were prepared to stalk away, and so to relent from this dispersive attitude you were being given, you headed to the woods, touching your side in a double checking fashion for your blade. Yes, you had it. You were all good to go, and escape this hellish debacle. The trees surrounded you, hiding you in their shrubbery and shading of leaves as you tried to clear your head. “Ya tryna get yourself killed or somethin’ woman?”

Of course he had followed you, but you raggedly shook out your hair, ignoring him. He had wanted you gone, to leave him be in his solidarity, and the next moment he had trailed after you, in a marching stride as he recalled you to return back to the campsite that you had set up on the farm. “No.” You blankly stated, you weren’t stupid and knew damn well how to defend yourself. “No I’m not Daryl. You wanted me to leave you alone so that’s what I’m doing. So go back to being by yourself, you don’t owe me anything.”

“Wait. Just hold up a second.” He sighed, stalking alongside you to make your steps pause. “I- uh, I jus’, fuck you woman.” He closed his eyes, as your palm collided with the side of his face and the sting blossomed upon his cheek. The man was a little taken aback, but he shouldn’t have expected any different for his last words. Daryl was full of copious frustration, and he was done with it. “Fuck it.” With his body weight he grasped you by the shoulders, leading you backwards until you were trapped between him and a tall shot of bark.

You were furious, but all discretions were smothered into dismal whining as Daryl pressed against you, his mouth hungrily colliding with your own. Your eyes were closed as you could do nothing but reciprocate his motions, licking into his mouth with vigour as his hands strewed in your hair. He became lost in your kiss, as he allowed one of his hands to grapple down and pledge your ass in his grip. His administration caused a gasp to shatter from your lips as you allowed him to do as he pleased, his hands worked desperately at the fly of your faded and worn jeans as he began to pull the denim down.

“This is definitely a way we might be able to get along.” Inherently you mumbled as you felt lips and teeth tug at the flesh of your neck, and you hadn’t even thought of him leaving bruising marks along your throat. A pleased moan fell deliriously from your lips as you felt his rough hand slide into your cotton panties, feeling your cunt over as he stroked his ring finger against entrance. He ensured you were wet enough before he plunged it inside of you, and when he did your eyes flew open.

As he licked his lips in concentration, he became adherent to anything other than your eyes, even with his wrist continuing to move to prompt you pleasure. “Such pretty eyes.” He muttered to himself, allowing a soft smile to capture his mouth for a moment as he brought you to the brink of pleasure, slipping another finger inside of you. Your eyes were blow wide like those of a deer, and you grabbed at his arm, lips gaping open as you released silent moans, restraining all noise if there were any walkers nearby.

“Daryl.” His name burned like an ember on your lips, and he was compelled to capture them again, as your hands caressed wantonly down his body, grabbing at the prominent bulge he wore beneath his clothing. This was a sure way to reconcile your arrogance towards one another, and you were futilely desperate for more.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon angst #daryl dixon series

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scoonsalicious · 2 months

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Unwanted: Chapter 21, Unacceptable - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, violence, mentions of sexual situations.

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: Oh, look-- you didn't sleep with Steve, after all! THANK FUCKING GOD. So what if Bucky thinks that you did? lololololol

A/N: NGL, this part was delicious to write. Pocket setting of explosions, baby.

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

You stepped into the conference room, still wearing Steve’s shirt, though you’d paired it with a pair of leggings and a belt, and your go-bag slung over your shoulder. You figured if Bucky thought the two of you had slept together, you may as well feed into the notion. Good. Let him have a taste of his own fucking medicine. You smiled when you saw Sam had beat you there and was already sitting at the conference table, chatting with Steve.

You sat down next to Sam. “Morning, boys,” you said, voice more cheerful than you felt after your confrontation with Bucky earlier. “Are we ready to rock and roll?”

“Damn, Baby Girl!” Sam grinned back at you as he took in your altered appearance. After you finished packing, you’d met with a hair stylist and had her dye your hair from its normal hue to a more stripper-appropriate bubble bath pink, and had her put in extensions so your hair came down to your ass in long, loose curls.

Steve just smiled at your transformation and slid you a manilla folder. You opened it up to find a fake ID, documentation, and a brief dossier with your cover history.

“I hope you don’t mind, Pocket,” Steve began, “but I discussed it with Tony and we decided it would be best if you resumed your old dancer alias. That way, if anyone has any questions about your background, there’s a legitimate history for them to follow up on.” You nodded that was smart. “Cherry Pie’s back in action, then?” you grinned.

Steve smiled. “Looks like. Tony also wanted to apologize for not being here to say goodbye; there was some need for Iron Man’s services in Belize early this morning.” You nodded, sad that you had to miss out on saying goodbye to him, and to thank him for the party, especially when you didn’t know how long it would be before you saw him again. “He also said to tell you he’s arranged to have all your presents moved up to your new room for when you get back but, if you want them at any point while you’re in Atlantic City, to just let him know and he’ll…” Steve paused to check to check a piece of paper that apparently had Tony’s instructions on them, “‘fly them down myself because if she thinks I’m going to let her stay undercover with that birdbrain–’”

“Hurtful!” interjected Sam.

“‘--with that birdbrain and not come down and personally check to make sure she’s still alive, she’s gonna have to think again.’” Steve finished.

You laughed. “Yeah, alright. Tell him I said thanks,” you said.

Before anything more could be said, your attention was caught by a ruckus outside the conference room. You could hear the sound of doors being slammed open and someone stomping their way down the hall toward you, and an angry voice bellowing out “ROGERS!”

“Oh shit, Cap,” Sam grinned, “What’d you do?”

Bucky came barreling through the double doors of the conference room, sending them both flying into the adjacent walls with a thud. His gaze bore into Steve as he stalked toward him.

“IF YOU THINK, FOR ONE GODDAMNED SECOND, THAT YOU CAN FUCK MY GIRL AND GET AWAY WITH IT–”

He paused when his gaze took in you and Sam. “Oh… I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize–”

“He thinks we had sex, Steve,” you said, crossing your arms, “and for some reason he feels he has the right to be upset about it.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that I’m no longer ‘his girl.’”

Bucky did a double take. “Pocket?!” he stuttered, flabbergasted at the sight of you. “What– what the fuck did you do to your hair?” You rolled your eyes and turned away.

“Bucky,” Steve took a step toward his friend. “We’re in the middle of a pre-mission briefing. What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asked.

Bucky looked from you to Steve, and back again. “I want to hear you admit it, you fucking punk,” he said, pushing Steve with both hands in the chest. Steve stumbled backward.

“Yo, man,” Sam said, standing up, “what the actual fuck?”

“He slept with Pocket,” Bucky said, his voice beginning to rise. “He slept with my girl and I want to hear him fucking admit it to my face.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look between you and Steve. “Whoa, Baby Girl. That true?”

You sighed. “No, Samuel. It’s not true.” You cast an angry glance at Bucky. “First, I’m not Bucky’s anything. He made damned sure of that all on his own.” At Sam’s confused expression, you added “Just ask him about what he and Carthage got up to in Russia together.” Sam’s eyes widened and he gave Bucky a disapproving look. “Second, I got high last night, danced with Steve, we went back to my room, we talked, and we fell asleep.”

“You gonna stand there and lie to my fucking face, Pocket?” Bucky yelled. “You answered the door in nothing but his fucking shirt!”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not sure what part of ‘you have no right to be angry about it even if I did’ you don’t understand, and second, I was still wearing a skirt under that shirt, asshole, so, technically, fully dressed. Steve slept in his undershirt, and I just threw the button-up on because my shirt got all tangled up in the night. Nothing happened.”

“Well,” Steve interjected, “I wouldn’t say nothing ha–”

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” you uttered, just as Bucky threw himself at his friend with an angry roar. Sam jumped in to break the two men up, but he was no match for two super soldiers. The two men tousled on the ground, and you could just make out a portion of the insults and accusations they were throwing at one another.

“If you laid one finger on her–”

“--can’t believe you cheated–”

Having had quite enough of their testosterone display, you grabbed the pitcher of ice water that was sitting on the conference table and, walking over to where Steve currently had Bucky pinned to the floor, dumped its entire contents over both their heads.

“Are you both quite finished?” you asked, annoyed as fuck as the two men spluttered and worked to extricate themselves from one another. “You’re acting pathetic, and Sam and I have places to be.”

Steve reached a hand down to help Bucky get up. “We didn’t sleep together, Buck,” Steve said. “We just… made out a little.”

Bucky looked like he was about to launch himself at Steve again before Steve added “But we knew it was wrong and a mistake and we stopped almost immediately. That’s it, I swear. I would never do that to you, man. You gotta know that. You’re my best friend. To the end of the line, remember?”

Bucky pushed his wet hair back, away from his face. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, punk.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

You rolled your eyes. Reaching across the conference table, you grabbed the files that held the paperwork for you and Sam and handed them to him. “And with that touching display of toxic masculinity,” you said, furious that the two men had been fighting over who got to have access to your body like you were some sort of toy, “Sam and I have a mission to get to.” Slinging your duffle bag over your shoulder, you motioned for Sam to follow you back out the conference room doors.

Just as you reached them, you turned back around. “Oh, and Steve?” you added, knowing you were about to throw a match onto a recently diffused powder keg, but not caring the least little bit about the oncoming explosion. Both Bucky and Steve turned to look at you. “Don’t forget to tell Barnes about having your hand on my cunt.” With that, you walked out, Sam cackling behind you and the sounds of Bucky screaming at Steve echoing in your wake.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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crippleprophet · 1 year

Note

Hey Mac! Do you have any crip books or resource recs for crip sex/sexuality?

Feel free to delete if you're uncomfortable answering :]

do i ever! i actually did an essay for my master’s in disability studies on the topic of disabled people’s access to sex so a lot of these are sources from that (feel free to dm me for my paper!) & others are things i’ve collected for leisure (hah)

i’m bolding my favorites and italicizing ones i haven’t read but have been recommended / have on my list; as with everything, having read a piece + recommending it is not an uncritical endorsement, & i have various contentions with all of these pieces ranging from minor nitpicking to outright disagreement.

feel free to send an ask or dm if you want my thoughts on a particular work or need help obtaining a pdf!

books

Sex and Disability ed. Robert McRuer & Anna Mollow

The Sexual Politics of Disability: Untold Desires by Tom Shakespeare, Kath Gillespie-Sells and Dominic Davies

Unbreaking Our Hearts: Cultures of Un/Desirability and the Transformative Potential of Queercrip Porn by Loree Erickson. York University, dissertation submitted 2015.

McRuer, R. 2006. Crip theory: Cultural signs of queerness and disability. New York: New York University Press.

Kinked and Crippled: Disabled BDSM Practitioners’ Experiences and Embodiments of Pain. Emma Sheppard. Edge Hill University, dissertation submitted 2017.

Love, Sex, and Disability: The Pleasures of Care by Sarah Smith Rainey

intellectually disabled people / people with learning difficulties’ right to sex

Hamilton, C. A. 2009. ‘Now I’d like to sleep with Rachael’ – researching sexuality support in a service agency group home. Disability & Society. 24(3), pp.303-315.

Hollomotz, A. 2008. ‘May we please have sex tonight?’ – people with learning difficulties pursuing privacy in residential group settings. British Journal of Learning Disabilities. 37, pp.91–97.

Vehmas, S. 2019. Persons with profound intellectual disability and their right to sex. Disability & Society. 34(4), pp.519-539.

Significance of the attitudes of police and care staff toward sex and people who have a learning disability by A. Bailey & D. Sines. Journal of Learning Disabilities for Nursing Health and Social Care (1998), 2(3), pp.168-174.

sexual facilitation & making sex accessible

Bahner, J. 2016. Risky business? Organizing sexual facilitation in Swedish personal assistance services. Scandinavian Journal of Disability Research. 18(2), pp.164-175.

Linda R. Mona (2003) Sexual Options for People with Disabilities, Women & Therapy, 26:3-4, pp.211-221.

No Pity Fucks Please: A critique of Scarlet Road’s campaign to improve disabled people’s access to paid sex services by Tova Rozengarten and Heather Brook. Outskirts vol. 34, 2016, pp.1-21.

Julia Bahner (2013) The power of discretion and the discretion of power: personal assistants and sexual facilitation in disability services, Vulnerable Groups & Inclusion, 4:1, 20673.

BDSM, paraphilias, & alternative sex

Goldberg, C. E. 2018. Fucking with Notions of Disability (In)Justice: Exploring BDSM, Sexuality, Consent, and Canadian Law

Hollomotz, A. 2013. Exploiting the Fifty Shades of Grey craze for the disability and sexual rights agenda. Disability & Society. 28(3), pp.418-422.

Reynolds, D. 2007. Disability and BDSM: Bob Flanagan and the case for sexual rights. Sexuality Research & Social Policy. 4(1), pp.40-52.

Tellier, S. 2017. Advancing the discourse: Disability and BDSM. Sex & Disability. 35, pp.485-493.

Sheppard, E. 2018. Using pain, living with pain. Feminist Review. 120, pp.54-69.

Tyburczy, J. 2014. Leather anatomy: Cripping homonormativity at International Mr. Leather. Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies. 8(3), pp.275-293.

Sheppard, E 2019, 'Chronic Pain as Fluid, BDSM as Control' Disability Studies Quarterly, vol. 39, no. 2.

other articles

Finger, A. 1992. Forbidden Fruit

Fritsch, K., Heynen, R., Ross, A. N., and van der Meulen, E. 2016. Disability and sex work: developing affinities through decriminalization. Disability & Society. 31(1), pp.84-99.

McKenzie, J. 2012. Disabled people in rural South Africa talk about sexuality. Culture Health & Sexuality. pp.1-15.

Shakespeare, T. 2000. Disabled sexuality: Toward rights and recognition. Sexuality and Disability. 18(3), pp.159-166.

Shildrick, M. 2007. Contested pleasures: The sociopolitical economy of disability and sexuality. Sexuality Research & Social Policy. 4(1), pp.53-66.

Wentzell, E. 2006. Bad bedfellows: Disability sex rights and Viagra. Bulletin of Science, Technology & Society. 26(5), pp.370-377.

“‘Like, pissing yourself is not a particularly attractive quality, let’s be honest’: Learning to contain through youth, adulthood, disability and sexuality” by Kirsty Liddiard and Jenny Slater. Sexualities 2018, Vol. 21(3), pp.319–333.

non-academic texts

Andrew Gurza’s blog - andrewgurza dot com / blog

Disability After Dark podcast

A Quick & Easy Guide to Sex & Disability by A. Andrews

Cripping Up Sex with Eva

my cripsex tag, which i’ll add to this post, has other relevant content, & i welcome any additions from folks! all the best to you 💓

#asks #reading lists #cripsex

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respectthepetty · 8 months

Note

I have to confess that I don’t usually pay attention to the colours when I am watching any series. But I thought that it was interesting that while Ai Di was wearing Little Red Riding Hood’s costume Chen Yi was in a gray top and also otherwise was somehow very ‘wolfish’ with teeth-baring smile. He looked like he was ready to devour poor Ai Di.

ANON! You opened a flood gate!

Fun-ish Fact - In Taiwan where Kiseki: Dear to Me comes from, there was a group within the feminist movement in the 80s and 90s called the Little Red Riding Hoods. Their purpose was to call out the "wolves" and bring awareness to sexual harassment. There are several other academic reads on this subject but most are behind paywalls (boo!).

The story of "Little Red Riding Hood" is very symbolic of sexual development and aggression plus a ton of other stuff, so whenever Little Red Riding Hood pops up somewhere, I think "this is the work of a feminist!"

So I was THRILLED when I saw Eddie was our sinful yet sexually maturing protagonist while Bai Zong Yi played the dangerous and transformative antagonist.

Many people's qualms with the couples is the age difference since it's anywhere from five to eight years difference (17 vs. 22?) which would paint Fan Ze Rui as the predator, yet Bai Zong Yi was the one who confessed his feelings first and initiated the intimacy between them.

