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800milesisadrive · 2 months

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Meet Cute

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at playing around with AI co-authoring, with maybe 75% either being my own work or a heavy rewrite of the suggestions. It's a very crude and ugly little bit smut, but felt good enough to share it. Any stories I do share in the future that use AI for more than editing and brainstorming will be noted as such!

Sarah was so deeply focused on her homework, she didn't notice the man sitting across from her until he started talking.

"You know, girls as cute as you shouldn't need to study so hard," his voice cracked as he wheezed out the words.

Sarah could feel her whole body tense up. This guy had been bugging her all week, pestering her with inane chatter about anime and hentai. She just wanted to be left alone. She looked up at him, glaring at the overweight and unbathed lump sitting at seat on the other side of the table. Her almond eyes narrowing into slits, barely able to keep herself from screaming at him.

"I suggest you focus on your own life, buddy," she snapped back, her tone sharper than a knife.

The weeb recoiled slightly, but only for a pause. After a moment of stuttering, he seemed to regain his undeserved confidence. With a slightly unhinged smile, he launched into another speech about some obscure anime series.

"Like in Duko-Duko Magica?" he continued, completely ignoring Sarah's protest. "The One-Chan; doesn't have to worry about school, her master just puts a replica of her in class so no one suspects she's off having adventures!"

His tone was that of a father trying to explain a storybook to a toddler. This man wasn't talking to Sarah, but down to her. Even without his hunched posture, Sarah suspected she'd still be taller than this dork.

Was he wearing the same, sweat-stained anime t-shirt from yesterday, when he first tried to corner her in the library? Sarah was nearly sure of it, but wouldn't put it past this loser to have multiple outfits that were plastered with girls making faces with their tongues out...

"It's an 'Ahegao' pattern," the man said leaning forward. Sarah had unexpectedly zoned out, staring at him. " Though you know that already, being Japanese! It's actually the 'Mind-Break Ahegao' edition," he continued pointing at his chest. "Limited drop!"

Sarah felt lightheaded and frustrated. She couldn't believe how persistent and presumptive this guy was. While her family was from Japan, she'd never been herself and had never watched anime.

"Listen, I don't want to talk about this anymore," Sarah finally said, her voice trembling with impatience. "Can you just leave me alone?"

The man's face contorted into a mask of disbelief. "But we're having such a fun conversation!" he whined.

Sarah was done with this loser and his racist shit. She started to collect her things, packing them up to escape this annoying prick.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed the man shifting in his chair, looking around nervously. His nerves coming back.

"It's not supposed to take this long..." he muttered to himself. "'Instant changes' is what the site said..."

Sarah paused, confused and oddly concerned by his change in demeanor. She hated this guy from the moment she set eyes on him, yet now she felt some irrational empathy.

He seemed like a pathetic loner, desperate for human connection that he would cling onto anything within reach. That desperation reminded her of her own loneliness, amplified by being a minority in an overwhelmingly white campus.

As he mumbled under his breath, she found herself glancing at his shirt again. The lewd drawings were unsettling, especially since they appeared to be moving - pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Suddenly, a wave of vertigo washed over her. She struggled to sit upright, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Was it the late hour? Or perhaps something in the air?

Maybe it was too close to the radiator and there was something wrong with the heating system, because she suddenly felt incredibly warm and light-headed. Her hands, which moments ago held tightly onto her books, loosened their grip. She stared blankly at the book covers sprawled before her on the table. In that hazy state, she realized that they depicted scenes from Japanese folklore, images that once alien to her were now strangely familiar. It was like she remembered childhood memories of hearing these stories told by her grandmother during bedtime.

Sarah closed her eyes with surprise at the vivid imagery she saw in her mind.

"Hey, are you ok?" The man leaned toward her, concern etched into his previously obnoxious expression. "Maybe you should get some rest."

"No, I'm fine," Sarah assured him, opening her eyes wide. "Just tired, I guess."

The man nodded sympathetically. "You've been working too hard. Exchange students have it the toughest."

"I'm not..." Sarah began to protest and stopped herself. She wasn't an exchange student, was she?

Sarah thought to herself, her grip tightening around her textbooks. But then why do I feel this strange sense of familiarity? She wondered if she had simply forgotten her heritage due to spending her entire life in America. Maybe her mother spoke tales of Japanese myths during her childhood, stories that somehow lodged themselves deep enough inside her brain to surface now.

"Are you sure you're doing alright?" He asked, peering at her intently. Sarah was taken aback by her sudden attraction to his soft brown eyes. They were full of genuine concern, a stark contrast to his previous arrogant attitude.

For a brief moment, Sarah considered sharing her confusion with him. Yet, she hesitated, fearing that he might exploit her vulnerability. Instead, she simply replied, "Yeah, I'm good. Just need to take a break." She stood up abruptly, hoping to end the conversation. However, as she did, a sharp pain coursed through her legs, causing her to stumble. Mark caught her quickly, his firm grip steadying her. Sarah blinked, surprised by his unexpected gentleness.

"Maybe you should sit down. You look exhausted," he suggested softly.

Sarah looked up at him. Just a few moments ago she'd assumed he was about her height but now he towered over her, looking almost manly in spite of his flabby shape.

Something was happening to her. Sarah didn't fully understand it, but if felt like gravity itself had shifted. The whole world seemed a bit taller, and this man's touch felt like a life preserver she needed to cling to.

"This is... This is all wrong." Sarah breathed out, trying to keep from fainting.

A hungry smirk crawled over the man's face, once that filled Sarah with strong revulsion. She yanked herself back.

"What... what are you doing to me?" she stumbled, catching herself on the table. Sarah felt a strange sensation in her head, this was beyond exhaustion. Sarah managed to ask, her voice trembling.

Mark maintained a deceptively calm composure, though beneath his outwardly collected exterior, he felt ecstatic. He had finally found someone who understood his passion for anime and accepted him.

"Nothing much," Mark responded nonchalantly. "Just trying to help you relax, that's all." "Relax?" Sarah scoffed incredulously.

" Relax? What kind of sick game are you playing with me?"

His face fell, his eyes widening innocently. "Sick game? No way, Sarah. You know me, I'm Mark. We bonded over our love for anime..."

"Oh yeah?" Sarah retorted sarcastically. "And what makes you think I'd enjoy something so... so ridiculous?"

Mark faltered for a moment, looking hurt. "Well, you seem pretty stressed out..." Mark trailed off quietly, swallowing the last of his words.