Then, like you mentioned, there is Eddie, in his bright passionate red running back to Chen Yi who must rescue him from the gang of men trying to hold him back.

But let's rewind! Eddie made fun of Chen Yi for being a virgin and unable to confess his feelings to his boss

but Chen Yi haphazardly responded if Eddie was possible of teaching him . . .

Then quickly dismissed the notion since Eddie is "too young to know it"

This pissed off Eddie, so he hit at the true heart of this discussion - Chen Yi's sexual prowess.

And that caused Chen Yi, who was too drunk to stand on his own let alone walk, to jump up and attack Eddie.

And it escalated in Chen Yi sexually assaulting Eddie (non-consensual kisses are a form of sexual assault)

Eddie fought back and ran away, leaving Chen Yi without any notice of where he was going or how long he would be gone, yet Eddie runs back to Chen Yi only to have to be rescued by him.

And Chen Yi smiled about it.

In earlier tellings of "Little Red Riding Hood" before the Grimm Brothers' version, she rescued herself from the wolf. There was no hunter. So in a story that represents the dangers of sexually awakening and desire, having the lead save herself from the sexual predator is pretty powerful especially because it requires her to face her assaulter.

Chen Yi isn't a horrible person, but if we apply the wolf character to him, the wolf attacked as a form of sexual dominance. Red Riding Hood is in the unknown forest, but the wolf knows the exact layout. The dark scary (sexual) unknown is his territory, so Chen Yi needed to prove to Eddie he wasn't impotent. He normally doesn't prey on Eddie who is younger and, if his questioning was intentional, is also sexually inexperienced. In fact, he rescues Eddie, several times. And he prefers Eddie to not appear as someone who needs rescuing.

Yet Eddie is the one who suggests to Chen Yi to be a predator. Interestingly enough, in a similar color scheme, Eddie in red tells Chen Yi in darker blue, to knock their boss/father out and take him (assault him).

Eddie goes a step further noting that Chen Yi is too weak (double speak for impotent) to knock him out; therefore, he will have to prey on him when he is older and weaker because only then will Chen Yi will be stronger (experienced), which is the reason the wolf eats the grandma first since she won't fight back.

To which Chen Yi responds by telling Eddie to "grow up"

All of this rambling is simply to say that out of all the fairy tales to incorporate within the show, the one about maturity, sexual acts, and consent was the one used, especially when Eddie willingly volunteered to be Little Red Riding Hood who must grow up, deal with his conflicting sexual autonomy, and understand responsible ways to act on his desires.

Because suggesting Chen Yi attack someone deemed weaker did not work out well for either of them.

#kiseki: dear to me #I'm obsessed with them #eddie x chen yi #ai di x chen yi #little red riding hood and the big bad wolf #the colors mean things #like sin lust and passion

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5eraphim · 9 months

Note

Your monster mash au is so cool!! i love when writers go up and beyond n arent afraid to get creative with the canon. Do you have any hcs for how they met their S/O?

i currently have a 3 characters per request limit goin on rn, and i used RNG to pick the characters for this request which wound up being Werewolf Scout (BLU), Satyr Demo (RED) and Bogeyman Spy (BLU) hope thats ok with you! (but i have requests open currently, so if u were hoping to see someone else, here's a link to the monster mash AU. these were pretty fun to write and i'd love to do more!) thank you so much for the request, I hope you enjoy!

Characters: Scout 🐇, Demo 🐏 and Spy 🐍 (Team Fortress 2)

Content Warnings: Yandere, toxic relationship dynamics, possessive behavior, implied sexual relations, somnophilia, reader is gender neutral

Rating: M (MINORS DON'T INTERACT, GO PLAY OUTSIDE)

Word Count: 2.3k

MASTERLIST

TIP JAR

Werewolf Scout (BLU)

Wild, savage, fearsome, and brutal, Scout is the living embodiment of what a proper wolf ought to be. Once the runt of the litter transformed through sheer determination and force of will, Scout would do anything to maintain his position as the leader of the pack.

All his life, Scout's possessed the primal need to be accepted as well as applauded by others by other wolves as well as by other mortals and monsters desperate to convince himself it will somehow be enough to purchase the childhood trauma of being known to all as the weakest of the family.

Consider Scout falling for a friend from childhood who hasn't seen him since his days as a weakling, only to move away and disappear for years and years and return to see a radically different Scout, practically the opposite of what he once was.

Scout always had a soft spot for you but never had the nerve to confess his feelings to you before on account of his certainty you would reject him, as well as generally being much less assured of himself when he was a child. But to meet up with you again now that he's stronger and more dominant than before, it's like getting a second chance too good to be true. If he were to let you go again, he knows he'd never forgive himself.

Initially, Scout's ready to start making moves on you without hesitation. There's no way you'd forget about him or all the time spent together, and he believes with all his heart that just seeing the man he's become would be enough to convince you to start an entirely new life together. And when you inevitably refuse such an outlandish proposition, Scout's left heartbroken, confused, and unable to control his jealousy and wrath.

But he knows if he really wants to impress you to prove he's worthy of becoming your mate, Scout knows who needs to do something drastic to get your attention. Nothing less than taking the life of another in a bloody brawl, where only one will live to see the end of the fight. But not just anyone. It must be someone close to you, so when you see as a protector. Surely, if he were to kill someone close to you, you'd have no choice but to accept him as your lover, your guardian, you're everything.

Scout's never been one for subtlety; he doesn't care if taking you as his lover by force leaves you terrified and resentful. As a leader of the pack, it's his responsibility to handle tough choices like this and watch out for the well-being of the rest. Whether or not you wanted to join in the first place hardly matters to Scout. He did what he had to, and you're his living reward

Satyr Demo (Red)

Like almost all the monsters in the monster mash AU, satyr Demo never really imagined himself with the idea of a single "true love" kind of partner, though not for the same reason as the others. While many of the other monsters view themselves at odds with humanity and, by extension, incompatible with the notion of human monogamous romances. Demo, on the other hand, is more hung up on the monogamous part of these relationships rather than the human part.

Satyr Demo is seldom alone, spending his days leisurely indulging his desires for sex, wines, feasting, partying, and whatever other whims cross his mind. In a realm populated by other satyrs, nymphs, centers, naiads, primordial gods, titans, and other similar creatures in a utopia beyond human perception.

Despite his physically off-putting appearance, drawing in mortals has never been an issue for creatures like Demo. Humans are such easy prey, with fragile minds so easily swayed by temptation and eyes so easy to deceive. All it takes for Demo to get in bed with another mortal is to share a bit of wine of the gods and to only appear late at night, using the cover of darkness to his advantage to hide his inhuman appearance. And the look on the mortal's face after realizing they've given into the ethereal temptation or hypnosis and made love to a half-goat creature is priceless to Demo.

In Demo's leisurely existence, life is nothing but an endless buffet of lovers; to limit himself to one monogamous relationship forever would be self-cruelty. The idea of a mortal retaliating against him for his treatment of them never even crossed his mind, but the day that happens if his entire world shifts.

Consider yourself a mortal living in the world near Demo's realm, where mortals are endlessly tormented and played with by gods and supernatural creatures like pawns. While you can do nothing but keep your head down and try not to invoke their ethereal wrath.

Imagine yourself in a situation where a close family member of yours has just been lured by Demo. Her chastity broken, and left in a compromising position in the woods. What little garments she has left desecrated with his seed, the goat hair left around the scene of the crime, making it obvious to all around town who was the culprit. With her reputation ruined and her family disgraced, she goes catatonic. Unable to leave her own bed, practically dead to the world, unable to cope with the suffering and shame of living as one of Demo's conquests.

Her despondence fuels within you an anger you kept bottled up all your life. You could no longer live in a world where mortals were used and discarded at the discretion of the supernatural creatures. You were willing to do whatever it took to fight back, to get even a fraction of justice for all the harm they'd caused.

Against the wishes of your loved ones, you sought the help of an ostracized spinster at the edge of the town, said to know the ways of witchcraft, and willing to make bargains with mortals for supernatural favors so long as they were willing to pay the price for it.

You came to her asking if there was some way to bind the sexual appetite of the monster who hurt your loved one beyond repair, offering her the still-desecrated clothing of your loved one, knowing some trace of the beast was likely necessary to enact the hex. You wanted to end his predation of the mortals of your town no matter the cost, even if that meant invoking dark magic to do so. Offering as payment everything of value owned put the clothes on your back. While you didn't have much, the old witch smiled, assuring you this was all payment enough and that the prospect of attempting such a powerful curse was enough of an incentive, though she accepted your belongings all the same, asking again if you were really willing to do anything to put an end to Demo's reign of terror. And without a second thought, you replied yes.

The witch held up her end of the bargain, binding Demo's lust and desire, but what she didn't tell you was the actual cost of finding one's heart to perform her ritual, specifically requiring a willing volunteer to bind Demo's lust to. She needed a token of a physical object of significance from the bound one and from another, which you offered as unknowingly as payment to bind in the victim's desires to.

The night you meddled in the affairs of the supernatural, you unknowingly offered up your own soul to the witch, which she bonded with Demo's successfully. And from that night on, cursing you to bear the burden of all Demo's desire.

Demo awoke the following day with a hole in his heart and a mind-numbing need to find another lover in the mortal realm, but not in a way he'd ever felt before. Demo felt like someone was waiting for him, someone he needed to find desperately but had no idea who it could be. In a town as small as yours, it was only a matter of time until you were discovered. And the moment he set his eyes on you, he knew it had to be you.

In the following days, you had to come to your own realization of what it meant to bind someone's heart. To understand it wasn't a hex to do no harm but to force one person alone to endure the entire weight of his desire.

Living as Demo's' sole lover was a paradise, but not from your perspective. Bestowed with eternal youth, food of the gods, orgiastic dances with supernatural creatures, the suffering of humanity far away, and the undying devotion of a god. You had no choice but to comply.

You were given all you could ask for so long as you never long to stray from Demo's side, or god forbid, ever asked to go home.

Bogeyman Spy (BLU)

No one knows the meaning of need like Spy. He's watched the rise and fall of empires, the brutality of war, and the skirmishes between mortal and the supernatural. The only thing he's never found was another creature like himself.

As long as Spy's walked the Earth, and for as long as he's interacted with humans, he's known nothing but hunger for human fear and pain, seeing them as merely a food source.

This life of isolation and callousness is all he's ever known. Perhaps existence is a lonely one, but Spy fails to see the value in a human emotional connection. He never had a heart to hold.

But just because he doesn't believe he has a heart doesn't mean one never existed at all. Despite his years upon years of emotional repression, he too yearns to be understood and cared for like the mortals he claims such dominion over. Still, he refuses to admit it to himself.

He may be immortal, but despite what he would like to believe, Spy is no god. And he was just as susceptible to the strings of fate as any other, and it was only a matter of time before the gods fated his heartstrings to be pulled by another ordinary mortal, the last kind of person Spy would've ever expected to foster sympathy for.

He couldn't even comprehend what was happening the night that finally happened.

It was just another night like any other Spy approaching you while you slept soundly, the optimal time to put you into a deep nightmare. But something about the sight of you, a vision of tranquility made beautiful by the moonlight and mysterious by dark shadows, he couldn't help but hesitate to disturb you.

Nevertheless, Spy was prepared to do what he must to get his nightly fix, but before he could enter your dreams, Spy realized your psyche was already charged with sexual energy, the sign of a dream already in progress. Nothing he hadn't seen before, but in the moment, he was paralyzed and entirely captivated.

More cautiously than ever before, he dared take a taste of the energy flowing through you, and after just one sampling, he was hooked.

Hours stretch on, but Spy can't bring himself to leave your bedside, watching your energy waxing and waning as you fall in and out of a state of deep slumber. Before he realizes it, daylight comes, forcing him to concede he's out of time.

Deep within, Spy feels a different kind of hunger awakening, but something more complex, more akin to a yearning. A hunger that cannot be satisfied with a full stomach.

For the following few days, he couldn't bring himself to feed as he normally would. His hunger was there, as it always was, and he could feel the pain of an empty stomach but couldn't work up an appetite for anything but you.

By day three, he could stay away from you no longer and caved to the desire to feed, finding himself back at your bedside, his hunger for you as strong as ever.

He will try to convince himself he's better off without you, lying to himself that it's only a matter of time before his obsession fades and what he feels now won't last. After all, you were only a mortal, though it's impossible to ignore the instant panic he feels thinking of you passing away. Not only because this would mean the end of you as a food source but as that pesky yearning perks up, and he can't help but fear you dying before he could properly commune with you.

Being an immortal shapeshifter with immense psychic power meant Spy had more than a few friends in high places, powerful and indebted friends.

It isn't long until he strikes a bargain with a powerful witch, granting you immortality as well as keeping you in a perpetual deep slumber, forcing you to become Spy's own personal little sleeping beauty. Eternally preserved just for him, keeping you alive by nourishing your spirit with safety and fear.

While in this state, it isn't long until the confusion sets in. You feel alone, have no idea where you are, and can't shake the feeling of being watched. You feel like you're trapped in a cage, a comfortable one, but a cage you can't escape from. Stuck in a dream you can awaken from.

Spy knows he could awaken you at any moment and might even understand some level he will have to eventually, but he still intends to keep it like this as long as he can. He's too addicted to the high of his hunger, finally satiated, and too sullen to bring himself to truly meet you in the real world. For the time being, he's content flirting with you in the dream world, stalking from shadows, always watching it, keeping just a step out of reach.

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transmascrage · 2 years

Text

[Lou] Sullivan himself was not advancing any agenda other than the notion that getting reliable information about the medical technology FTMs use and the social issues FTMs face should not be as difficult as it had been historically. He did have three pet peeves that he expressed directly and indirectly often enough that I cannot think of him without imagining a situation in which he’s saying something about one or another of them. The first was that sexual orientation should not be a gating factor determining access to surgical transformation (which it definitely was at the time); another was that it wasn’t right for anyone to judge whether someone else’s expression of masculinity was “correct,” no matter what kind of body was doing the expressing; and the last was that FTM people deserved as much attention, study, and recognition as MTFs. I couldn’t agree more.

Becoming a Visible Man - Jamison Green (2004)

#lgbtq #lgbtq community #transmasc #transandrophobia

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bigmouthlass · 2 months

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Title: A Strange Detour

Series: Holler Me Home, part 1

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: 'You' are an Omega fresh off a daring rescue of Alpha!Dean. Fate wouldn't be so cruel as to bring on a heat when you're seeing him home-- oh wait.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, Dubious Consent,

AN: If I've misused any of the ABO tropes, I apologize. There's a lot about ABO dynamics that bother me, I tried to play with it a little so it doesn't come off quite so . . . squicky. There is content referencing sexual abuse of minors but it's offstage, non-explicit, and not meant to be in any way titillating. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

The first flush hits as you climb through the door and lock it behind you. "Oh shit!"

The body stretched out on your bed murbles something.

"Never mind, go back to sleep."

An affirmative grunt is the only response, and you shut yourself in the RV's tiny bathroom. Pinching in your back dispenses with the notion that you can get by using regular drugstore suppressants; the damn things don't work when the show's already on the road. Instead you reach for the neutralizer and smear it over your scent points. Not much you can do about your privates, except stick a thick pad there and hope for the best. Cussing, you eat some aspirin with a cup of coffee, get in your captain's chair, and hit the backroads.

Your guest wakes up about the time you pass the state line. Tall, very handsome, stiff with the aftermath of an ass-whuppin’, the bruise on his cheekbone turning a nice shade of plum and lilac. "Morning sunshine. There's coffee in the cupboard over the stove. Make yourself useful."

Dean Winchester grunts something obscene but he goes to do as he's told. "What's with the cigarettes? Thought you quit."

"I did," you confirm, crushing your cigarette out and lighting another. "I've been up for thirty-six hours since I got the SOS from Garth to come save your dumb ass. Cigarettes keep me awake. Next step up is speed and that shit makes me sick." And the smoke should cover any scent that gets past the neutralizer.