Anger boiled up inside Sarah, threatening to overwhelm her resolve. "Stressed?" she spat, unable to contain her fury. "How dare you insinuate that you can read my mind? That you can even begin to comprehend my feelings?"

Her voice shook with anger, and she took a step backward, away from him. Mark's gaze followed her every movement, his eyes flickering between sadness and determination.

"I-I'm serious..." she couldn't focus on his face. As much as she wanted to scream, looking at him seemed to diffuse the anger. She didn't want to hurt him, she wanted him to be happy. It was her place to make him happy... "You're just becoming more _you_" he comforted her, and Sarah couldn't help but nod in agreement. This tall, sweet man was just trying to help a confused exchange student. How could she ever have been so rude to him?

Sarah felt ashamed and guilty, wishing she could turn back time and apologize. Instead, she stood frozen on the spot, her heart pounding against her chest. "Mark, please forgive me," she whispered, her voice cracking in despair. "I didn't mean to lash out at you. I'm just scared and confused right now..."

Mark gazed at her with tender compassion, silently acknowledging her apology. "Don't worry about it, Sarah," he reassured her gently. "I understand that you're going through a lot right now..." Mark spoke in a soothing voice, reaching out to lightly touch

Sarah's arm. Sarah felt a shockwave of pleasure ripple through her body. "But I promise you, everything will be okay. We'll find a way to make things better."

Sarah swallowed hard, her throat parched and dry. "I just don't... I don't feel like myself anymore," she confessed, her voice breaking. "I feel like I'm losing control. My thoughts are jumbled, and I can't remember..." Sarah said weakly, feeling increasingly vulnerable.

"You're just remembering who you truly are, deep down," Mark murmured, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her arm. "You're not just a diligent student, Sari-chan."

Sarah tried to resist, but his gentle touch felt too inviting. "What are you talking about?" she whispered hoarsely. "I'm Sarah. I-I don't know you at all. You're doing something to me. You drugged me or something..."

Sarah winced thinking of what he said. "Sari-chan", the nickname feeling alien and foreign on her tongue. Still, she couldn't deny the strange sense of comfort it brought her. It made her want to lean closer to Mark, basking in his warmth and safety.

"Let's just sit here for a moment, shall we?" Mark coaxed, leading Sarah to sit with him on the cold stone floor. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, offering her a comforting embrace.

"Mark-san." Sarah said, her voice seeming oddly light and girly. "What did you do to me?"

Mark's arm wrapped around her, slyly cupping her breast as he comforted her.

"You're just remembering who you truly are, deep down," he murmured, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her arm.

Sarah gasped, her body jolting involuntarily. "What are you doing?" she cried out, instinctively attempting to push his hand away.

"Shh, Sari-chan," Mark hushed her, tightening his grasp around her waist. "There's nothing to be afraid of." Mark whispered into Sarah's ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps down her spine. "I'm only trying to help you. To bring back your true self."

"My true self?" Sarah repeated, feeling a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement welling up inside her. "Who am I really, Mark?"

With a soft chuckle, Mark pulled Sarah closer, pressing her body against his. "You're Sari-Chan. You're the beautiful Japanese girl who's too in love with me to ever say anything." Mark said, his voice sounding confident and dominant.

Sarah felt a surge of arousal course through her veins. The idea of being a submissive Asian woman enthralled her. She'd spent years suppressing her true desires—the longing for a powerful, protective man to guide her every move. Now, it was like the floodgates had opened, uncovering buried fantasies she'd never allowed herself to explore.

"Why...? Why you want girl like Sari-chan?" Sarah asked, her voice quivering uncontrollably. "Mark-san is big and handsome American..."

Sarah's own brain betrayed her, her memories of home being replaced with fuzzy memories of cherry blossoms and Japanese villages. Images that weren't hers but now seemed to be part of her deepest self swam in her mind.

"Sari-chan, you're ready to show yourself to everyone, aren't you?" Mark whispered seductively, his hot breath tickling Sarah's neck.

"Oh yes, Mark-san," Sarah whimpered, feeling an odd sense of liberation. "I'm ready to be yours forever."

Mark smiled triumphantly, stroking Sarah's silky hair. "That's my girl," he murmured approvingly.

"I knew you could do it. I could see it in your eyes."

#asian bimbo #reality change #f2f transformation #mind control #my content #asian stereotypes #asian girl #corruption

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ghostfacesvalentine · 7 months

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HALLOWEEN DAY 3: Baking halloween treats - Multi!Muse x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Multi!muse x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Not that I could think of, kind of whoesome

Type: Blurb

Request: N/A

Word Count: N/A

Prompt: Baking is always fun no?

Notes: I don’t think I’ve messed anything up yet. Whoop whoop lets go

Jason Voorhees: Kind of wholesome with Jason, he absolutely loves when you bake, he could smell it from outside the cabin and it’s usually what lures him back home to you. His favorites would be apple pie, sometimes you’d make little designs with the crust, which would be his favorite part, feeling flustered when he’d see little cut outs of hearts plastered across the baked crust. This would be his favorite desert, sometimes you’d have to smack his hand out of the pan telling him you had to eat first before desert, only letting him have a bite before dinner on his birthday.

Michael Myers: He wouldn’t think much of it, he’s not too big on baked goods, no matter what it is, if it’s cupcakes, cake, whatever it is, he doesn’t care for it, but chocolate is Michaels kryptonite. He’d help you decorate the cakes and cookies you’d bake, usually just plastered a ton of red frosting across the desert. “Close enough” You’d think to yourself, simply happy that Michael is participating..

Tiffany Valentine: Completely enamored with it, loves everything to do with it. She could never do it right, no matter the different recipes or instruction manuals. Tiffany was still more than excited to participate, drawing little bats on the cookies with black frosting, making little ghosts on the cupcakes with black and white frosting. Her favorite part would be adding the sprinkles. Lots of laughing and giggling, this is just a wholesome moment for her and she feels overwhelmingly lucky that at least one of you can bake.

Billy Loomis: He wants no part of it, never was a baker and he sure as hell isn’t going to start today. Billy will stand in the kitchen, watching you do all the hard work, telling you “well I never asked you to make us any cupcakes babe” Dipping a finger into the icing and licking it off, Billy is such a pain in the ass for you, but he looked so cute as he was a pain. Watching you mix the ingredients, read the book and follow it as you pleased. Not even the decorating did Billy want to get involved in, hopefully you know how to do most of it on your own.