"Alright you've made your point. Open a window or something."

"Can't. We'll lose the air conditioning."

"Don't care. Those things reek."

Conceding his point, you get him to open the windows. Whether or not that improves the air quality is debatable. Downwind of Gary stinks of burned oils and bad decisions. On top of that it's one of those overcast days where the world feels like a steam room on half power. Dean's flannel and your jean jacket get tossed up into the upper front bunk within minutes. Lord have mercy but why did he have to pick today of all days to wear a tank top? In his mid-thirties, Dean looks his age, and his age looks pretty damn good.

Of course short sleep is only part of the story. Thanks to the scrambling your hormones got from ten years of experimental suppressants, your heats are hard and painful. You scrap the plan to escort Dean back to Kansas yourself and make a new plan to hit up a fixer you know who lives in Illinois. Izzy’s got a bunch of beaters with clean titles and he owes you a big one.

Dean's not in a much better mood than you are. With how often he gets kidnapped and thrashed you'd think he'd be used to the process, but no. The ride turns into one giant bitchfest, Dean ignoring your growls to shut the fuck up as he complains about everything-- how much his back hurts, how he mashed his fingers in the cupboard door, how the radio isn't picking up anything but bad country western and whiny preachers. Battling the backroads of Indiana in a C-class RV in ninety degree weather and no air conditioning, with a bad heat coming on and the world's biggest fussy baby whining in your ear, is going in the books as one of your special Hells. You wish Sam was here. Nobody's better at Dean-wrangling than he is. You should be so lucky; Sam's holed up at the Winchesters' super secret hideout, fresh off surgery to repair a torn tendon in his knee.

A stop for gas and some fried chicken helps. "I'm sorry," you apologize, swallowing a big hunk of drumstick. "I don't think I've eaten since lunch yesterday and I'm a total bitch when I'm hungry."

"'M sorry too," Dean says around a mouthful of coleslaw. "I try to be nice to people who save my ass."

"Dude," you say, "saving your ass is not only a service to humanity, it's my distinct pleasure." Your reward is a blinding grin and an eyebrow waggle, and you try not to blush. The man is hot as a lit match and if things were different-- well, you'd have to take a number, people a lot cuter'n you have drawn blood for the pleasure of his company.

Your pussy clenches and a brutal cramp seizes your innards. Fresh slick oozes, the sensation making you cringe. You seize on Dean's casual, "So what's the plan?" like a drowning woman grabbing for a life ring. "Well my nearest fixer lives outside a little town name of Union Hill. He can hook you up with transportation and gas money." And you can park the RV in the middle of nowhere and howl out your heat in peace.

"You don't want to come back and visit?" Dean asks. If you didn't know better you'd think he looks a little . . . hurt. "Sam would love to see you. He told me to say thank you for that print you sent."

"Everybody should have a Van Gogh in their first house," you say, smiling. "It's like a national law." Your smile breaks on a massive yawn.

"Hey-- go get some sleep," Dean says. "I've got a CDL, I can drive this tin can."

"Watch it Winchester, this is my home you're talking about," you grouch. A power nap sounds nice right now, if for no other reason than it's a excuse to put some space between you and Dean. Far as he knows you're a Beta, and you intend to keep it that way. "You know how to get to Kankakee from here?"

Dean gives you a look.

"Sorry, my bad. Wake me when we hit the city."

"Yes ma'am," Dean says.

"Salute me when you say that."

Without looking back as he settles into your captain's chair, Dean flips you off. "Hey," he asks as he fires up the engine, "you know of a good barbecue joint around where we're going?"

"There's a truck stop on 57, maybe two or three exits south. They've got a pit out back. Why?"

Dean makes that dunno shrug sound. "I could seriously go for some ribs.”

---

You're deep under, dreaming of plush lips and -- of all things -- chocolate fudge and cheesecake when the RV lurches.

"Sorry," Dean calls back as you climb out of bed. "We're making a pit stop. I gotta find a pharmacy."

The RV lurches again, damn near throwing you off your feet. The coffeepot crashes to the floor. "Fuck-- Dean!"

"Sorry," he says, unconvincingly. Someone outside blares a horn and Dean hollers something you're sure he didn't learn in church. You peer out through the curtains and see a Walgreens. Dean wheels into a bank of parking spaces and cuts the engine.

"Wait a-- Dean! chill!" Too late, he's out the door and jogging across the parking lot. You stare at the remains of your coffee maker, source of the bitter fuel of life. How Sam has not strangled Dean in his sleep, you have no idea.

Well as long as you're here-- grimacing through the intensifying cramps you pick up a new coffeemaker and stock up on protein drinks and bottled water. Omegas can, and have, died of thirst or hunger while deep in heat. As you leave the store you see a Confinement Notice posted on the wall. Shit. You forgot, Illinois is a Confinement state-- unless you get your horny ass inside the cops can pick you up and stash you in a closet next to the drunk tank until your heat runs its course. For Your Own Safety, For Their Own Safety. It's tempting to rip the damn thing off the wall and burn it.

Dean's in the bathroom when you get back, grunting something about an upset stomach. Whatever, Dean locked in the bathroom means less chance you'll do something dumb. Maybe, just maybe, you can get out of this with your dignity intact.

If you can fight through the haze drifting across your brain. Thick killer fog, smothering logic and reason, turning off anything but a fierce longing for bare skin, lips, hands, knot. Your skin is burning, clothes are starting to chafe. You’re running out of time.

When you get to Izzy’s hideout -- a cozy basement cave on an abandoned farm with a yard full of rustbucket cars, the house and barn lost to a fire years ago -- you're in a state. Febrile, trembling, every erogenous zone on your body aching. You have to take a minute to get your knees under you when you climb out of the RV. Jesus, you've never had a heat hit this fast.

"No." With shaking fingers you touch the note caught in the storm cellar door, staring wide-eyed and disbelieving at heavy duty padlocks. "No no no no no no, Jesus fuck no--" you dash back into the RV and pound on the bathroom door. "Dean get out here! My fixer's gone, you gotta see if you can get one of his beaters running--"

"I can't." Dean's voice is even hoarser and deeper than usual.

"What? Why the hell not? Your legs broke?"

A choke of laughter. "If only."

"Dean this isn't funny," a crinkle of plastic gets your attention and you pick a shopping bag up off the floor. The receipt is inside and as you read the brand names your insides collapse into a void. Neutralizer and suppressants, Alpha formula. Oh Jesus died in vain and legally changed his middle name to Fucking, Dean is in rut.

"Why didn't you tell me?!?" you shrill. "Dipshit, it's really not a good idea to be riding around in a mobile home full of fucking guns when you've got a rut coming--"

"I didn't know!" Dean roars and you flinch. "My rut's not due for another three fucking weeks! Maybe one of those assholes dosed me. Maybe those painkillers you gave me did something-- I don't know." Dean goes on, oblivious to your silence. "Fucking thing comes every thirty-three days, has ever since I was fifteen. I could set my watch to it. I wake up this morning, I feel fine, three hours later I start getting the shakes. I thought if I loaded up on suppressants I could hold it off until I got home but the fucking things aren't working!"

"How bad is it?" you ask.

"I could pole-vault over myself right now," Dean says. "Look I know you're probably exhausted but you gotta get me back to the bunker--"

"Dean you see the bag hung over the towel bar on the door?"

A pause. "Yeah?"

"Open it up and look inside." The bag, an old army medic first aid kit, is where you keep the stuff from the drug trial-- copies of questionnaires, doctor's exam notes, charts of the side effects, the empty glass vials with their color-coded labels. You listen as Dean opens it up and rifles through the contents, and cringe when the anvil drops and he starts snapping out swears. "What the fuck?!? Omega?"

The contempt in the word gets you mad again. "Because it wasn't your business and my heats aren't regular. I wouldn't have shut us up in a box together if I thought I wasn't safe!" Your uterus clenches into a hard fist and your knees buckle, your palms smacking on the kitchen counter.

"Oh fuck. Do not tell me you're going into heat."

You cough out a laugh. "You tell me. Alpha."

Dean sniffs. "Oh Jesus Christ. How-- oh God you smell good. How did I never notice?"

"The shit I was on worked." There had been side effects of course-- your hair falling out all over, a uterus full of fibroids and scar tissue, the increased cancer risk, irregular and painful heats . . .

Not fun. But a breeding Omega is a liability as a Hunter, and you need Hunting more than you need a mate and pups. However vehemently your body disagrees right now.

"I knew you were something," Dean says, surprising you.

"Oh fuck off Winchester, I'm not one of those slobbering Betas you pick up in bars who want a walk on the wild side with a real-life Alpha. Did any of them ask you for a bite?"

"You're a vicious bitch when you're in heat, you know that?"

Your reply is lost in a high squeak of pain. The latch on the bathroom door rattles and you lock it from the outside-- you'd installed the bolt years ago. Just in case. Dean throws it a shoulder. Panicking, you shriek, "Dean stop!"

He slumps against the back wall. He takes a deep sniff, like a little kid smelling a flower. You can't help it, you pull a deep breath and moan as Dean's scent hits your brain, filling your senses with fudge and leather.

It takes every bit of your disappearing willpower to stagger to your bed.

---

The next hours are pure misery. Wave after wave of need racks your body, your cunt clenching around nothing, every fiber of your being desperate for a knot, for seed. The tiny little space left where you live is just as desperate, cracking you with a whip of you are not your biology, you are not some hole for an Alpha to hump their come into, you are not some fucking brood mare, you are not, you are not, you are not--

Again and again you cry out as the words fail you. Your own hands and the toys in the nightstand drawer work overtime, wringing climaxes out of your body to the point of pain. They just make it worse. Your body doesn't want to come, it wants Alpha. Surrounding you, holding you down, pulling you close, knotting, biting, marking, mating-- just in time you sink your fangs into your pillow and howl.

When the first wave recedes it's dark outside. Your body feels like a clenched fist and you hiss in pain as you unwrap yourself from your pillows and pull yourself straight. It's agony but you know from bitter experience that you have to use these lucid periods productively. Your knotting toy lays at the foot of the bed, sticky and stinking. Tears of frustrated rage in your eyes, you pick it up and hurl it overhand, hard enough to dent the wall.

"Jesus!" Dean snaps from the bathroom.

"Sorry. Are you okay?"

"Well," Dean says as you lurch to the kitchen table and crack a bottle of protein drink, "I've got a hard-on that won't die and a really embarrassing mess to clean up--"

"Dude!"

"You asked, genius. And I am starving. I could eat a dead skunk if you put some onions on it first."

"There's a box of ration bars under the sink and the clear water tank is full. Just in case," you add, "there's a pistol and a silver knife in the toilet tank and some holy water in the medicine cabinet." You do what you can to clean off some of the sweat and slick, the cool water soothing on your skin.

The next wave hits and you're on the floor dragging the washcloth back and forth through your pussy, spread out on your front with your ass in the air. Dean's crouched down on the bathroom floor. You can see his face pressed against the little slats in the door, hear the hissing of breath through his nose. Gobbling up your scent like a kid with a sackful of Halloween candy. Shuddering, disgusted with yourself, disgusted with him, you crawl back into your bed for round two.

---

"You gotta let me outta here," Dean says, several hours later.

"You can't leave," you tell him tiredly. "Illinois has Confinement laws." You getting caught with an RV full of unregistered firearms, pipe bombs, drugs of all functions, magic supplies both holy and otherwise, and maybe one or two satchel charges is one thing. Dean getting picked up? The FBI would put him under the jail.

You hear Dean sit on the toilet lid. "Shit."

"Yeah. Don't suppose there's anybody you can call--"

"Phone's on the table. Besides," he adds, "everyone I can think to call is-- they shouldn't be coming here."

You hear the unspoken point. Garth's a Beta but there's a full moon coming and he won't risk being caught away from home. Sam is out of commission and an Alpha besides. Castiel is . . . well, he is what he is, but he's in the wind. "Shit.”

"I just said that."

"Hoho, very funny. Ha ha, it is to laugh."

Dean snorts. “Look, ‘Mega--”

“Don’t call me that! Don’t you ever call me that!!!” you yell.

“Okay okay okay-- just listen. Is it really so awful?”

"Do I have to dignify that with an answer?" you snap back. "This shit fucking hurts, you dick."

"That's not what I meant," Dean says. "I mean-- the thought of me. Is that really so awful?"

Oh God, what a question. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I'd have to fight for you with anyone with eyesight and a libido that works."

Dean doesn't say anything for a moment. "So. Any Alpha that's good-looking?"

"Fuck you," you spit. "You have any idea how fucking demeaning this shit is? I'm going on about my day and all of a sudden I wanna drop my drawers for any twitching dick that walks by? When I was in school I had fucking Betas grabbing me in the halls. 'Present for me Omega.'" Your voice almost breaks. The memory of your first heat is one you don’t want back. "One of them was my fucking history teacher. Said it was his duty as an Alpha."

A bitter sound that might've started as a laugh comes from the bathroom. "Librarian," he says. "Dragged me into the science wing supply closet. Said her husband went noseblind and she was dying for a knot."

"Jesus." Would they? Of course they would. Young, attractive, bad reputation, mostly on his own-- to a certain kind of scum Dean would've been catnip. "How old were you?"

"Seventeen." Dean pulls a breath. "There were some others at that school. I got passed around like a fucking trophy." Or a whore, you think but don't say. "I never said nothing to anybody but I kept getting these looks from some of the seniors. Big bad Alpha, even the teachers want a piece. I tried-- I swear, I tried to stop. One of them, she taught one of Sammy's classes-- he started taking high school English when he was in sixth grade. She told me if I didn't fuck her she'd call the cops and get Sammy taken away."

You touch the surface of the locked door. The one threat Dean would never, ever take as anything but serious, the one thing that would scoop his guts out and make him nice and tame. "They can go straight to Hell," you say. Your tongue hits your fangs, fully descended. As if you could go back in time and rip the bitches to pieces for daring to lay a hand on your-- on him. "Every last motherfucking one of them."

Silence, no engine noises, no crunch of tires in the distance. Just insect wings and an owl hooting in the trees. Just you two and the angels right now, and you hope to God they're not paying attention.

"You're the first person that didn't instantly make a joke about it," Dean says finally.

"I make jokes about funny shit. That shit ain't funny."

"Yeah." You hear something light, leaflike-- Dean flipping a page. "Did someone hurt you? Is that why you signed up for this?"

"Omegas get hassled. It comes with the territory," you dodge the question. "I volunteered because--" you think a minute. "I went into heat once when I was tracking a tseste. Damn near died. OTC meds weren't strong enough, so I started doing some digging. Pfizer’s been working to develop heavy-duty suppressants for a while now. High dose hormone regulators. I sighed up for a clinical trial. Stuff works great-- no scent, no mating drive. The drug part of the study ended about a year ago. I just have to go to the doctor twice a year for follow-ups."

Dean snaps his fingers. "That's why you didn't take that case in Buffalo. That ghost ship."

"Yeah. I was parked outside Sault Ste Marie scaring the mosquitoes." Ashamed, you add, "I really am sorry about that, I heard you and Sam damn near drowned."

"Wasn't your fault." That leafy sound again. Of course Dean's read through everything in the bag. Nothing else to do in there but play with himself, you think and wish you hadn’t. Those big hands and nimble fingers, strong enough to bend iron, gentle enough to suture a wound or wipe a tear. "Did the jerks from the drug company tell you how bad the side effects could get?"

"They had to," you reply. "This isn't a super secret project to neuter all the Omegas in the world. Pfizer gets a suppressant formula that actually works, they'll be the richest bastards since the Pharaohs. I'd sell my soul not to have to deal with," your lip curls in revulsion as you take yourself in, soaked in sweat and slick and ready to throw yourself at any swelling knot, "this."

"Please tell me that’s a figure of speech."

You roll your eyes. "Even I'm not that desperate. It's not you, Dean. If it were just us--" why in God's name are you saying these things?

"It is just us," Dean points out. "Nothing here but you and me."

"You, me, and a mating instinct that still gets people off the hook for murder in 36 states." The words flow, like blood from a deep cut. "I took a shitload of drugs that killed my uterus and will probably give me cancer because that's better than pumping out pups by the boatload until my body gives up and dies. And don't tell me it doesn't have to be that way. It might not be legal to throw out job applications from Omegas but it still fucking happens. You know what I wanted to do before I had my first heat? I wanted to go to West Point. Be the first woman on the Joint Chiefs. But nope, the Corps loves Alphas but Omegas are too much fucking hassle--"

"You're not hearing me," Dean interrupts your tirade.

"And you aren't hearing me. I can't afford to forget I'm a fucking sow. It's gonna get me killed one of these days. You got the same classes I did Winchester, you know the life expectancy of Omegas tops out at fifty-five. Fifty for male Omegas."

"And thirty-five for female Alphas. That's not the point."

You gulp. Dean in rut and out of patience was not something you ever wanted to see. You clutch your midsection, another wave of heat stirring, sucking at you, pulling you under.

"I wanted you the minute I looked at you," Dean says, making your eyes pop wide. "I didn't make a move because I thought you couldn't stand Alphas. Remember that night, when Sammy and me met you?"

You nod. "The harpy nest."

"We had to pull you off that frat boy Alpha when he grabbed your ass." Shit. You remember the incident, sort of, you were pretty drunk at the time. You'd forgotten about the part where Dean had to drag you kicking and screaming off the premises while Sam talked the bouncer out of calling the cops.

Dean's voice goes even rougher, lower. It feels like he's speaking right to that surging, stinging want spreading through you. Your hind brain plucks the same old song on your nerves, mate-knot-breed, mate-knot-breed, the same old breedslut’s waltz. The animal inside wants to dance, and relishes the thought of taking Alpha’s lead. "If I wanted to knot you 'til you bleed I would. I can break through this damn door in a New York minute and you know it. And for the record," you shudder, "I can feel exactly how much you're hurting right now and you have no idea what it's like having to feel my mate in pain and just stand here with my dick in my hand."

The sensation of total stop gets underlined by another murderous cramp. Curled with pain, you shout, "MATE?!? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!?!?"

"It's the only way this makes sense," Dean says. "You said you've never had your heat take you this fast. I've never been more than a couple days off-schedule. Either we've been hit with a curse and fuck I hope not or we're a match and our cycles are synching up."

"You don't honestly believe in that true mates crap," you say, digging your nails into your sides hard enough to break skin.

"I've seen it. There were these two guys. Hunters. We ran into them on a case. I saw the claiming bites. Sam asked them when they got together and Jose said they met on the streets. When they scented each other, they knew. Jose said it was like somebody distilled happiness. You know what you smell like to me right now?" Dean takes a long sniff. "Grape popsicles.” Another sniff. You can picture him scenting, head back, lips parted, skin flushed and shadowed with beard, a Renaissance angel in bluejeans, those eyes looking at you, wanting you. “Barbecue, with brown sugar and lots of pepper.”

You aren't aware of scenting and the words just sort of come out. "Mackinac Island fudge.” One hand slides down and between “My mom's old motorcycle jacket."

Faintly, you hear the clink of a belt buckle. "Cinnamon."

Your fingers glide over slicked flesh. "Cedar shavings."

A soft groan, a breathless voice. "Irish whiskey."

Both hands, seeking, circling, inside. "Toasting marshmallows."

You can hear the rhythmic sliding of skin against skin. A soft plosive sound, Dean spitting into his hand. "Hot engines."

Your body clenches at your fingers, the bands of muscle meant to lock behind Alpha's knot flexing and fluttering. "Gunpowder."

Dean's panting as he sinks to his knees. "Peanut butter--" he moans your name.

Climax breaks over you and you curl your fingers into a bony knot, your other hand rolling your clit like a marble in oil. "Baked apples," you cry out as Dean gasps from the other side of the locked door. Scent and seed and slick and tears. You crawl away from the bathroom crying out in pain as the heat rips and drags you under.

---

Never ask if things can get worse. God takes it as a personal challenge.

You didn't even make it into the bed. Instead of climbing up onto the sheets you’d curled up into a tight ball on the floor, and there you remain. You'd assumed the scent of an Alpha in rut made heat as bad as it could possibly get. Misss-stake. The paradigm has shifted, your instincts have seized on the idea (the truth, a little part of you cries) and that's not just an Alpha in the other room (mine!), it's Dean. You can't pretend the Alpha, the man, you're scenting is just some knot that happens to look like your friend (mate). Dean's hands on your blazing skin, Dean's mouth kissing yours, Dean's knot locked in your cunt, Dean's seed pumping into your body. Oh the things he could do to you, body and spirit so much stronger than he lets on.

Your scents have intensified to the point where you can taste them on the air, bite them off and chew them. A filmstrip voice from fifth grade sex ed class drones in your memory-- 'like their animal counterparts with similar mating cycles, Alphas and Omegas in season produce pheromones to indicate their status to potential mates. In the correct conditions, pheromones can be detectable up to a mile away. An unmated Alpha or Omega's pheromone production will increase the longer a breeding cycle continues without a successful mating.' The sound of hateful sniggering, always in your ears. Breeder, cum sink, momslut, Omega.

The sense of Dean's presence drags across your senses like fish hooks over your skin, and cruelest of all it's not demanding, it's begging, pleading. Alpha feels your agony and longs to take the pain away. Faintly you can hear Dean's voice, thick with his own need. He keeps asking you to answer him, laugh at this, say something at that, breathe like a train engine, anything to help you emerge from the Hell of your own body.

And something just . . . gives. Breaking strain, tipping point, limit reached and breached. "Dean!" you cry, sobbing so hard you can't breathe. "Help me! Dean, please--"

A crack like a gunshot, and the bathroom door splinters into matchsticks. You turn your head and there he is, barechested, jeans hanging open, his cock jutting up and out, the knot at the base dark and pulsing. You look for Dean and instead it's all Alpha and your heart crumbles to ash. Weeping, you do what's expected; head down, spread your knees as wide apart as they'll go, press your chest down into the floor, arch your back to flare up your rear. A proper presenting, showing Alpha you're ready for breeding. Like a stinking beast and worth half as much.

"Please," you cry into the floor. If dignity is cheap why does it hurt so much to lose? "Please, it hurts, it hurts so bad."

"I know baby, it's okay, I got you," instead of spreading you wider or grabbing you by the nape Dean takes your shoulders and pulls you gently upright and against his chest, the heat of his skin matching the heat under yours, "c'mere, it's gonna be okay, shh," softness pressing to your face, your head, your mouth, "can you stand? c'mon, put your feet down--" he pulls one of your limp arms over his shoulders and stands, drag-marching you the last step to your bed. By the time he's got you laid down he's shuddering almost as hard as you are.

You whine when Dean pulls away, gasping out pleas, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers. Whatever he was going to do gets abandoned and Dean drags himself overtop you, jeans boots and all. You wind yourself around him, soaking up the feel and the smell and the everything the way cracked skin soaks up lotion-- pain and relief all at once. His cock drags across your belly, leaving a hot trail. A hand gropes your cunt and you let out a high whistling gasp. "Hang on baby," Dean says. He tries a smile. "Left my lube in my other pants."

You smack him somewhere meaty. Dean grunts but his attention doesn't waver. Two fingers slip inside and wiggle while Dean murmurs how tight, how wet and warm, how good it's gonna feel, how good he's going to make you feel. The tip of his cock brushes you and before you can freeze he rolls his hips and oh.

There's no resistance at all. He just glides, fitting up into your body like a key in a lock. Every single muscle in your body pulls tight tight tight and you scream, Dean half-sobbing a curse against your lips. The spasm lets go just as you feel yourself starting to pass out and clarity returns to the feel of your Alpha painting your face with kisses, your bare skull held gently between his hands. Blood and sensation surges back and you moan as Dean puts an arm around your back and thrusts.

He's big inside you, and the way he's got you tipped makes every movement light sparks along your nerves. Gentleness goes by the boards as your body clutches at him, as your claws cut furrows in his back and your heels dig into his butt. The rest of reality doesn't exist, all that matters is Dean in your arms, Alpha's knot swelling, starting to catch.

The world goes upsie-daisy as Dean grabs tight and rolls the whole works over. "Wanna see," he pants, holding your hips until you get your balance. "My knot-- oh my God you're beautiful, you're so goddamn beautiful."

You don’t have words, just touch, your hand pulling Dean up for a kiss. Your bodies find their stride and you’re rocking hard together, moaning against each other’s lips. Hours on the edge has you in a place beyond, need and pain and bliss all smashed and melted together. You’re desperate for the end, you want this to never end.

“NO!” you scream in denial when Dean’s knot pops and your cunt locks him in place. His back arches as he comes and the pain in your body drains away as his cock pumps you full of seed. You start to cry, your own peak denied, release out of your reach--

Beneath you, Dean sprawls, crying out at each pulse of his cock. His hands clamp on your hips hard enough you can feel him clutching bone. Unconsciously you follow his unspoken lead, rotating your body around Alpha’s knot, making every millimeter of him stroke and drag. Jaw clenched as your pussy pulls at his overstimulated cock, Dean strokes your clit, his touch light as bird wings and intense as fireworks. His eyes lock with yours and what’s left of the world fades to nothing. All that’s real is this, Alpha and Omega, you and Dean.

Everything in you stops and flashbulbs pop behind your eyes as you finally come, crying out Alpha’s name, and the last thing you hear is Dean shouting as another load of his seed bursts into your womb. Your body folds over and everything goes black.

---

Just before dawn, when the terminator passes and everything is shades of blue, you open your eyes, flat on your back. On his side, curled up next to you, Dean sleeps. One of his arms lays across your belly.

Well. You lie still, utter peace rubbed up against utter shock. 24 hours ago you were giving your wounded friend two Oxycontin with a bourbon chaser and worrying about gas money. You take a whiff, noting the change in your mingled scents. Lord it's weird, relaxing and tensing up all at once.

Dean mumbles a little and you shut your eyes, going boneless. You don't want to see his face when he opens his eyes and realized he's not in bed with a gorgeous, well-fucked, ready-for-more Beta. He'd said he wanted you and he wasn't lying -- you give yourself at least that much credit -- but an Alpha in rut would find an Omega in heat attractive no matter what.

Dean takes a deep sniff at your neck. Is he purring? Moaning? Whatever it is, it's going right to that worried place, soothing it away. "Hey," he says, so softly. "You awake?"

"Mmm," you grumble, turning on your side and into Dean's arms. Dean doesn't turn away, doesn't grope you, doesn't mutter obscenities as he rolls you over to present. You can feel him moving around you, making his body into a safe little harbor, and you can almost believe there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be or do.

For all that he's a Hunter and one of the strongest personalities you know, for all that you'd never doubt for a minute that Dean's an Alpha, the thought of Dean being Alpha as you understand Alphas doesn't click. Alphas don't get all soft and googoo face when they're holding someone else's pup. Alphas don't turn down sex from cooperative partners even when said partner is a little short of legal or too drunk to tapdance. Unmated adult Alphas don't exist cooperatively for years on end even when they're related. Sam behaves more Alpha than Dean does and Sam's a sweetheart most of the time.

Another wave of heat swells in you but there’s no pain, just want. You nuzzle your way up Dean’s throat and meet him for a kiss.

Both of you pull away with a disgusted noise. “Ew. Dragon breath,” you say.

“Yours is worse,” Dean, no gentleman, tells you. “Least I don’t taste like an ashtray.”

“Hold your breath,” you order, reaching down and feeling him rise to attention.

Pouting-- he’s actually pouting-- Dean pushes your hand away. “Sorry baby,” he says, kissing your forehead, “but I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“Charming. Make it fast.” You make a face as you roll out of bed. At least these aren’t the good sheets. An Alpha in rut leaves behind one fuck of a wet spot.

Dean picks up a piece of wrecked door. “Holy shit.”

“You’re paying my deductible,” you tell him, reaching around the doorframe and snatching your toothbrush.

Ten minutes later and you’ve got minty fresh breath, a protein drink in your system, and your butt squeaking a brisk one-two beat on the kitchen counter as Dean fucks you to within an inch of your life.

---

“Well this is awkward,” you say.

Dean pants out a laugh. “Ya think?”

You try to shift yourself off Dean’s knot and hiss in pain. “Um . . .” you give him a pained grin, “I like Captain Solo where he is?”

That gets you a glare. “Seriously?”

“Sorry. Pop out on three-- one, two--”

“No no no no no, you’ll tear.” Over your protests, Dean picks you up off the counter, careful of your knotted together bodies. He sits on the dining table, draping you over his lap and making your mewl as his cock shifts around inside you. Dean sighs as you get your knees on either side of his hips. “That’s better.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Why the hell not? I’m not going to just rip out of you. What kind of an asshole do you think I am?”

“An Alpha. And you’re not an asshole you’re a dipshit. There’s a difference.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You can’t help it, your lip curls in a snarl. “Not much I could do to stop you.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Oh am I offending you now?”

That’s worth a glare. “Yeah, kinda, it pisses me off that you think you gotta prove something to me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, confused.

“I mean--” Dean cuts himself off, thinking, holding you still when you try that swivel trick around his knot. “Stop that.”

“Whyyyy?”

“Because I’m trying to have an adult conversation--”

“Whyyyy?”

“Because you’re starting to remind me of Sam when he was ten and it’s annoying--”

“WHYYYY?”

“Because I really do not want to be thinking of my brother right now--”

“WHYYYY?!?”

Dean’s fighting a grin and losing. “Animaniacs references will not save you--”

“WHYYYY?!?!?”

“Knock it off!”

You suck in a breath for the whine to end all whines, only to breathe crosswise into coughing as Dean starts tickling you. Swearing through your giggles, you attack his ribs.

Somewhere in there tickling’s led to stroking, caressing, kisses, soft bites. Gently you drag your lips across Dean’s collarbones, down to mouth a nipple, up to nibble over his tattoo. Just touching him feels good.

His mouth slips down the side of your neck and pauses on the mating gland. You stiffen. Hurt shines in Dean’s eyes, before he covers it in irritation. “Jeez-zus Christ I’m--”

Making a decision, you touch his lips and shush him up. “Look. When this is over we’ll talk. For real talk, I promise. Until then, can we table the deep soul-bearing heart-to-heart shit?”

“You’re regretting this already?” Dean asks, the hurt shining through more strongly.

“God no.” Pounding the point home with a kiss. “I just don’t want you to. If you’re right, about us I mean.” You stare into his eyes, nearly lost in shining green, one of your hands over his beating heart. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Dean takes your face between his hands and kisses you, deep and sweet. You barely notice when his knot collapses and he slips out, leaving a mess of mingled come all over you both.

---

It’s getting hot, sweat making your bodies slide deliciously as you gently, softly, agonizingly move against Alpha. His cock fills you beautifully, the fat head rubbing against a spot inside that brings tears to your eyes. Slow, stoking the heat burning through your body.

Dean lifts your leg a little higher, goes a little deeper. “Hold your leg like that,” he whispers. His newly freed hand goes to your belly and presses down against the shallow curve of tummy fat. “Feel that?”

You can. Your insides fluttering as Dean pushes against them. From inside. Makes every movement more there, more immediate. Head, ridge, shaft, knot-- you moan when Dean starts gently rubbing your clit, making him answer in kind when your cunt spasms around him.

It lasts, Dean makes it last, until you can’t anymore and he flips you to your back and fucks his knot into you. You cry out as your body takes another load of seed and you lie there, bodies heaving for air, the two of you glued together with the heat.

---

“You’re a genius,” you tell Dean.