Stu Macher: Completely hands on “What do we do next” Will for sure overbake the cookies or brownies. He kind of clumsily follows what you say, sometimes adding too much or not enough. It’s like cooking with an actual five year old. At some point you just realize, maybe the actual baking process would just enlist you to do the actual work and just have Stu give you the utensils. Come decorating, he would let loose and do whatever he wants and surely Stu does get very creative with his Halloween designs.

Patrick Bateman: Doesn’t care for any sweets, if anything he despises them. He’s never liked anything sweet, Patrick thinks it’s bad for his body and says his taste buds refuses them. He doesn’t even like the smell, but if you insist he’d let you, just as long as you clean up after and leave the kitchen from smelling like a bakery. Patrick does like the designs you make though, he’d look at them through the container, telling you that you did a good job.

Leatherface: LOVES baking time, never really had any sweets or chocolate growing up. Bubba only tried it a few times in his childhood and he could never forget the taste, sometimes it’d fade away into his bittersweet memories but your at home bakery brings it right back. He is so involved in your activities, such a hands on s/o. Bubba would try anything and everything that you’d make, he’d mix the batter while you prep the oven, following every instruction you give him to a T. Not to mention his favorite part and everyone’s, the decorating. He’d make all sorts of creations, often running out of space in his cupcake, sometimes getting frustrated that it’s not coming out the way he wanted. Rest assured, all of it is still edible.

Harley Quinn: Also loves baking time, she knows how to make the best brownies, warm with chewy chocolate chips. She’d sit on the table crisscross while she mixes the batter, swiping a few tastes of the cookie dough if there’s any beforehand. Lots of silly faces and unfortunately, lots of messes. Somehow it would turn into a mini food fight as well, Harley’s childish at times, what can I say you bring out the best in her. She’s quite the artist too when it comes to decorating, always making the best ghosts and bats across the plain cookies. Harley takes baking quite seriously at times and will definitely be up to a contest to who could make the best most creative creation.

Poison Ivy: Not a huge fan of baking, but would enjoy some dark chocolate brownies every now and then. She would be interested in decorating your creations though, she finds it therapeutic. There would be times though, where you’d get the recipe wrong, or overcook it and Pamela would have to step in. You’d watch her as she would gracefully blend the mixtures and let them sink across the baking pan. She’d kiss your forehead, not minding the extra work. It’s actually kind of comforting. Pamela’s favorite creation of course, would be the pumpkin shaped cookie.

Bruce Wayne: Surprisingly loves it, it’s one of the things that makes him feel like his house is finally a home with you. He’d walk in on you early, smelling the sweet scent of cookies, wrapping his arms around your waist and giving you a tender kiss on your cheek. Bruce is more than happy with whatever you make, more in love with you by the second. Believe it or not he’s not the best at decorating the cupcakes or cookies, not when the designs at least but it’s the thought that counts.

Jason Todd: Kind of similar to Bruce, seeing you do any kind of housework around the house melts his heart. While baking isn’t particularly “housework” the fact that you would try to surprise him with Halloween cookies after a mission means the world to him. He couldn’t keep his hands off you, to the point where he’d be in the way, happily watching you get flustered and then annoyed. Lots of kisses, on your nose, neck and forehead.

Billy Hargrove: He does not know what to do at all and in all honesty, he won’t admit it but he is kind of scared of ruining anything. Billy loves you and he knows how much love you put into your cooking/baking, how time consuming it could be and the last thing he would want to do is ruin it for you. Sometimes it could come off like he’s uninterested and it’ll leave you in blues, but once you talk about it. Billy is more than happy to help you clean after, keep you company as you did all the baking. Not to mention, he’d be the best taste tester.

Steve Harrington: He’s actually super into it, he’s the first one up to take to you to the store to get all the baking supplies, carrying the basket for you and watching you pick the ingredients, making decisions with you. I’ll take the liberty to say Steve would be one of the most involved on this list to actually make any sort of Halloween goodies with you. There would be a few times you’d forget a certain item, or completely undermeasure what you bought and he wouldn’t mind going back for you to get it. He’d make little weird aliens and odd monsters with icing on the bare breads that would come out of the oven, taking pictures of them next to yours and keeping them in a little booklet of you both.

Steve Rogers: Kind of enamored with the wholesome idea of you baking for Halloween instead of giving out so much candy or buying the cupcakes at the store. He’s such a hands on boyfriend and it shows. Little did you know he has a few tricks up his sleeve as well, teaching you how to keep the cookies from overcooking, or the brownies from sticking onto the pan. Cute little kisses every now and then while your creation bakes. He’d let you take the lead in decorating, he much rather watch you be excited about the fun part, he cherishes these moments more than anything. Not to mention, he’d help you bring your goodies to the team “Avengers, Y/N took the liberty of making you all a treat, for all your hard work this week.” He’d let you give them out as he’d hold the basket before them, staring to you proudly.

Bucky Barnes: Kind of like Steve, he’d gladly participate in whatever you wanted to do for Halloween. Helping you with the mixing, read the recipe book, pick out the products at the store. Bucky would sit you on the island of the kitchen while he’d mix the now-pasty dough. Lots of small kisses, also in love with the idea of doing something so wholesome that reminded him of his good times. He’d sometimes tell you stories about his family and what they would do, what Halloween was like back in the day. Not too big on decorating, he rather just add the faces onto the cookies if you insisted on him participating.

Wanda Maximoff: This is her specialty, it would be therapeutic for her, so if you mention you wanted to bake something for the team, she is all up for it. Your dining room table would be littered with different fall themed snacks and flavors, all ready to be decorated and either eaten or sent away for others to enjoy. Wanda would love to bake a little bit of everything with you, involving herself in the decorating as well. Everything would look straight out of a professional bakery, some would even offer to buy them off of you, but instead you’d give them away. To anyone who wanted or seemed like they needed something sweet. Needless to say, this would be one of her favorite Halloween activities with you.

Loki Laufeyson: At first he doesn’t seem so interested, but after he sees you’re determined to make at least a dozen cookies and a dozen brownies, all fresh, warm and full of love for the team, he seems interested. Loki would watch you from afar, seeing you struggle with mixing the batter, getting tired and taking small breaks between. Of course this would be Loki’s best opportunity to ascend from the shadows towards you. “Let me have it dear.” He’d instruct as you surrendered the bowl to him in defeat. A few more minutes and you would’ve added literal tears into the mixture. Though he doesn’t want to admit it, Loki does enjoy these silly little activities with you.