“I know, I know,” he smiles, almost too beautiful to look at in the rich sunset light. Your nose can still pick up his scent, mixed with green leaves and burning citronella. The two of you sit on your old air mattress, sharing some dried fruit and venison jerky, passing a jug of water. In the west the sun vanishes in a riot of rose and orange and purple. High up on the roof of your little home on wheels, it really does feel like a tiny slice of Heaven.

“I still do this, whenever I hit a hunt away from the cities,” you tell Dean. “Especially out in the desert country, like Lake Taos? I always freeze my ass off in the morning but the sky’s just . . .”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. “We were on our way across Nevada once and we got caught between towns. Dad had to stop and get a little sleep. So Sammy and me lay on the windshield and watched the stars. I was dozing and Sammy woke me up when he saw a whole buncha shootin’ stars-- we must’ve caught the tail end of a meteor shower.”

Dean’s gaze has gone inward, his voice rough and loose with that bit of Texas that comes out sometimes. When Dean reminisces, it’s usually centered on Sam, or him and Sam as a unit, the Winchester Boys, Butch and Sundance, Martin and Lewis, Heckle and Jeckle. Truly impactful memories aren’t something either of them talk about much. You know why. The truth of who people are is a treasure and it’s shockingly easy to steal. This is a gift you’re being given, and you give back silence and space.

“Sammy started poundin’ on the windshield to get Dad to wake up. I thought sure he was gonna rip me a new one for not keeping him quiet. But instead he got out of the car and climbed up on the hood with us. He put his arm around each of us and we all just watched the stars.

“We woke up at dawn half-frostbit and with this Highway Patrol cop writing a ticket for-- shit, I don’t even remember. Sammy talked him out of it by telling him about falling stars.” You can tell Dean’s disappointed in his story. The most important things are the hardest to say. “Anyway. It’s nice to be under an open sky sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Camping out with your dad, learning how to fish and build a fire and find cattails and aim a rifle. And then your body turned traitor, to you and your dad both.

“You know what?” Dean says, as though he knows the channel of your thoughts and wants to divert it, “I’m hungry.”

“You can have the rest of the jerky, man, I’m cool.”

“Nuh-uh.” He kisses you, pushes you back on the mattress. “I need something . . .” he kisses over your heart, “nice . . .” trails kisses down to your bellybutton, “sweet . . .” licks down to the patchy stubble, you haven’t shaved in a while, “mmm, juicy . . .”

“Oh real subtle Winchester,” you groan as he parts your legs and settles his head between them, “honestly that’s just--”

---

Later, under the light of the moon and stars you ride Dean’s supine body, pleasure and joy and the sense of height making you feel like you’re flying, or falling, or perfectly suspended in the moment God made the light. Nothing connecting you to the world of blood and pain except Dean, and since he’s flying with you that’s okay. His knot lodging firm in your body pulls you back, and for the first time the thought of being locked together seems . . . right, needed even. You don’t need a knot to be locked together and coming back to Earth with Dean is a Heaven in itself.

---

“Gonna rain today,” you say as Dean hands you a bottle of water.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He points to a scar on his leg. “Broken tibia. Aches a little when it rains.”

“Mmm. Prosit,” you clunk your bottles together. As you reach to drop yours in the wastepaper basket, Dean takes your arm and starts gently nibbling at your wrist, where all the lines and blood tangle together. Tingles and sparks fly along your nerves.

A phone rings and you both jump halfway to the moon. Dean picks up his latest burner and groans. “Sam.”

From the volume and Dean’s wince, Sam is not using his six-inch voice. “Calm down man, I’m fine, I’m just laying low.”

“Oh is that what the kids’re callin’ it?” you whisper.

Dean waves you off. “I don’t know, maybe a couple more days? We’ve got some weather moving in.”

Irritated at getting the brushoff you go for the soft underbelly. Well, the not-so-soft part of it anyway. Dean coughs out a “Shit!” as you sluck up his cock, feeling it jump to life in your mouth.

Through the phone’s ear speaker you can hear Sam yelling. Dean glares down into your wide and totally not innocent eyes, as you let your lips stretch obscenely up his shaft, lash at the head with your tongue. “I don’t know! Somewhere in Illinois? We had to pull over-- yes, we, as in I am not alone, as in she might be coming down for a visit--” a choked moan pops out of him as you swallow him down, down, so far down your lips can kiss his knot. You hope he appreciates this, it took a lot of popsicles for you to get this trick right.

“No! Shit Sammy-- whatever-- which one of us is acting like he’s twelve?” A surprised laugh makes you choke and you pull away from Dean, coughing like you’re gonna hack up a lung. “I’m fine, Sam. You shouldn’t even be walking. How the hell you gonna work the double-clutch on that old truck with no left leg?”

“Sam wants to come here?!?” you scream-whisper.

“--you don’t even know how to ride the damn thing,” Dean continues. “No. I am fine, there’s nothing but trees for miles-- hey! I didn’t say anything when you wanted to take a detour to see the Impressionists--”

Your patience dies and you snatch the phone out of Dean’s hand. “Sam,” you cut him off. As the oldest of five girls, you know how to give orders to baby sibs. “Dean is fine. He will be home in a few days. If there’s a hunt we will deal with it then. Unless the house is burning down, chill. You got it?” You don’t even wait for Sam’s response, flipping the phone over, picking out the battery, and throwing the whole mess into the nightstand drawer.

Dean stares at you, mouth hanging open, dick visibly throbbing. The reality of what you just did hits you and you hide your face in your hands “Oh Christ. Sam’s gonna fucking kill me isn’t he?”

Clicking his mouth closed, Dean orders, “Put some clothes on.”

Your heart breaks. “What? Why? I’m not safe to drive yet.” Goddamn it, you’ve got maybe five seconds before you start bawling like a fucking crybaby.

Ignoring you, Dean goes upfront. Your fingers numb, you reach for your keys. Jesus-- your heart’s not breaking, it’s ripping itself to pieces like a dry piston engine. Any second now it’ll crack your chest open in a shower of blood and bone.

Dean snatches your wrist, yanking you away from the keyhook. “What are you doing?” he demands.

“You want to leave, I’ll--”

“We’re not leaving. Put this on.”

Present for me Omega, whispers out of a memory and you shudder as you drape the green on black plaid fabric over your shoulders and do up the buttons. The shirt fits you like a tent and smells like Dean, leather and chocolate and all things safe and good.

“Now that you’re wearing something,” he says, in a voice like velvet and whiskey, “I’m going to rip it off of you, and fuck your brains out.”

Your voice is very small. “Oh.”

---

Cool humidity soothes the inferno under your skin, as rain patters on the RV like pebbles on a tin can. Dean has you sprawled wide over the bed, with your knotting toy in one hand and a pocket massager in the other.

“I think I like this,” Dean says to himself, tickling your clit with the vibrator and making you squeak. “Your pussy’s still hungry.” You know it is, you can feel yourself pulsing around the knotting toy. Dean can see the flexing, smell your scent and your slick. “Doesn’t wanna let go. You wanna play with your titties for me?” His gaze goes unfocused as you caress yourself, thumbs flicking at your nipples. It’s just debauched, the picture you imagine you make, shamelessly naked and lounging on a stack of pillows being pleasured by your Alpha.

Or teased. Dean puts the vibrator aside and slowly drives Doctor Knotts into and out of your cunt, just enough to be nowhere near enough. A breeze from the window brings out goosebumps and pulls your nipples to attention. Indecent, slutty, perverted, degenerate-- under Dean’s gaze the shame under those thoughts disappears. You feel alive. You feel like a fucking goddess.

From the tangle of hair at his groin Dean’s cock rises, ready for duty. An idea percolates to the surface of your lust-fried mind. When you explain it to Dean, he just smiles, sticks his bare feet into his boots, carries you out into the rain, and takes you against the side of the RV. His skin is warm and his mouth tastes like rainwater. You run your tongue up the big tendon in the side of his neck and you feel Dean freeze when your mouth touches the pheromone gland, the mating gland.

You don’t, but oh God you want to. Instead you hold him tight as you come and let the rain handle your tears. Dean’s big hand cups the nape of your neck and he holds you back just as tight. His face is wet too, from the rain.

---

Dean’s on the back end of his rut, you can tell because his coloring is getting back to normal and his knot doesn’t take long to unlock. As though you needed more proof-- you think your heat is passing too. Needs matching one another, the way a mated pairs’ should.

So when Dean reaches, you come to him and meet his kiss. And you’re the one that turns over. You shiver as he takes his place behind, kissing up your spine, lingering on the scar of a ghoul bite he and Sam had cleaned and dressed together. You turn your head and find his seeking lips, trying not to feel your heartrate double and memories stirring like angry spirits.

Dean doesn’t bark it like a trainer correcting a dog. Heel, sit, speak, take it like a bitch. It’s soft, like he cares. Because he does. Dean Winchester is a man you trust, and you’re so tired of never trusting. “Present for me.”

You shift your knees apart and spread open your well-fucked Omega pussy. Dean’s breathing is ragged, like he just took a punch in the gut. You cry out as he touches you, finding heat, slick, slippery as warm oil.

“Is all this for me?” he asks, and you can just imagine-- slick pooling in his palm, trickling down his wrist.

“Yes,” you moan, “for God’s sake don’t tease--" you look up and see your own reflection, in the mirror hung on the inside of the closet. The door must’ve come off the latch again. Sitting on his knees behind you is Dean, your Alpha, studying you with an expression so nakedly vulnerable you almost look away.

“Tell me,” he asks. Pleads. He glances up and sees the mirror, sees you watching. With that vulnerable look, Dean says, “Tell me what you need.”

It’s like you’ve been waiting to give the answer your whole life. “You. Please, Dean, you. Please.”

Lining himself up, Dean presses into you. Dying coals of heat flare and you moan in relief and joy. One of his hands curls around yours while the other helps you sit up against his chest. In the mirror-- holy fuck there you are, bracketed by Dean, supplicant and lover and protector all in one. “You,” you whisper. “Need you. Always need you.” Dean hides his face behind your shoulder and moans.

Dean brings this to the best conclusion there could be, worshipping your body with his, tenderly, gently. So much of him is hard, strength called on too early and too often and pounded into iron by years of loss and impossible choices, but his hands on you are careful, gentle, reverential. Those hands have taken on Gods and won, and they touch you like something delicate and beautiful. “Got one more for me?” Dean asks, the flirty teasing threadbare as you tremble through another orgasm.

“I-- I don’t--”

“Come on, you can do it, I believe in you.” Dean does this weird grippy thing, something that makes your clit feel like it’s got roots all the way to your knees. Every clench and flutter of you cunt muscles makes your clit twitch in Dean’s grip, making you gasp. Bliss so intense it hurts. “There it is,” Dean says as you pitch forward. You lace your fingers through the top of his hand as he braces himself; he grips back and drives into you, broken voices matching as you fall over the edge together.

---

The next day is all tension and awkward silence. You’re both sore from using muscles that don’t get used much. Normal you stands on reserve, truly engages with few, shows weakness to almost no one. For Christ’s sake you begged--

It’s an awkward crew that sets sail, the hot sun turning the moisture left from the rain into wring-out-your-clothes humidity. Dean spends most of his time in the passenger seat focused on his phone. He doesn’t try to engage in conversation beyond the strictly necessary. You don’t know if that’s a relief or just something else to piss you off. Christ, he’s not even coming near you. Pretty big turnaround from not being able to keep his hands off you for two days.

It’s that last thought that makes you clench your teeth and try to think rationally. God damn it, this’d be a lot more straightforward if it wasn’t for your fucking hormones. It adds a layer of mistrust to every intuition you normally rely on. Any judgement call is potentially tainted.

And how much right do you have to crash-land in his life anyway? Being a mated pair goes deeper than any legal or spiritual bond, it’s a physical thing. If you take that step it’ll severely curtail your freedom of motion. His too. And there’s the whole serial philanderer thing-- you know you’re monogamous and a bad experience has taught you that you can’t be in a relationship with someone who isn’t. And what about a family? Just seeing the way Dean comes alive around kids tells you he was born to be a father, and no matter how much you-- you can’t do that for him. You don’t even want kids. And there’s Sam. Where Dean is concerned, Sam is like the earth, no way around him.

Muscle memory has you reaching for your coffee cup and your hand touches Dean’s. Instead of snapping it back, you make yourself squeeze his fingers. Not much. An unscheduled bit of human contact. The strength of Dean’s return grip surprises you. You don’t want him to let go. When he does he gets up and goes in the back, avoiding you--

Dean’s leaving you your space, you realize. But you don’t want a space that doesn’t have him in it.

With that, you make a few decisions and take a turn. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Dean calls.

“There’s one of those Mongolian barbecue places up ahead. Wanna go and give the grillers a workout?”

---

“Six months.”

Dean’s chopsticks, heavy with beef and onion, pause on the way to his mouth. His already full mouth. Not that you’re being dainty; heats always leave you starving. He asks with his eyes.

You are not a coward. You refuse to behave like one. “If you’re willing,” please God let him be willing, “I want to give this a try.”

“What this?” Dean grunts around a swallow.

“This. Us.” Just like that Dean’s poker face slams into place. You’ve gotten so used to his unguarded, trusting affect it hurts to see his defenses go up like that.

You’re not gonna, so he doesn’t get to either. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That’s your Cop face.” You flash yours right back at him. “Don’t do that. If we never talk straight again we have to do it now.”

Dean purses his lips and looks away. “What’s there to talk about--”

“Don’t. You. Fucking dare. Try to brush this off.”

“Look, we’re cool, okay? You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“Huh?”

“You’re gonna make me say it,” Dean says after heaving a sigh.

“Negative copy on that Midnight Rider, say again?” You smile as you say it, it tickles you that Dean picked the Alman Brothers Band, it suits.

“I had sex with a woman when she couldn’t say no. The law calls that rape.”

You can feel the smile fall off your face. “Dean no, don’t even think that.”

“Why not?” he asks bitterly.

“Be-cause I was fucking begging?”

“You weren’t in your right mind. When I saw you on the floor-- God, I’ve never seen a woman cry like that. But I didn’t care.” His great green eyes burn with horrified shame. “I wanted you so bad, I didn’t care.” That’s the other part of Dean’s personality, the part that exists in a perpetual state of Fail. That part is incapable of internalizing any kind of praise, nitpicks every decision for flaws, and eagerly agrees with anything negative anybody says about him. Of course he’s taken your ambivalence to mean you hate him. For Dean, there’s no other conclusion possible.

That ends. Right now. You slip your fingers into his hand, pull it across the table to hold it in both of yours. It’s his gun hand, you can feel the hard spots. “Look at me, Winchester.” When you have his attention, you say, “I just had two days of the best sex of my entire life,” not a lie, that’s not even debatable, “with a man who made it his mission to not hurt me, not degrade me, made sure I enjoyed every damn minute, and was never anything but exactly who I needed. No matter where we go from here, I’ll always love you for that. And grateful. God, you have no idea how grateful. You took care of me,” you’re starting to get misty, the depth of that gratitude shocks you. You lift his hand and kiss the back. “Thank you.”

Dean clears his throat. “I don’t want to be one of those Alphas that made you treat any Alpha like the enemy,” he says.

“That would be most of them,” you say. He deserves a better answer than that, though. “My dad always wanted a son, but all Mom could ever give him were girls. I was the oldest, so after Mom had the twins I guess he decided God made me a tomboy for a reason.”

“Oh God he didn’t--”

“No,” you cut that thought right off. “My parents are Betas. So are my sisters. When I Presented, dad just refused to believe it. Said God wouldn’t do something so heartless, make his tough little girl into a breeder. He kept on saying that right up until my first day of eighth grade.”

“Your first heat.”

“Yep. It was . . .” fuck, two decades later and certain things -- girlish cackles of laughter, the smell of floor polish, pressure on a certain spot on your back -- still send you into an irrational panic. “I wasn’t prepared. The story came with me when I got into high school. Small town, the really humiliating crap never dies.

“But anyway. Dad stopped acting like dad after that. A couple weeks later I asked him about going to deer camp-- it was supposed to be my first year there. He beat the shit out of me.”

“Jesus!”

You wave that aside. “Not the first time, dad had a heavy hand with us kids. But he kept calling me things. That’s the first time I ever heard most of the bad names Omegas get called. From my fucking father. Who I worshipped. You get it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Absolutely.”

“So when the inevitable started happening--”

“You said your history teacher?”

You nod. “And my sister’s softball coach. And my first boyfriend.” You shudder. “And my cousin. His wife told me that’s what Omegas are for and the sooner I got that the better. Doesn’t help that the law agrees, pretty much.

“I met Peg when she was pretensing as an agent for the DNR.” Dean nods, he knows the story of how Peg Dmitriev popped your hunting cherry. “She came and got me the night I graduated. Dad was prepping his big throwing me out of the house speech when Peg pulled up, told dad to go fuck himself, sat me in her car with a bottle of vodka, and next thing I know it’s tomorrow and we’re halfway to Atlanta.

“Anyway,” you pull yourself back to Now, Dean’s hand warm in yours. “Me being an Omega’s been nothing but a source of pain and bullshit, all my life. Until two days ago.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me to claim you? Because--” Dean hesitates, then plunges on ahead, “I mean, it hurt to hold back from doing that.”

“Because I didn’t want to do anything permanent. I still don’t.” Dean flinches, as though you’d slapped him. You hurry to explain yourself, ease the hurt. “I-I mean, I’m a bitch to live with, I drink too much, I’m a loudmouth schnook, I can’t cook for shit--”

“Untrue,” Dean cuts in. “Your campfire stew is awesome.”

“I can’t give you pups,” you tie the whole thing off with one big one.

“I know,” Dean says. At your look he clarifies, “It was on the paperwork in your bag.”

You nod. “It’s not just-- the lab guys aren’t totally sure what the hormone blockers did to my eggs. If kids are something you’re gonna want, they can’t come from me.”

“You’re talking like kids are even an option.”

You think a moment. “Did you ever hit a point, where one day you wonder if maybe you’re not gonna die young’n’pretty? One of the reasons I agreed to do the study was I thought for sure I wasn’t gonna live ten more years.”

You’re not sure if that thought has occurred to Dean. The Winchesters’ relationship to mortality is . . . complicated. How many times they’ve for-real died is a topic of debate in some dark and smoky bars. Some even say the stories are all bull, that old man John was just dinky-dau and his boys aren’t any better. You’re not one of them. You’ve met Castiel.

“Yeah,” Dean admits. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. “I can live with kids being off the table, but-- look. Every time I’ve tried for anything good, someone gets hurt. I damn near got Ben and Lisa killed.”

“I’m not a civilian Dean. I’ve been Hunting solo for almost twelve years now. Still here, still sane, still a better shot than you.”

“With a rifle, anyway.”

“Whatever. The point is, you don’t have to stash me in a safehouse in Assfuck, Kansas and hope I remember not to wash the graffiti off the walls.”

“Well what about me?” Dean asked. “I kind of like having a permanent address. I’m not going to throw a ruck in your RV and just hit the road.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you say, bringing up the biggest thing of big things. “For one thing, I’m not going to ask you to pick between me and your brother.”

“What?”

“Sam comes first, I get that.” You’ve been around them long enough to know that’s true. The Winchesters are a package deal. Anybody with eyes can see it, and anybody who challenges it loses. For Christ’s sake, the Devil bet the farm that he could break that, and lost. “That’s the other reason I don’t want to bond right now. If Sam can’t stand having me around--”

“What do you mean? Sam loves having you around.”

“I did just tell him to fuck off.”

“He deserved it. Cockblocker. Look,” he says, turning his hand over so he can hold yours, “if it were up to me, we’d be mated already.” Dean’s doing that thing he does, when there’s no bullshit nowhere. Focused, direct. Part of you wants to run, but another part just wants to wrap yourself up in it, soak it in, exist within that intensity. “But I totally get why you want to take it slow.”

“Yeah. But,” you put the words together, “I don’t want to stand in front of St. Peter yanking claws outta my ass and admit that I left a chance at being happy with you on the table.” You’re not ready to say the words yet, but neither is he and you can live with that for now.

Dean lifts his beer. “Six months.”

You lift your glass of pop. “Six months.”

Clink.

---

One Year Later

“You’re Red’s kid aren’t’cha?”

You nod at the bartender as you pull an ashtray close. Because if there was ever a day you needed a cigarette--

The bartender passes you a pack if matches. “Just get back from the wedding?”

You nod. “Stuck around long enough to get told we weren’t needed for pictures.”

She pulls a bottle of Scotch off the wall and pours. “On the house. You guys look like you could use it.”

“Oh bless you,” Dean sighs.

“No problem. Been listening to Red’s bullshit for years.” You notice a slight flaring of her nostrils and your hand meets Dean’s halfway. You have to remind yourself to take it easy; you’re both off the market. Sam on the other hand . . . the bartender sidles over to get a better sniff at Sam’s Alpha scent, eucalyptus and ice tea and fog, fresh cut green apples. Cool scents, total contrast to his brother’s warm ones.

The original plan -- you and Dean get drunk as skunks and Sam stays sober enough to pour you two back in your motel room bed around 0230 -- gets tossed in the wastepaper basket. “C’mon Dean, we gotta go do the thing.”

“Right, the thing.” You finish your drinks and leave Sam and the bartender to their dance of mutual interest. “Ten says we don’t see him again until Tuesday,” Dean says as he slides behind the Impala’s steering wheel.

“Sucker’s bet,” you reply. Spending as much time in the bunker as you do, you know Sam’s due for a rut. The Omega bartender’s about to have an interesting weekend. “Anyone watching?” At Dean’s negative you get in the back and change out of your for-nice dress. It feels like taking pressure off an infected wound.

“You okay?” Dean asks as you climb into the front seat.

You check the urge to cover with a token I’m Fine-- you and Dean sailed past that a while ago. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from him before. I’m sorry you and Sam had to hear it.” Your father’s got some fucked-up ideas, but the notion that you’re playing breedslut to a pair of siblings-- that’s low even for him.

“Like we were going to let you deal with this shit alone,” Dean snorts. “Besides, it’s not the first time somebody got the wrong idea about me’n’Sam.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. There was this guy once-- he offered us a grand if we let him film us double-teaming his wife. Two grand if he could put the camera on a tripod and join in.”

“Shit dude. Did he even know you’re brothers?”

Dean shoots you a grin. “Twenty-five hundred. Each.”

“Oof.”

At your direction Dean swings by the party store up the road for a couple six-packs, to the Guiseppe’s for a pizza, and to the park by the lake full of old-fashioned playground equipment rusting away next to the newer, safer, less fun plastic crap. After polishing off the pizza you stretch out next to Dean on Baby’s front end, the windshield hard against your back. The sun going down over the water makes the place pretty as a postcard. You wonder a moment if the view is as nice from the VFW reception hall, as your sister and brand new brother in law take their first dance.

“I think,” Dean says, pulling you from your thoughts, “I owe you an apology.”

“What for? You didn’t treat anybody like a red-headed stepchild.”

“For ever saying anything about how hostile you are to Alphas. Because that--” he tics his head at the road back to town, “explains a lot.”

“You didn’t know.” People you’d gone to school with sniggering behind their hands, gossip exchanged just loud enough for you to hear every word. Your dad, a five-foot-six human bull, regaling Dean and Sam with humiliating stories about your early heats. Your cousin’s angling for God knows, constantly bumping into the guys as they stuck with you like white on rice. Bless them.

Worst of all, your baby sister glowing in white, her eyes fixed on your feet, asking you to please leave. A promise to call later, that she’ll never keep. Rosie never could lie for shit.

Unconsciously your hand goes up, touching the scimitar-shaped bits of raised scar tissue bracketing the mating gland. Dean’s hand slips under yours, gently stroking over his mark. A light touch, like a warm hug or a quick kiss. If he rubs a little harder, you know, it turns your blood to fire, makes you wet, makes you hungry. You remember vividly, you and the guys damn near dying from an ambush of vampires, Dean tossing his car keys to Sam and taking you on the ground outside. He’d begged for your bite first, and your ears had rung with his howl as your fangs tore into his skin.

“I love my sisters,” you say, “but if they’re going to keep being dad’s partisans, I can’t be around them.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Leaving hadn’t been a hard choice. The three of you stunk up the place, literally, and your sisters’ protests that you should just give dad a chance, he wasn’t cruel just old-fashioned, et cetera et cetera et cetera . . . it was bullshit when you left home and it’s bullshit now.

You look at Dean, remembering another sunset. A year’s put one or two more lines around his eyes; other than that, he’s still almost too beautiful to look at. Moved by a wave of tenderness, you pull him close and kiss him, soft and slow.

Later you lie next to him in your motel room bed as he drifts off, lazy in the afterglow. Life isn’t perfect, but with your mate it’s a helluva lot more fun. Unconsciously Dean shifts towards you, his mouth curved in a slight smile.

For your entire life you’ve been coached to feel worthless, a hole for an Alpha’s pleasure and a sack for an Alpha’s pups. You’ve done terrible things to yourself, living your life otherwise. But then Dean fell into your bed and you took a chance that’s paid off every day since. Every smile that’s just for you, every weapon tossed into your waiting hand, every stitch in a bleeding wound, every gripe about how the fuck do you even do that when you take some rifle practice-- you can’t be worthless and have someone like Dean Winchester feel that way about you. And if your kinfolk won’t see that, it’s not your duty to feel bad about it.

With that logical leap, it feels like something broken inside you sets back together. Dean wakes up when he feels you crying. “Hurgh?” he grunts.

You wipe your face as both your phones chime. “Sam,” you say, scanning the text. “Looks like he and the bartender are staying in.”

“That’s my boy,” Dean grins. “What’s wrong?”

“Permission to get girly?”

“Go for it babe.”

“Just realized mating with you’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That’s all.”

Dean mulls that over a minute. “I feel exactly the same way,” he tells you quietly. “I love you.”

You laugh as Dean kisses you. “We gotta knock this shit off. We’re supposed to be the badasses here.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Dean promises. “Any plans for tomorrow?”

“Not really. You?”

“Well,” he grins, that impish smile that makes him look fourteen and up to no good, “I did kind of want to see that equipment shed--"

You groan. “Shouldn’t have told you that story.”

“Nope, probably not. And isn’t the World’s Largest Pie Pan around here somewhere?”

Only Dean. “Four-five hour drive. Then I say we swing by the Thrifty Acres, pick up a couple of bathing suits, and hit the beach.”

“I love it when a plan comes together.”

---

AN2: "Jesus died in vain and legally changed his middle name to Fucking."

-The Angry Video Game Nerd

The World's Largest Pie Pan is in Traverse City, Michigan.

Feedback and constructive criticism welcome. Subscriptions to Author yearned for with deep and desperate longing:

[email protected]

#supernatural #fanfiction #ao3 #dean winchester #reader character #ABH format #ABO #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #omegaverse #alpha dean winchester #omega you #omega reader

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dailyanarchistposts · 5 days

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Ideology

The militant diagram

Either you respect people’s capacities to think for themselves, to govern themselves, to creatively devise their own best ways to make decisions, to be accountable, to relate, problem-solve, break-down isolation and commune in a thousand different ways … OR: you dis-respect them. You dis-respect ALL of us.

—Ashanti Alston[136]

A major force that has contributed to rigid radicalism is rigid ideology, and its tendency to generate certainties and fixed answers that close off the potential for experimentation. Alongside the Marxist critique of capitalist ideology was an aspiration to replace it with a revolutionary anti-capitalist ideology. It was thought that revolution required a unified consciousness among proletarians: they needed to be taught that it was in their interests to overthrow capitalism. The revolutionary vanguard was tasked with developing and disseminating this ideology, and with everything in life subordinated to the goal of revolution, everyone and everything could be treated instrumentally, as a means to the seizure of state power and the end of capitalism.

The philosopher Nick Thoburn links this revolutionary anti-capitalist ideology to what he calls a “militant diagram”: a persistent affective and ideological tendency that first emerged through Bolshevism and Leninism.[137] It was later expressed in movements throughout the twentieth century, from Third World national liberation struggles, to socialist formations in North America and Europe, to Black Power in the 1960s and ‘70s. According to Colectivo Situaciones, a militant research group in Argentina, this figure of militancy is always “setting out the party line,”

keeping for himself a knowledge of what ought to happen in the situation, which he always approaches from outside, in an instrumental and transitive way (situations have value as moments of a general strategy that encompasses them), because his fidelity is, above all, ideological and preexists all situations.[138]

The notion of a correct party line took different forms among different movements, but the basic (hierarchical, rigid) structure was the same: a certain privileged group would help usher in the revolution through a correct interpretation of theory and the unfolding of history. Despite joyful transformations and insurrectionary openings, tendencies towards vanguardism and rigid ideology often led groups towards isolation and stagnation.

Among many other groups, these tendencies can be seen in the US-based Weather Underground, a militant white anti-imperialist group active during the 1970s. They are best-known for their series of bombings targeting public infrastructure and monuments, conducted in an attempt to wake up white Americans to realities of US imperialism such as the government’s slaughter of Vietnamese people and its assassination of Black Panthers.

They also adopted Maoist self-criticism in order to ferret out any trace of the dominant ideology within their group. Criticism sessions, which could last for hours or even days, involved members discussing weaknesses, tactical mistakes, emotional investments, preparedness for violence, and even sexual proclivities in an effort to shed all attachments to the dominant order and induce a revolutionary way of being.[139] Even the most ruthless criticism could be justified as part of this process, and the Weather Underground developed a whole regimen of practices designed to purify themselves of any trace of dominant ideology, coupled with constant injunctions towards (what they saw as) the most militant forms of action possible.

While their tactics were controversial, they were also widely supported at the time, and the Weather Underground was only one of many groups that were bombing and sabotaging corporate and government infrastructure. What we are interested in getting at is not particular tactics, nor something specific to underground groups, but the way that certain tendencies of thought, action, and feeling can congeal into stifling patterns. As former Weather Underground member Bernardine Dohrn writes,

Weather succumbed to dogma, arrogance, and certainty. We were not alone. There was recovery, and amends that are still underway. But the perceived necessity to have answers to everything and to struggle endlessly resulted in ungenerous and damaging leadership, harm to great comrades, and wretched behaviour.[140]

As Bill Ayers, another former member, explains, the attempt to escape completely from a culture of white supremacy and capitalist conformity enforced an intense, alternative orthodoxy:

It was fanatical obedience, we militant nonconformists suddenly tripping over one another to be exactly alike, following the sticky roles of congealed idealism. I cannot reproduce the stifling atmosphere that overpowered us. Events came together with the gentleness of an impending train wreck, and there was the sad sensation of waiting for impact.[141]

Though the goal was to create revolutionary forms of organization capable of overthrowing the US government, their ideological rigidity and norms of relentless self-sacrifice paradoxically isolated them further and further from the “masses” that they sought to mobilize.

When we interviewed him, Gustavo Esteva discussed his own experience of Marxist-Leninist militancy in Latin America during this time:

In the ‘60s, when I became associated with a group in the process of organizing a guerrilla in Mexico, whose members were assuming that they were already the vanguard of the proletariat because they had the revolutionary program, I was fully immersed in what we now call sad militancy. Our “program” was evidently an intellectual construction in the Leninist tradition. We had already our criticism of Stalinism, etc. but we still were in the tradition of trying to seize the power of the state for a revolution from the top down, through social engineering. We were thus preparing ourselves (military training, etc) and organizing. Of course, there were moments or conditions of joy, laughter, intensified emotion, exhilaration … The environment of conspiracy and clandestinity and the shared ideology shaped real camaraderie and episodes full of joy, but it was clear that the experience itself was pure sad militancy, full of creating boundaries, making distinctions, comparing, making plans, and so on … How the whole experience ended makes the point better than any of those stories: one of our leaders killed the other leader because of a woman. The episode evidenced for us the kind of violence we were accumulating in ourselves and wanted to impose on the whole society. In the military training, for an army or a guerrilla, to learn how to use a weapon is pretty easy; what is difficult is to learn to kill someone in cold blood, someone like you, that did nothing personal against you … Nothing sadder than that.[142]

The experience of the Weather Underground and Esteva both make it clear that these ideological tendencies are not just about ideas; they also contain their own pleasures and highs, induced in part by the sense of being clandestine and more aware than “the masses.” Ideology is not simply rigid and cold: it can include a warm sense of belonging and camaraderie among its adherents.