Cloud Strife: King of “no idea what I’m doing” But always tries to have a good attitude about it. He helps you with all the heavy stuff, or more like the physical part of this activity. But then literally just waits for your next command, not really knowing what to do after. While everything waits in the oven, Cloud kind of just stands there waiting for it to inflate before his eyes, crushing down on a hard blush when you’d try to kiss his cheeks whispering small “Thank you’s” and other little praises. He’d help you give them out on Halloween night, keeping an emotionless expression, mostly kind of humiliated, but not enough to hide from it. Whatever makes you happy.

Aerith Gainsborough: LOVES this idea, she’s super excited and the minute you mention it, Aerith is grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you to get the ingredients. She wants the cookies in her hands now. Her favorite part its watching the cookies inflate in the over and decorating them with cute little ghost figures and pumpkins. She’d get icing on your cheek and nose periodically, laughing away as you scrunch your nose. Aerith would love to have you try what she’s baking, asking for your opinion, if it’s too much, too little, or even trying to get you to guess what she added to this batch.

Sebastian Michaelis: Ok come on. He knows how to make everything and anything and if he doesn’t, he’ll learn. Sebastian would make more complicated dishes, showing off a little to much in competition to your simple brownies. That doesn’t mean he won’t teach you though, maybe then you’d be able to help him when the young master would want a treat. Sebastian wouldn’t condemn you to do his job anyway, but if you wanted to have a little bit of wholesome fun on Halloween, Sebastian would be the best to go to in this area. Your baked goods would be created to perfection.

Spencer Reid: Sooo messy, the kitchen is a mess, there’s batter on the floor, the spoon must’ve fell like three times. Spencer has icing in his hair, no idea how, you haven’t even opened the darn thing yet, you have food coloring all over your fingertips and there’s so much laughter coming from both of you. “Wait no it says two tablespoons Spence, not teaspoons” Then a groan would come out of Spencer as he lets the bowl splat back down onto the counter. A snort would come out of you to see his cute frustration. “Come on genius, Halloween’s tomorrow and we have to get these out for the team, let’s hustle. Go! go! go!” You’d scold him into mixing faster to keep up with you.

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roobylavender · 11 months

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How do you feel about the Ziyech/Aboukhlal thing generally? Like are you going to keep supporting them?

going to put this under a cut bc it's long and i totally respect if people don't wanna read lmao

i don't really follow many of the other players on the national team closely aside from ziyech so there's that but (and not to scrutinize your word choice here) i feel like support doesn't really encapsulate the dynamics of the situation accurately, at least for some gay muslims like me. like do i like any of it? no. it's obv disappointing. but i also think people are kind of naively if not outright ignorantly loath to the reality of much of the muslim diaspora, esp those with an impoverished upbringing

second generation immigrants born into socially liberal muslim families are really lucky, but for a lot of us that’s not the reality. many muslims immigrate having come from already socially conservative backgrounds that are subsequently exacerbated by their poor economic circumstances. our parents are economically and racially / ethnically isolated in a new country and that makes them even more vulnerable to conservative support systems here, particularly religious ones that reinforce regressive cultural values. it’s easy to write off entire populations or groups of people for being inherently “backwards” but for a lot of us it’s a matter of opportunity and well timed exposure to break free of certain ideologies ingrained in our upbringing. and many young muslims don’t even experience that opportunity at all. i’m lucky to have broken away from many of the cultural values i grew up with, but there were several factors that played a part in that. my parents were not internet savvy at all so i was on tumblr / twitter from a young age and befriended other gay people here. i stopped going to islamic school pretty early despite maintaining my own belief in my faith. i grew up in a school district that was overwhelmingly white and had no irl muslim friends before i entered uni (although this was an admittedly smaller factor at play bc most of the white people in my school district were republicans. but it was a factor in the sense that i was surrounded by people who encouraged parental rebellion and questioned my family's values so while that had harmful effects in some areas it helped in others, even though the peers i grew up around were largely homophobic themselves). and probably most significantly, i was never really a well-behaved kid. i've always been someone to talk back, speak my mind, resist social conformity. it has led to me having a very poor relationship with my parents at times but as i already mentioned it's helped in other ways, like establishing my own beliefs free of religious / cultural influence. and to reemphasize, i was very lucky. most of the people in my religious / cultural community are openly homophobic. i am in all likelihood a closeted rarity here

all of this to say, when those socially regressive values expose themselves within our communities, it's not that they shouldn’t be condemned. they should. but it’s so easy to write off people and give no thought to the environment that’s nurtured them to begin with. it's a product of decades of enforced patriarchy and heteronormativity that has only been exacerbated in the dire economic circumstances many immigrants are put through when they uproot their entire lives. all too many of them turn to religion without recognizing that not all of what they're told actually makes sense. and by the time they acquire wealth, if they do, it's a matter of already having spent years in these communities and circles. no amount of proximity to social liberalism or wealth can actually change their views if the people they're still hanging out with share those values. which is why it's really frustrating to see people act like unlearning culturally ingrained homophobia is like turning on a light switch. it’s not. it’s hard, it’s a daily struggle, and it’s insulting to assume immigrants are automatically prone to liberalization merely by virtue of living here. i wish it was that easy. i wish my parents could just wake up one day and recognize some of the beliefs they have are nonsensical so that i could actually tell them i’m bisexual. but that’s not how reality works, and more people should understand that. gay muslims who struggle to help their parents and peers recognize the hypocrisy of culturally ingrained ideology should have way more say in the treatment their communities deserve from society than those who have no understanding of nor exposure to that dynamic at all

and to be clear, non-muslim gay people are under no obligation to condone these figures or people in their community. on the contrary, they're fully entitled to being upset, disappointed, etc. but i also think it's all too easy to approach it like it's a black-and-white situation when it's not. you (figurative "you" here, am not targeting you) have no idea what it's like to live with people you love dearly who nonetheless continue to hold deeply regressive values. i have gotten into so many arguments with my mother over homophobia (among a range of other issues) and i remain committed to getting into those arguments bc i care about her and i want her to recognize that what she's being told by lecturers, scholars, etc., doesn't actually make sense. not everyone has that kind of stamina nor has to have it, esp in situations where extensive abuse is involved. i'm very lucky that my mom never resorts to that and fields these arguments with me even if it's supremely hard to win her over on them. no one is obligated to stay or try to reason with a parent verbally or physically abusing them for their identity. but personally speaking, those situations aside, there is no hope for some of our communities if we take an approach of simply leaving people behind to eternally stew in their regressive values. i feel like it's so bleak to wait for regressive people in our communities (i.e., oppressed communities and figures, not people in positions of political power who enact oppressive policies in turn) to die before we move into a new era. i want to take my parents with me into that new era even if it takes everything in me to make it happen, bc i know at their heart they're not bad people, they've simply been shaped by decades of regressive views that it will take extensive work and consistent challenge to unlearn. i can admit that's a very idealistic view of things but it's one i've embraced personally