This tendency has percolated into contemporary movements and groups, including those that are not directly influenced by Marxism-Leninism or Maoism. Nick Thoburn suggests,

It is a central paradox of militancy that as an organization constitutes itself as a unified body it tends to become closed to the outside, to the non-militant, those who would be the basis of any mass movement. Indeed, to the degree that the militant body conceives of itself as having discovered the correct revolutionary principle and establishes its centre of activity on adherence to this principle, it has a tendency to develop hostility to those who fall short of its standard.[143]

As militant rigidity increases, a gap widens between the group and its outside. But a single, unified Marxism-Leninism has existed only as a dream. In reality, there has been a proliferation of sectarian commitments to various ideologies, including strains of Marxism, anarchism, socialism, and so on. Ideological thinking is not necessarily something escaped through more and better thinking. For Esteva, one of the things that fundamentally destabilized the strictures of his Leninism was his joyful encounter with others, and their confidence in their own capacities to respond to problems with conviviality:

The joy of living, the passion for fiestas, the capacity to express emotions, the social climate that I found at the grassroots, in villages and barrios, in the midst of extreme misery, began to change my attitudes. My participation in different kinds of peasant and urban marginal movements gave me a radically different approach. The break point was perhaps the explosion of autonomy and self-organization after the earthquake in Mexico City in 1985. It became for me a life-changing experience. The victims of the earthquake were suffering all kinds of hardships. They had lost friends and relatives, their homes, their possessions, almost everything. Their convivial reconstruction of their lives and culture would not have been possible without the amazing passion for living they showed at every moment. Such passion had very powerful political expressions and was the seed for amazing social movements. In the following years the balance of forces changed in Mexico City, already a monstrous settlement of fifteen million people. There was a radical contrast between the guerrilla and these movements. The very notion of militancy changed in me: it was no longer associated with an organization, a party, an ideology, and even less a war … It was an act of love.[144]

To experience joy in this way is not simply to feel good, but to be transformed. Esteva’s experience with the grassroots led him to center conviviality and joy in his work and his life while continuing to be involved with and support militant movements, including the Zapatistas and the insurrectionary uprisings in Oaxaca.

For us, this shows that militancy is always about more than tactics or combativeness; it is tied to questions of affect: how movements enable people to grow their own capacities and become new people (or don’t). Marina Sitrin consistently foregrounds affect in her own work with horizontalist movements in Argentina, and when we interviewed her for this book, she talked about her experience with the different affective spaces created by groups she has been involved with:

On a basic level, the space a group or movement creates from the beginning is key—the tone and openness, or not, makes a big difference if one wants to focus on new relationships with one another. Along these same lines, ideological rigidity and hierarchies in ideas, formal and informal, create a closed and eventually nasty space for those not ascribing to the ideology or a part of the clique. People do not stay in movements that organize in this way, or if they do it is with a sort of obedience that is not transformative and instead creates versions of the same power and hierarchy … My early organizing experiences were fortunately with anti-racist and later Central American Solidarity movements, with people who had been a part of the civil rights and later anti-nuclear movements, so who had a focus at least in part on social relationships and democracy. Later however, when I decided I needed to be a part of a revolutionary group that was organizing against capitalism as a whole, well, I found myself in a few different centrist socialist groups which were really soul-deadening. It was all about ideology and guilt. One could never do enough, and could never know enough or quote enough of whomever was the revolutionary of the day (James Cannon, Tony Cliff, etc). It was also politically all about the end and not the day to day, that even included women, which one would think, after the radical feminist movement, [that] these groups would get that relationships have to change now; but no, it was all about the future free society we all had to work for—accepting relationships as they are, pretty much. I later came around some anarchist groups, thinking that they would be more open and focused on the day to day, as that is what I had read from the theory, but found the rigidity around identity too harsh and since I was not squatting or dressing a certain way I was kept at arm’s length—which was fine since I felt too rejected to try very hard.[145]

Sitrin’s account makes it clear that rigid radicalism does not stem from one ideology or group in particular. Marxism-Leninism has lost its grip on many movements, and accounts of such groups can sound strange and distant today. In North America at least, the dream of a revolutionary seizure of state power has lost a lot of its force, but in many cases Marxist ideology has been superseded by other ideological closures and sectarian tendencies. Currents of anarchism can be just as hostile and ideologically rigid.

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banned-for-horny · 18 days

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Maybe I don't get the point of the asylum, but wasn't it's whole purpose to get us to question what's real in the game?

I'd say the up to interpretation aspect is pretty much entirely gone Before it brought up questions, made you wonder who you can trust, had you confused about if Harper is actually doing sexual stuff or not, made you consider if it was a better option for your PC and think about if Eden really has your best interests in mind when they rescue you. but the new temple stuff, the hookah parlor, and the wraith, without even changing the asylum content itself, the notion that everything is in the PC's head is ridiculous at this point. But then what's the point of the asylum now? It's just Harper is gaslighting you. now it's all but confirmed that no one there is crazy and Harper really is dubious, especially with Sydney's connection to him. What's the point of having these scenes that imply your transformations aren't real and are just costumes? Before it, again made you wonder about how stable a grip on reality the PC has. Now everyone else is just stupid or unenlightened. And I'm not trying to dismiss the notion that the PC has some sort of higher understanding or otherworldly connection, but I miss when there was a different option you could consider instead of having to accept one.

tldr: I'm gonna be 100% honest with you Anon, i get that it's your opinion and that's perfectly valid but like

Mechanically the asylum was just a soft bad end for a PC to end up in when a player doesn't manage their stats.

In-game, Harper has always gaslit you. He tells you you let yourself get assaulted on purpose. His treatment methods include hypnotising you, having patients expose themselves to others, allow orderlies to assault you, etc. To me, there was never any doubt that this guy wasn't trying to invent new ways to assault you. Harper has never had your best interest in mind.

Eden literally hunts you down in the forest and nearly shoots you, can buy you from Bailey directly, can keep you in a cage and collars you like a dog. I do not think they had your best interest in mind, either.

(If you mean the rescue from the asylum, even that's a bit controversial because some people consider them too soft in this scene. Eden is not one for kindness if PC stays away for an extended period of time.)

The transformations can be interacted with by other characters. Winter can interact directly with dog ears and yank on them and inflict pain. You can actually fly, Sydney can catch glimpses of spiritual transformations, Robin can react to each one differently, etc.

I think the Reality that is in-game is that everyone is willfully blind and cannot see the Actual Weird Shit going on. That's the whole Awareness and Control mechanic. If you wanna get technical, the whole "pc's tripping balls and all the stuff that is happening to them is just in their imagination" makes sense in canon to other characters like Whitney who probably hasnt experienced anything supernatural.

But I really don't think there's any denying that the shit going on in the game in-canon is real. sure there might have been things up to interpretation but it's a game constantly updating with new lore. of course things would get explained as more lore gets out.

basically idk about you but i never interpreted any of the shit with the idea that it was all in pc's head. perfectly valid if thats how you were taking it, sucks that the game is proceeded unlike how you were hoping.

#degrees of lewdity #long post #answered stuff

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istherewifiinhell · 2 months

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#never forget they used knockout instead of a different name they they had on the trade marks for SEXINESS reason. unreal.#<- can u explain that to me. anyways

yeah 👍🏻 although seems ive walked into a classic blunder of remembering something from a "the basics" video which ofc is from the wiki which ofc, its weirdly sourced and from a tf creator/company rep who. they have habits of just saying shit. ANYWAY. this is actually from the notes section on breakdowns page

the fandom concluded that Breakdown was meant to be Lugnut at some point in the episode's production. The Hub's Mike Vogel challenged this notion at BotCon 2011, claiming that Lugnut had been Knock Out's original name, which had been changed because "Lugnut" wasn't "sexy" enough for the character. The Prime Season 1 Blu-ray commentary, however, corroborated the original theory: Breakdown's place in the show was originally intended to belong to Lugnut, since a loyal Decepticon bruiser was desired, but the show creators wanted a land-based Decepticon instead.

That knockout was purposely designed as sexy seems to be a thing fans say a lot, tho i don't have a specific source to pull for that either. not that its particular hard to believe. and the tacit tf understanding here also being that. as the companies have to content with copyright branding, they prefer to use names they have on the books, and if the characters arent that iconic or new. any name seems to do, alas long as it fits the vibe.

also bonus fun(?) fact! botcon '11 also notable for when the writers said one of the most overly correctional homophobic things ive ever heard. (from knockout's notes section)(it DOES link the relevant youtube panel recording. but i have the wrong kind of mental illness, and would dissolve if i had to watch it, so lets take their word for it)

When asked at BotCon 2011, the Prime writers said that there is no designation for gay, or straight, for that matter, on Cybertron, where Transformers are created by the AllSpark, not through sexual reproductions. They also said that Knock Out is a knock out, and that the Nemesis is a very "don't ask, don't tell" place. And then they jokingly deflected the matter, claiming that Knock Out's mannerisms are not caused by any particular orientation, but are simply eccentricities caused by "a glitch in the AllSpark" the day he was created...

#some shit #its not called cisformers #😇hope that helps <3 #god i dont respect any of these people. and despite it all. they gave us knockout #restraining myself form mention the other parts of knockouts page #taking the wiki to task. PROPERLY. for their inane doylism used to launder the real world heteronomative androcentrism bias of tf creatives #TLDR? SO SAYS THE WIKI. which i use all the time for information. BUT. because i use it all the time. well. well...#edited on part of language so no one gets my ass for inaccuracies

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thelesbianpoirot · 4 months

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Hello, I am not getting any younger and I want to jump back into the bleak lesbian dating world. Should I act like a normie to get a wife? Or should I looksmaxx and stay true to my lesbian separatist beliefs?

On one end I betray myself but on the other I’d have to do an uncomfortable amount of work to become more good looking. I don’t think women will care about my beliefs if I’m jacked.

What do you think?

Babe this is so real, people like to pretend gay women don't care about appearance and that every lesbi woman wants a low effort fat butch, but that is a BIG lie. Even gay women have preferences informed by society, few vary. So looksmaxxing will probably get you more women. I did get more attention my dating app pages when I dressed femme, but I didn't want to do that anymore, so I just get a good haircut, nice looking clothes, put stuff on my face so I don't have awful acne and take pictures in great lighting. If you can do a bit more, like working out, and buying a cool outfit or two, do it, but don't do shit you can't maintain because she'll leave you if you can't keep it up. I met a girl when I was 125 pounds, shaved and with long hair to my ass, and she did not want me when I gained 50 pounds due to health issues and buzz it all off. I have lost some of that weight, but I am definitely not 130 anymore. And I left her because I realized she didn't want me anymore, and I was not staying with someone who didn't want me after I recovered from an eating disorder. But I also don't blame her because you can't force yourself to get turned on by someone you are not. BEING JACKED HELPS A LOT but if you hate exercise, just focus on getting fit, basic walking more, stretching, eating greens, drinking water. But date while you're working on your body, so you know what the dating landscape looks like, so when you post those updated pictures, and the interactions flood in, you aren't too out of your element. SUMMARY: LOOK GOOD IN AN EASILY MAINTAINED WAY - hygienic, well-dressed, good haircut etc. It does help with dating a lot. But being an impossible to maintain transformation will never last and whatever relationship you gained because of your transformation also won't last. I don't start off relationships with strong feminist conversations, I like to slowly introduce my beliefs. You don't want to be preachy and annoying, but don't go too much against your beliefs. You'll hate being stuck with a woman who is your ideological opposite, so if you're looking for more than sex, I'll so be true to yourself, but don't bulldoze her down in conversations if she says something un-feminist, everyone has space to learn. I personally cannot date a someone heavily into trans identity, I have tried that, and I just grew to hate that person, because they would constantly try defend TIMS against any criticism, kept implying I was a trans man, and they just talked about nothing but childish things and gender. It was so cringe, I had to get out of there. Don't do that to yourself. But there is nothing wrong with not bringing up the scum manifesto to your date. Just talking about other things you might have in common before you delve too deep into specifics - books, movies, hobbies, sports. I put feminist in my bio, because I think if that dissuades any woman, she isn't my type at all. I also put "interested in sexual relationships with adult women" for the same reason. But I don't put "radical feminist aligned" because radical feminism has been given such bad press, that despite a woman agreeing with everyone of my beliefs, she might have preconceived notions implanted by anti-feminists and trans activists. Separatism is niche, not well known, so a potential woman might google it, and find some dumb article by an anti-feminist and think you're some weirdo extremist or something. Even if every time I have explained separatism to a woman, she has agreed sounds incredible. Slowly share more and more of yourself with people, don't excitedly dump all at once. It's just rude otherwise. SUMMARY: Don't try to ideologically trample normal women, but don't date your ideological opposite, people are more accepting of your beliefs after they have known you for a while.

#thelesbianpoirot

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eclipsedzs · 1 year

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𝗦𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲(𝘀?)

𝗘𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗦𝗘𝗗 ▰▰▰▱▱▱ Volume: James Potter

𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Genre: ✓

Paring(s): James Potter x Slytherin! Fem!Oc x Remus Lupin x Sirius Black

Summary: Soulmate AU- You were never to big on the idea of a soulmate, though the ones your stuck with seem determined to change that fate.

Disclaimer(s): Cursing, mean-ish Reader, hints of SH. (Won’t be using OC name much, and will try to keep her description to a minimum so it’ll still be fun for readers to read- this is just a test to a book i wanna write.)

SOULMATES, a topic that typically evoked a range of emotions within her. It was a subject that had always made her shiver and cast a skeptical glance at anyone who dared to bring it up.

It wasn't that she harbored any ill will towards people who found their soulmates; in fact, she genuinely loved witnessing others find their lifelong partners.

What bothered her was the expectation that she, too, had to be with her supposed soulmate.

The idea that fate or the alignment of stars dictated her romantic destiny didn't sit well with her. She resented the notion of not having a choice in the matter, simplistically put.

A soulmate was akin to an elixir, a potent blend of Oxytocin, Serotonin, Dopamine, and even Endorphins, coursing through veins like an intoxicating potion.

The very meeting of their eyes ignited a profound connection, an alchemical reaction within the depths of one's being.

Yet, there were moments when external factors temporarily obscured the rush of those chemicals — fear, stress, and sometimes even anger.

The bond with a soulmate had the power to fortify one's vulnerabilities, weaving a tapestry of trust that transcended reason. It was a force that could make you overlook their glaring red flags, enticing you into a hypnotic dance of surrender.

Such was the mysterious allure of soulmates, a delicate interplay of emotions and desires, bound by an invisible thread that defied comprehension.

Encountering a soulmate was akin to a lamb to the slaughter, oblivious to the impending chaos that lay in wait. With naive hope and soaring expectations, one believed that everything would unfold according to their preconceived notions, simply because the elusive notion of soulmates entwined their fates.

But reality, as it often does, would swiftly descend upon them. For soulmates, too, were mere mortals, driven by their own desires and motives.

Many humans reveled in the allure of carnage, the thrill of conflict, and the pursuit of personal gain, regardless of the consequences inflicted upon their unwitting counterparts.

In the tapestry of soulmate connections, one found the intertwining threads of joy and pain, love and betrayal, woven together in a delicate dance.

The truth revealed itself, reminding souls that the mere presence of a soulmate did not guarantee a harmonious existence. It was a precarious tightrope walk, where the potential for both ecstasy and devastation loomed at every turn.