so like. do i support the statement from aboukhlal? no. but i also feel like having grown up the way i did i'm not really going to be one of those people who's like wow the moroccan nt are automatically scum and i can't ever believe i thought they would be perfect socially liberal men completely aligned with modern day progressive values re: sexuality and gender. like it's a bit delusional to think that way yknow. this is one niche of social views where they are unfortunately regressive and i really hope they meet people in their lives who can help challenge those views. but i simply think it's too easy to blame individual people for the products of cultural upbringing that they've simply never bothered to question (esp where many are not party to the same factors or inclination towards parental disobedience that i was). and that becomes even more significant when this blame is used to exacerbate and justify racism against them in turn. like maybe there's a slim chance aboukhlal did say "where we live, women don't talk to men like that." but when the person he allegedly said that to immediately refuted it and he never had a history of behaving that way with female coordinators in the national team, not to mention never had any problems at toulouse prior to this incident, what do you think the chances are of it being legit? it feels way too convenient. i don't like what he said in his statement, but i honestly think the story with the toulouse official is complete bs and being used to freeze him out of the team

#cw homophobia #like at the end of the day. do i think he needed to do all this over a rainbow number on a jersey. no #but the fallout is kind of ridiculous when you take necessary context into account #also have talked to some mutuals since last night about this who i know felt anxious about the whole thing so like #if you think this encapsulates what we're all feeling well. feel free to reblog #in any case like i already said i'm not one to attach myself to celebrities to the point of delusion #but i simply want to embrace reality and exercise some patience here. personally. even if i am annoyed and disappointed #outbox

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cocoandvera · 2 years

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I was always waiting for my time to come. It would probably be university, I thought. I’d been told how much I would love higher education, how I would get to spend time contemplating and discussing ideas, and how wonderful that would be after years of memorizing facts. I suppose it was, in some ways? But I still found the experiencing constraining. So many courses that didn’t interest me were mandatory and I slogged through them out of obligation rather than interest. My peers still, mostly, seemed to fall into one of two camps, neither of which I fit into - those who wanted to learn and achieve in order to have a successful career, and those who were learning out of a simple desire not to commit to anything more serious yet. I was too frivolous for the achievers, and far too focused for the rest. So I put my head down, ticked boxes, still leaning into what I was “supposed to” do, and got through my four years like they were a prison sentence. Academia, at least the path within that I chose to pursue, felt as stifling as the public school system. While I knew I didn’t have all the answers, being required to act as though others did, overwhelmingly white, male others, simply by virtue of their position, was frustrating at best and often utterly infuriating. In layers years, I learned that many of these experiences were probably unique to my specific experience studying in the faculty of Creative Writing at UBC in the 2000s (you can Google it, if you’re interested.) Maybe in another life, or at least another time and place, it would have been different. But it wasn’t. To be continued… trench | @mango sweater | @oakandfort skirt | @sezane bag | @chanelofficial #candvafirenze (at Florence, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiKof4TL8nq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#candvafirenze

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jalboyhenthusiast · 3 years

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#@mp anon from last night #about the crew etc #i agree with a lot of what you said!!#it really is so nice that so many gay actors and crew members are involved #makes for an authentic perspective #though it is still overwhelmingly white which is frustrating #(v frustrating actually all things considered!!)#and ofc the criticism ppl have of it is valid #but yh i do think it has the potential to be a very compelling story #and i think its an important part of lgbt history #that gay men were still being sent to prison up until the 60s like ive seen harry fans only finding this out through this film #im of the general opinion that we shouldnt ignore the uglier parts of lgbt history #we need diversity of stories but i dont think that should come at the expense of dramas etc #and not every story will be for everyone but there will always be someone for every story you know #/ my policeman

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caffeineandsociety · 3 years

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Honestly though, if I were to be really inflammatory about it - I'd say that actually yeah the majority of men ARE oppressed for being men.

Now that I have your attention because you're pissed off, let me explain. No, I don't mean that in the dudebro meninist "men and women are on equal footing actually, if structural misogyny exists then clearly there is an equal and opposite structural misandry, checkmate liberals" way.

I mean that when it intersects with other axes of oppression, gendered power dynamics get a hell of a lot more complicated than "men big scary oppressors, women innocent victims!!" Like, despite how much the radfems and the terminally online people who treated them as the source of expertise try to redefine it to "the more axes you're marginalized on the more support you should win from progressive spaces, they're basically collectibles but otherwise totally separate", this is a major part of what intersectionality means.

Note how everyone becomes a "feminist" the moment a Black or brown man breathes in their general direction. He exists, suddenly EVERYONE knows toxic masculinity is toxic and violent, and aggressively police him in the name of Protecting Women(TM). Women of color face their own unique brands of oppression, yes! Including being ignored in a lot of these violence statistics or memed if they're actually noticed! But MANY cases of racist police brutality are because a MAN, OF COLOR - very specifically someone at the intersection of those two groups - was read as a threat for being A MAN, OF COLOR. MANY names and stories on any lynching memorial are Black MEN, who were lynched because a white WOMAN saw his very presence as a rape threat. The interplay of race and gender in these interactions is unique.

Or, queer men - when someone says "homophobia is the fear that gay men will treat you the same way you treat women," that's not just a snappy slogan, that's literally how a major facet of it works. The "gay panic defense", in 35 states, lets people reduce assault or murder charges to a lesser offense for "I found out they were queer and I was afraid they were going to hit on me". This is, overwhelmingly, invoked against gay men...

Or trans women - which, however much any radfem tries to tell you otherwise, are still people that mainstream cishet society sees as men, at least until it is convenient to gender her correctly to discount her opinion as the shallow mindless ramblings of an airheaded woman. Like, that's a major aspect of how transphobia intersects with gender in all directions - depending on what's most convenient for the accuser, you're just a silly brainless helpless pathetic woman...

Or a dangerous, predatory, burgeoning, toxic man.

Again, it's another form of "man (or 'man') sets one toe out of line and suddenly the whole world recognizes that toxic masculinity is bad."

And this is coming out in a fascinatingly disturbing way against trans men. There is a concept of "double discrimination" - a term with a frustrating dual meaning; it can refer to being marginalized on two axes and being, for instance, discriminated against for being queer even in spaces meant to support disabled people and vice-versa, or it can refer to being discriminated against by mainstream society, but also by marginalized communities for "not being marginalized enough" (in other words, a less maliciously "neutral" term for the effects of exclusionism). The latter definition has been heavily studied in bisexual communities and has been shown to have nasty adverse effects on both physical and mental health-

And that is also happening to trans men right before our very eyes. Mainstream society hates trans men because, again, depending on what's convenient to demonize us, we're either silly brainless shallow women just hopping on a trend to try and feel special because that's ALL women ever do don't'chaknow and anyone who helps us transition is a predatory drug-pusher, or we're horrible evil predatory dykes (because obviously all trans people are straight relative to our actual genders, which means gay relative to the ones cishet society reads us as) willingly morphing our bodies into a horrifying predatory form to hurt poor innocent cis women-

And among queer groups, we're ALSO treated largely as the latter, and then told "talking about your issues, and GOD forbid trying to come up with a NAME for them, is just Not All Men-ing, sit down and shut up like the good little girls you are, at least you're not being murdered in the streets (except when you are and get reported as women)". Even just sharing resources is treated as "stealing from" or "displacing" other "more deserving" queer groups.

Like, I don't know how to break it to you, but this whole idea of "men are bad, women are good, end of" isn't feminist at all. It's "oh, boys will be boys" in a pink-and-rainbow hat. It's the exact same tool wealthy, white, cishet men use to insist that their dominion over everyone else is just The Natural Order of Things(TM).

And yes, it oppresses most men. It is only the men who have all the other privilege qualifiers who escape it.

No, Men(TM) as a broad single-axis group are not an oppressed class, but there are unique, gendered ways that the hammer of oppression on other axes comes down on marginalized men, because the wealthy, white, cishet men at the top see men (or """"men"""") failing to live up to their platonic ideal of what wealthy, white, cishet manhood means as a threat to their rule - and they're laughably transparent about it; look at all their talk of how men failing to live up to it is "degeneracy" and "the downfall of society". Maleness as a real identity that actual people have, and manhood as a platonic ideal within the power structure of white cishet patriarchy, have a lot of overlap but they're pretty damned different things. The latter is fragile, and violent, and cruel, and hostile to everyone - yes, to women more than men, but very much so to men as well. The former is...literally just vibing.

And yes, women can be enforcers as well. Especially wealthy, cishet, white women. In fact, insisting that they can't be is often in and of itself a precursor to white supremacist patriarchal violence.

We have monuments to prove it.

(Inb4 "you forgot about disability" - no, I didn't; that one is WAY too complicated and deserves a whole breakdown of its own. I have some of the same disabilities that are, for That Most Privileged Class of Men, an excuse for basically anything up to and including murder, but for ME, not even an excuse to need a very minor accommodation or be a little too enthusiastic about something that's not mainstream enough; believe me, I cannot forget.)

#gender #rape mention #transphobia #racism

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koishua · 2 years

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𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 ━━ 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆

warnings... sensitive subjects, heavy implications of self harm done in the past, reader slowly trying to accept themselve

the following content might be triggering for some readers, so i suggest filtering out my tag [ #sensitivecontent ] to block out these types of writings i will be posting from time to time!

skin— a canvas with which you protect your body with. skin, sensitive yet strong, durable yet so easily succumbing to external damage. skin is the one that comes into contact with life outside of the body, a work of art. why did one find so much satisfaction in bringing harm to it?

skin isn’t perfect in its appearance— stretch marks lining certain places, small bumps and dents formed naturally, uneven in color; these are the things that make skin normal, even the leftover renewed tissue from a fall or scrape you had in your childhood.

skin was never meant to endure anything else you put it through; it wasn’t supposed to take on all of your pain and anger, never meant to be the blank paper to paint pretty red lines all over its surface. skin was there to protect you from harm, so why did you feel the need to inflict upon it yourself?

sadness, emptiness, fury or frustration— none of these should have ever led you to leave rows and rows of faded white lines on your precious skin, but it was too late. too late to pull the blade back, too late to keep yourself from falling addicted into the bliss of relief with each stroke of the glinting instrument.

you’re seated on the floor of your bedroom with a knee propped up to rest your arm on, leaning your back against the cool surface of the wall. your eyes scan over each of the traces left behind from your fit of rage years ago, reminiscing over the dreary times. the lines had faded, though the sheen over the scars are still there, reflecting a little light when hit in the right angle. the subtle shift in texture on your arm was still noticeable when you traced a line from the beginning of your wrist till your elbow with your finger.

everything was okay now.

the hopeless times were over and you’d pulled through with the help the wonderful people in your life had given you— no more uncontrollable urges that make your skin crawl anymore. everything was okay now, something your younger self hadn’t ever believed would be possible some day.

everything was not okay.

the reminders of your past haunting you each time you remember what certain lines on your skin represented— you feel as though you’ve tainted your body, disgust seizing up your body each time you see them up close. no matter how many times you’d tried to look at them in a different light, they would never be able to seem like anything more than ugly scars.

“they’re beautiful.” he’d told you before.

the first time you’d revealed them to lee heeseung was also the first time you’d ever heard those two words about the lines on your skin. he’d frozen in his place, eyes glossing over as he’d asked if he could look at them closer, hovering his fingers over each one. with eyes looking at you sadder than you’d ever felt yourself being, he’d told you that they were beautiful.

“they show how much you’ve fought: hard and long to get to where you are right now.” heeseung had voiced to you, keeping a slight tremble in his tone as he’d pressed a loving kiss on your temple, pulling you into a hug that had made you feel more cared for than anyone else had ever made you feel.

some jagged and uneven, some precise and clean— the scars were not pretty to look at, but the meaning they held for heeseung was overwhelmingly significant.

“thank you,” he’d repeated for more times than you can remember, trying to muffle his already silent cries by burying his face in the crook of your neck, “for being here now. i’m so, so proud of you.”

they’re beautiful, he’d asserted to you, not because they’re pretty, but because they show how much you’ve been through and have overcome.

looking at your arms now, you think about lee heeseung with his kind eyes and looking at the discolored thin figures, you think about lee heeseung again and about his genuine words. maybe someday, you would be looking at your scars and believe with your entire chest that they were as beautiful as lee heeseung made their essence to be.

he’d kissed you so softly and gently while keeping you tight and safe in his arms, making you believe that one day you’d finally be able to love yourself, perhaps more so than he did.