Many people choose to save themselves for their soulmates, cherishing the anticipation of the intimate connection they will share with their destined partner.

The idea of experiencing the touch of their soulmate's body against their own becomes a sacred longing, a yearning for a bond that goes beyond physical attraction.

It is a belief rooted in the belief that true love is worth the wait, and that the merging of souls and bodies will be a profound and transformative experience.

However, for others, they didn't see the point or simply didn't feel inclined to wait. After all, a soulmate is meant to love you unconditionally, regardless of your past experiences. If your soulmate judges you for having explored and expressed your sexuality, well, then they're simply not worth it.

Among the Hogwarts Casanovas, James Potter stood out as one of the most notorious. His charm and confidence could lure in girls with the flick of an unruly curl or a captivating gaze from his hazel-brown eyes, peering mischievously through his round glasses.

He possessed a heart as grand as his ego, leaving many under his spell and yearning for his attention. His best friend Sirius Black, a close second on the Casanova scale, certainly gave James a run for his money.

Sirius Black, a prominent contender for the title of biggest Casanova, was the embodiment of the classic bad boy, capturing the attention of giggly girls and fueling endless rumors.

His striking grey eyes had the power to weaken knees with a single glance, complementing his pale, chiseled complexion that bore the mark of his Black lineage.

Adorned in a timeless black leather jacket, he exuded an air of rebellion wherever he went. His slightly curly black hair cascaded to his shoulders, stylishly layered to create a captivating effect.

With a mischievous, humorous, and somewhat dramatic nature, Sirius had a knack for playing pranks and finding himself in trouble. His reputation with the ladies was well-established, engaging in snogs with anyone who caught his fleeting interest or simply served as a temporary source of amusement.

Remus Lupin, an enigma who effortlessly captured the hearts of those around him. His gentle smiles and warm brown eyes had a unique power to make girls swoon in a way unlike his friends.

His calm and protective nature, coupled with his problem-solving abilities, drew people towards the comforting embrace of his presence.

Yet, it was his occasional mischievousness that proved equally captivating, causing knees to weaken when a playful smirk graced his face, accentuating the sharpness of his canines and showcasing his endearing dimples.

Despite his tall and lanky stature, Remus possessed an underlying strength that would occasionally reveal itself when he indulged in his desires, leaving a lasting impression on those fortunate enough to witness it.

His sandy brown hair, always slightly unruly as he immersed himself in his studies or a good book, added to his charm.

The scars that adorned his face only added to the air of mystery and dramatic allure, causing girls to squeal with delight at the slightest hint of attention from this captivating young man.

In the dimly lit Slytherin common room, the crackling fire cast an eerie glow, highlighting the green accents of the room. Amidst the shadows, a girl sat, exuding an air of mystery and indifference.

She was not a Casanova by any means, though she possessed a few tricks up her sleeve when it came to getting what she wanted from boys in her year.

Quiet by nature, her mean resting face and piercing stares often caused others to keep their distance. Half of it was due to her Slytherin affiliation, while the other half was a result of her intimidating glares and perpetually downturned lips.

Her curly, slightly frizzy hair cascaded around her, occasionally pushed away by a boy who had made himself quite at home, pressing his lips to her jaw in an attempt to elicit a reaction.

But she remained unfazed, her bored expression unwavering as she stretched out on the couch, her arms draped over the back and her legs slightly spread out – a testament to her preference for trousers over skirts, which lacked the convenience of pockets.

Her eyes followed random figures moving about the room, deliberately avoiding any significant focus on the boy – whose name had slipped her mind – clinging to her side like an overly attached girlfriend.

She couldn't care less about him, having met him in a drunken state at a party where they had slept together. While he seemed to expect something more, she had no interest whatsoever in pursuing any further connection.

With a sigh escaping her nose, she rose to her feet, gently pushing off the boy who finally seemed to grasp the hint and scurried away, his face flushed with embarrassment, no doubt seeking solace among his friends.

Leaving the common room behind, she passed through the serpentine door that obediently opened and closed for her, granting her passage.

The dull ache of her soulmate mark, a moon-shaped emblem nestled on her right collarbone, persisted as she walked, causing her to exhale an irritated breath and discreetly adjust her shirt to conceal it. The throbbing ache settled into a subtle, continuous hum, its gentle vibrations almost soothing.

As she approached the library, the door welcomed her with the comforting scent of new books, coffee, and tea.

Finding solace at a table nestled between two book-lined walls, she reached into her small satchel and retrieved a hardcover book, propping her head on her hand as she immersed herself in its pages.

Time seemed to slip away effortlessly, until a sudden scuffle of a chair being dragged along the floor interrupted her reading.

She glanced up, only to be met by the warm brown eyes of Remus Lupin. His hair was tousled, his uniform tie askew and loosened, the red fabric dangling haphazardly.

He offered her a sheepish smile, a red-covered book clutched in his hand, his tongue darting out to moisten his chapped lips before he spoke. "Do you mind if I sit here? It's the most secluded area in the library," he murmured, his voice gentle with a hint of raspiness.

She released a small breath through her nose, nodding silently as her lips pressed into a thin line. The sound of her voice, soft yet carrying, echoed faintly in the hushed atmosphere of the library.

A sharp pang from her soulmate mark caused her to flinch, her grip on the book slipping slightly, resulting in a quiet thud as it landed on the table.

Remus, also flinching in response to the sensation, raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of a faint glow beneath her shirt.

Soulmate marks were known to glow when one was in close proximity to their soulmate, accompanied by the corresponding aches.

His own mark pulsed within him, causing a subtle ache, yet she seemed oblivious to its presence as she scowled at the table and gingerly touched her mark.

Deciding to let it slide, Remus settled himself in the seat opposite her, placing his book on the table and running a hand through his hair, further tousling its already disheveled state.

Leaning in closer to his book, he realized he had forgotten his reading glasses, causing him to squint slightly as he immersed himself in the pages.

And so they spent the remaining time engrossed in their respective books, losing track of time until the librarian sternly reminded them of curfew.

Reluctantly, they gathered their belongings and prepared to leave, Remus offering the girl a warm smile while she only responded with a curt nod.

As Remus settled into bed, his mind couldn't help but linger on the possibility that he may have found his soulmate. The thought brought a mixture of excitement and curiosity, leaving him with a newfound sense of hope as he drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, the girl, Finn, retired to her own bed with a sense of annoyance at the persistent throbbing of her three soulmate marks. She couldn't help but wonder how she ended up with multiple soulmates, finding it both puzzling and frustrating.

With a sigh, she tried to push the thought aside and closed her eyes, hoping for a peaceful night's rest, away from the incessant reminders of her complicated soulmate situation.

#remus lupin imagine #sirius black #sirius black imagine #imagine #james potter imagine #jamespotter #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #sirius black x female reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x you #remuslupin #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x fem!reader #keeperofthebooks

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the-darklings · 2 years

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u have a new profile and that background thingy picture !!!!!!! wow !!!¡ so so nice !!! :(( they really suit your vibe!<3

perhaps u have any reason/meaning behind them, if it's alright to ask? no pressure tho (:

also, obviously, i could google it, but id love to hear it from u - what does the french (if im correct) sentence mean?

sending u aallll the love and appreciation in the world<33

Thank you so much, love!! You're more than welcome to ask!

So, my new pfp is lifted directly from my female MC's Pinterest board for that original novel I'm writing. Clara/V(iper) has big "from rags to nightmare" energy as someone who was stolen away at a young age and then transforms into a fearsome individual under guidance from those who are, essentially, antagonists/villains in that world (or at least many perceive them as such) after getting caught up in power games between two powerful families. Codenamed "Viper", or Vipère (sexually charged) if you're Jean Laurent. Eventually, she becomes a leader of her own ragtag team of criminals and master poisoner. You can find more of her vibes here if you like her aesthetic.

My header pic is actually directly from the Sandman comics! There is some stunning art between issues, and I'm obsessed with that one. I captured it from my copy and edited it a bit (it gave me fat Dream/Wanderer vibes).

As for my blog title, you are correct. It's French and once again ties into my novel (as it is primarily set in modern-day France). L'appel du vide is French for "call of the void", a big thematic message for the three main characters in ASE (against the serrated edge) and leaning into the notion that they are all bound by very destructive darkness within (and they are, the leading trio are morally grey at best).

#thank you for you ask!!! <3 #asks

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itsthegameilike · 6 months

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Best Books of 2023!

This was one of those glorious years where I read like I was thirteen again. It’s been ages since I’ve read this many books so quickly and I’m writing this list knowing full well that I may have another favorite before the end of the year. That’s how fantastic it has been. I had many lows (thanks booktok) but many highs as well and here are my favorites:

My Dark Vanessa - Kate Elizabeth Russell I read this book in January and finished it during a very gloomy day on the Oregon coast. This book is well suited to winter as it is dark, introspective, and bares your soul to you. The writing is stunning, fluid, and easy to digest, while the content shreds you to pieces. But it also empathetic and understanding and kind and handles the relationship between a young girl and her professor with the care and attention issues like this deserve. It does not stoop to moralizing, either, which I appreciated, though I heartily recommend checking trigger warnings before diving in.

Juniper & Thorn - Ava Reid Perhaps I was in a some sort of place at the beginning of this year, because this is another book that is unafraid to go to dark places. It is first and foremost a coming of age story about a young, abused woman discovering herself, what she is capable of, and what she cares about through the lens of a fairytale. And it is written like one, lush with description and transformations and tests. The main character is full of lust and rage and yearning and I loved her more than I loved any other character this year. When I say I want more of a certain type of female character, I mean ones like this. Ones that are messy and sometimes scary and sexual and desirous. Please read this, but also please check trigger warnings.

Grendel - John Gardner This had been sitting on my bookshelf for years and I kept meaning to read it, as Beowulf was a favorite of mine during my English classes and a novel written from the point of view of the monster is exactly the sort of thing I would eat up. Turns out, I was right. This is so much more than that, though. It’s a study on society, on what it is like to be an outsider, on the ways in which people we villainize have a way of adopting those characteristics to be seen, on yearning and the way it can destroy us. It’s so well written and delightfully philosophical and I would often read passages and simply sit with them, enjoying the exercise Gardner’s words presented.

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride - Roshani Chokshi I had tried Roshani Chokshi before and to no avail, so I didn’t have high hopes for this when I started, but I was so wrong. This was stunning. The prose tends towards purple, but that’s where I’m happiest, and it has an addictive quality, caught up in its own atmosphere and mystery. If you’re queer, there is so much for you here, especially in the relationship between the two main girls, who are friends that are caught in the grey area of perhaps feeling more for each other. They’re so unsure what that more really means. This is also written like a fairytale and it trends dark, but it left me giddy. Truly. This is what fantasy is made for.

The Lies of Locke Lamora - Scott Lynch I finally got around to reading this and I’m so glad I did. If you want a fantasy romp with high stakes and actual consequences, then this is for you. I adored the characters, I adored the plot, and I felt so deeply for every loss and win within these pages. I love a story with a charismatic con man out for revenge and this didn’t not dissuade me from that notion. Probably the most fun time I had this year.

The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoevsky This is not the only classic on the list, nor is it the only Russian literature on the list. Apparently I decided to tackle most of the Russian greats this year and I don’t regret it, even though it took me a month to read each one. That being said, I wouldn’t recommend this to everyone. It’s deeply philosophical, each of the three brothers assuming a viewpoint on everything from religion, to life, to morality. If religion and philosophy interest you, I think you’ll be happy. If not, you likely won’t. I loved it, though and I devoured the last three hundred pages in one sitting. I conducted conversations with myself about the book in the shower. I lived and breathed this thing for weeks. And I’d do it again. Someday soon. Not for a bit.

Piranesi - Susanna Clarke This book is so weird and I’m so glad it is and I’m so glad it never grew self-conscious and decided it was too weird. If you let this book take you where it wants to take you, you’ll be swept along on a magnificent, strange journey filled with delights and mysteries. This also gets the award for having the most sympathetic main character in books I read this year. His intelligence, his rituals, his love for the world around him, and his confusion when it all slowly gets ripped away from him is so easy to understand and adore. I’d read this book again tomorrow and the next day, too.

I’m the King of the Castle - Susan Hill Another very dark book, which I would feel bad about, but it’s who I am and what I enjoy, so there’s not much point. This book is about an unbearable, entitled, cruel little boy who psychologically tortures another little boy who moves into his house. So be warned. This is first and foremost about parental neglect and people’s ability to create their own narratives when they want something badly enough, even if the consequences are too great to bear. The writing was the best part. I still think about this author’s way with words and how she could warp your feelings with ease. Please read trigger warnings for this, as well.

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley I am so late to the party. I was supposed to read this in college, but it was at the end of term, during finals, so I never did. I’m glad I didn’t, too, because I wouldn’t have loved it the way I did at this time in my life. Seriously, if you somehow haven’t read this yet, do. Mary Shelley is a fantastic writer, a godsend of a teenage author, and I would trust her with my life.

War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy This was the true masterpiece of the year. I will never be able to do this book justice. It was often challenging, often slow, but that is nothing compared to what it gave me. I have so many scenes from this book that are little immovable stars in my head, so much my own, that they feel like my own memories. They are so bright and so sincere. I adore Pierre, Natasha, and Andrei so much. They became my family in the month that this book was my companion. I went directly into a reading slump afterwards and I still haven’t found my way out. I don’t know if this is my favorite book of all time, but it very well could be.

Honorable Mentions: Dark Heir - C.S. Pacat, A Study in Drowning - Ava Reid, Dreamer’s Pool - Juliet Marillier, Emily Wilde’s Encyclopedia of Faeries - Heather Fawcett, My Best Friend’s Exorcism - Grady Hendrix, The Honeys - Ryan La Sala, Blindness - Jose Saramago, Greenglass House - Kate Milford, Interior Chinatown - Charles Yu, Hell Bent - Leigh Bardugo, and Snow Country - Yasanuri Kawabata.

#bookblr #bookish #best of 2023

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ayllu · 2 years

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[ID 1: A childhood enframed by teleological narratives, by notions of growth that equate and confuse age with development, would be a poor approximation to the lives of reincarnated children. Attempting to explain the behavior, attitudes, or aptitudes of reincarnated children by events in the period immediately after their birth would significantly miss its mark, precisely because reincarnation places the question of origin in doubt. ‘Looking back’ for these children means remembering their adult lives, at what would be considered not the beginning but the middle of a life cycle. What I wish to suggest is that in order to understand the lives of these children, instead of employing an idea of growth, with its corollary of teleological directionality, we need to draw upon a notion of metamorphosis or transformation. Metamorphosis emphasizes continuity and survival; it involves not the obliteration or annihilation of the self as its final stage, but a transposition of some of its essential qualities. In the flow and flux of human properties across bodily inscriptions, reincarnation stresses continuity where ideas of growth could only see discontinuity.

ID 2: In the social and historical sciences, the child continues to be the ‘paradigmatic Other’ (Jenks 1996:3; Rapport & Overing 2000:29). Childhood, it is pointed out, is unlike other identities in that it excludes no one: all adults have been children at some point in their lives (Jenks 1996:30), whereas not everyone can inhabit identities formed around class, race, ethnicity, sexuality, or gender. Perhaps it is just this universality of childhood that makes it invisible. Just how invisible becomes clear if you take the words ‘agent,’ ‘actor,’ ‘subject,’ or ‘individual’ in social and historical analysis and substitute ‘child’ in its place. Most such substitutions would render their sentences illegitimate; social and cultural analysis simply does not take seriously the proposition that children, like adults, are social actors who influence the histories of societies and nations. Contrast the theoretical elaboration of ‘childhood’ as an identity against any of the other identities I have mentioned and the point is immediately obvious. /.End ID]

Akhil Gupta, “Reliving Childhood? The Temporality of Childhood and Narratives of Reincarnation” (Ethnos, Vol. 67:1, 2002)

#memory #words #personal readings

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