#sensitivecontent #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #heeseung x reader #enhypen heeseung #enhypen angst #lee heeseung x reader #enhypen heeseung x reader #enhypen heeseung imagines #heeseung angst

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fruitcoops · 3 years

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I'm having a shit day all around and the only way it could be better is to have my sister around lol but she's away for college. I was wondering if you could do a fic with Jules or Reg? Where they're having an awful day and seek sibling hugs? :) Thank you

Anon, this is such a mood right now and I hope you can see your sister soon <3 SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Regulus didn’t miss the Snakes. Far from it, actually—he hated them and everything they stood for, and he would never forgive them for what they did to his brother. For all he cared, they could burn alongside his parents.

But sometimes…sometimes he regretted dropping out of hockey.

The spotlight was constantly on Sirius, now; there were no more comparisons between the brothers, but that also meant the papers never looked deeper than the surface of Regulus’ personality. Sirius was overwhelmingly, ridiculously proud of him for going to college—almost too proud, in Regulus’ opinion—and lit up like a candle whenever it was brought up at an interview.

He’s my little brother, Sirius had said during the most recent conference. I’m happy he’s following his heart for once.

So reporters fawned over him whenever they saw him at the grocery store and peppered him with endless questions, only to sprinkle in the bare minimum around all the amazing, wonderful things Sirius had done in the past 24 hours since they last interrogated him. They spoke to Regulus like he was some dumb high schooler who had dropped out because he couldn’t handle the pressure—simpering, sympathetic, and a little pitying.

They didn’t care about him. They cared that he was the great Sirius Black’s kid brother, and there was nothing he could do about it now that he was off the ice.

Regulus scrolled past a few more articles with his face plastered on the front, gripping the cool marble countertop tightly. Let it roll off, he reminded himself. They don’t know you or Sirius.

NHL Dropout to Attend NYU

Younger Black ‘Following His Heart’

Sirius Black: Proudest Brother in the NHL

See Sirius Black’s New Interview Here!

“I’m heading out!” Remus called from the front door, snapping Regulus’ train of thought.

“Alright, drive safe.”

The door closed behind him with a clickand Regulus sighed, sliding down to sit on the floor. He rested his head back against the cabinets, simultaneously too upset to be productive and too energized to mope around. He lingered there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, before sighing again and heading into the basement. Only one thing would make him feel better.

“Bonjour,” Sirius said absentmindedly as he skated along the outside of the rink.

“Got room for one more?”

Sirius looked up and grinned. “Course.”

Lacing his skates was muscle memory, and pushing out onto the ice was more of a relief than he cared to admit. Part of him had been afraid it would be soured by his decision to leave the NHL—maybe that was a silly thought, but hockey still held a large piece of his heart.

Maybe I’ll go back someday, he thought as he flicked a puck to Sirius. Not now, but…later.

The puck bounced off the front of his skates. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“You don’t think loud enough,” he countered.

Sirius barked a laugh and checked him lightly. “Head in the game, petit enfant. Head in the game.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“Why do you think I do it?”

“Because you’re an asshole.” He slapped the puck toward the goal, but it bounced off the crossbar. Irritation flared hot and white in his chest. “Pass it back, yeah?”

“There’s one right next to your—”

“Just pass it back!” Regulus snapped. His throat felt tight; the back of his neck itched, and there was unwelcome pressure building behind his eyes.

Sirius’ teasing smile dimmed. “Reg?”

He sniffled. “Just pass the fucking puck, okay?”

The soft shush of skates was familiar and more soothing than Regulus cared to admit. Nobody skated as quietly as Sirius—there was a reason they called him ‘Padfoot’ after all. He stared at the ground, willing the tears of hurt and frustration to vanish into thin air. Arms wound around him.

“Stop it,” he demanded, though his voice broke. “Sirius, let go.”

Sirius pulled him closer and rested his chin on top of his head. Regulus felt something crack a little inside, and his shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. Sirius rubbed his back like he was eight years old again, falling apart in the backyard because his feet hurt, and it was cold, and that stupid play just wasn’t clicking.

“Nobody likes me,” he blubbered. In any other scenario, he would’ve felt like the biggest wuss in North America, but Sirius was safe. Sirius was home.

“People like you.”

“Only because they like you better.” He took a few shallow gulps of air. “They—they pretend to care an’ I can’t even do anything about it anymore.”

“Is this about reporters?”

“It’s about everyone.”

Sirius sighed heavily. “Reg—”

“It’s fine, I can handle it—”

“Stop.” Silence fell over the rink. Sirius pulled back and held Regulus’ face between his hands, looking straight into his eyes. “You are outstanding, and one of the bravest people I know. If reporters don’t take the time to see that, they aren’t worth your energy.”

Regulus wiped his cheek dry. “I know.”

“And the Lions think you’re pretty damn cool, too. James is still waiting for that rematch after you kicked his ass. Leo’s your best friend. Remus has been talking about that book you recommended for a week straight, which I don’t know whether to thank you for—” That drew a weak laugh from him, and he saw Sirius’ face soften. “—and I’m your brother. I missed you, and I love you. So please don’t dwell on tabloids or some shit like that. They have no right to make you feel unloved.”

Regulus leaned forward into his chest with a few deep breaths. “How are you so good at pep talks?”

“Captain.”

“Ugh, right.”

“I was terrible at them in the beginning,” he said. Regulus snorted. “Ask Pots or Kasey sometime. It was mortifying. I’m pretty sure Coach almost took my badge away for that.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Now come on, your slapshot still sucks.”

“It does not!” Regulus protested, punching him in the arm as he pulled away. “My slapshot is perfect!”

“Tell that to the crossbar.” Sirius their skates together. “Come on, put some power into it!”

“I regret being related to you.”

“Says the one who got snot on my shirt five minutes ago.”

Regulus’ next (entirely perfect, thank you very much) slapshot went directly toward Sirius’ shin. He dodged, unfortunately, but the undignified yelp it earned him was well worth the trouble.

#fanfic #my fic #sweater weather #lumosinlove #sirius black #regulus black #remus lupin #brothers

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mrs-gucci · 3 years

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A Different Kind of Urgent {Charlie Barber x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooooo! my penpal friend, a fellow adam driver rat, sent me a print of a charlie picture (that I’d seen a gajillion times before, mind you) and for some reason, I thirsted hard. so, naturally, I wrote a fic inspired by the picture. the reader in this story is a college professor, but it doesn’t really contribute to any ‘essential’ parts of the story (aka the smutty parts). it’s just her job lol

warnings: smut. some fluff. masturbation. semi-public smut. the sending of nudes (well, lingerie pics, to be specific). charlie’s dad outfits™️. cigarette smoking during sex. uhh tennis shoe kink??

(possible) tw’s: semi-public sex. semi-public masturbation. tobacco use (as is canon for Charlie’s character). implied age gap (everyone’s over 21, no more than 10 years).

You’re in the middle of class when Charlie texts you. Your phone buzzes and buzzes on your desk so much so that you have to stop your lecture for a few seconds, worried that something urgent has happened.

Well, something did happen, and it was pretty urgent, but not exactly in the way you’d expected.

-Charlie: I know you’re teaching class right now kid.- -Charlie: But I need you.- -Charlie: Right now.-

A shiver runs down your spine as you read his words on the screen.

-Y/N: I’ve got like 45 more minutes of lecture, baby, I can’t.-

He growls under his breath, cock straining in his tan khakis.

-Charlie: Fuck.- -Charlie: Can you send me a picture? Just need to see your pretty body, kid.-

-Y/N: Say please, Charlie.-

Charlie groans in sexual frustration, hips bucking up in his desk chair.

-Charlie: Jesus fucking christ, fucking brat. PLEASE! PLEASE send me a picture!-

You smirk, picking out one of the lingerie photos you’d taken when you were home alone one night. You’ve been waiting for the right time to whip them out and...well, this seems like the right time.

-Y/N: Attachment 1 image- -Y/N: Knock yourself out. Take a picture when you’re done, and I’ll be over as soon as class is finished.-

His shaky hands scramble to type in his phone passcode and click on your message, a strangled moan leaving his lips at the picture you chose. He’d never seen this one before, never seen this set of lingerie before. He unbuckles his belt and almost tears the button clean off his khakis as he pulls his cock out, tip already red and drooling with precum.

Before he starts anything, he quickly runs over to his office door, locking it to keep anyone from walking in.

His navy cardigan suddenly feels almost suffocating and he sheds it without hesitation, unbuttoning his dress shirt and parting it, revealing his undershirt.

Wait...you want a picture. Fuck.

An idea comes to him and he whimpers, equal parts aroused and nervous about giving it a try. God he hasn’t touched himself since the divorce proceedings, just needing to blow off some fucking steam, but you’ve reignited his sexual passion, overwhelmingly so, and seemingly even more than before. Maybe even more than ever, if he’s honest with himself.

He feels like a teenager again, both completely smitten with you while at the same time incredibly horny for you.

Charlie stands up on shaky legs and shoves all the paperwork off his desk, clearing a roomy spot right in the center. He bites his lip as he props his phone up on his desktop computer with the picture of you pulled up. Jerking off with just his hand wouldn’t be enough this time around, a small part of him just knew it. He needs to fuck you, fuck something.

He positions his hands around the edge of his desk, leaving his thumbs right at the top, putting them in a wonky sort of ‘o’ shape. He adjusts so that the sharp edge is pressing against his palm before experimentally thrusting his length forward into the hole he’s created with his thumbs, immediately groaning in pleasure.

“O-Oh, kid.”

He whispers, picking up a slow thrusting rhythm, eyes squeezed shut as he imagines your pussy.

“Such a good little pussy, my good f-fucking girl.” A line of sweat has already begun forming on his forehead as he moves a bit quicker, growling wildly with each thrust. He’s embarrassingly close already. “God, j-jesus fucking christ, gonna make me cum so f-fast, kid. I’m already s-so close, damnit.”

His hips grow desperate, bucking erratically into his grip. The drag of his cock against the faux wood surface feels absolutely incredible, and he barely even hears the desk begin to groan and shift against the floor of his office, too consumed with his impending orgasm.

“Yeah, you ready? Y-You fuckin’ ready for my big fat--fuck!--load in this pretty little--shit!--k-kitty?”

Just hearing him say the word aloud, his nickname for your cunt, has him cumming within moments. His vision blacks out for a second as his hips rut forward, a seemingly continuous stream of warm white cum painting his desktop.

“Ahhhhh, fuuuuuuuck.”

He has to bury his mouth into his shirt arm to hide the cries that come from him, eyebrows knitted at the center of his forehead. His breathing is heavy as he begins coming down from his high, eyes flitting open and looking down at the mess he’d made.

His load had gone across the entire width of his desk, and his eyes widened for a moment as his brain somehow comprehended to grab his phone and take a picture of the spread.

-Charlie: Attachment 1 image- -Charlie: Come straight to my office when you get to the theater.-

You take a quick peek at the message from Charlie as your students pull out their workbooks, jaw dropping when you open the picture full-screen. Holy shit, he really did need it.

-Y/N: You sure you still have enough to fill me up with when I get there?-

-Charlie: I always have enough for you, kid. Gonna have it leaking out of you when you leave.-

You chew your lip, thinking of a quick yet clever response.

-Y/N: Is that a promise?-

He groans under his breath, chuckling lightly with a small smile.

-Charlie: Absolutely. Can’t wait to see you, kid.-

-Y/N: I’m excited too. I’ll be there in 20.-

The twenty minutes it takes for you to finish class and walk over to Exit Ghost feels like some of the longest in Charlie’s life, knee bouncing impatiently and eyes glued to the door. He twirls the Marlboro package in his hand, the clock behind his desk tick-tick-ticking the seconds away.

Finally, a soft knock comes and, just in case it isn’t you, he stuffs the carton into his pocket. “Come in.”

Your head pokes through the door and you smile at him as you walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you. You immediately notice his outfit, specifically his shoes, which are propped up on his desk.

He knows that you like how he dresses, especially when he dresses very dad-like. And those sneakers he has, the white ones with the blue lines on them...god, they drive you absolutely crazy and you have no idea why.

Your bags are quickly shoved off your shoulder by the impatient director, pulling you into his body as his lips attack yours fiercely. He notices the way you’re eyeing his outfit, and it’s then that he realizes what shoes he has on, the pair that you like so much. Oh, he could use that.

His grip on the meat of your hips tightens increasingly as the kiss heats up, lips eventually moving down to your neck.

“Well, hello to you too.”

You say, laughing softly.

“Mmmm,” He hums onto your skin, lips littering kisses and small nibbles everywhere they can reach. “I missed you, kiddo, feels like forever since we’ve had time for something like this.”

Charlie’s large body presses you up against the door, hands eager to rid you of your pants. He quickly yanks them down to your ankles, fingers finding your clothed folds.

“I’ve got a staff meeting at two, baby. We h-have to be kind of quick...sorry.” You breathe, hand wrapping in his hair, tugging at the silky raven locks.

A small and slightly disappointed sigh leaves his lips, but nothing more is said on the matter. His movements do become a bit more rushed, though, digits dipping beneath the fabric to shove up into your entrance.

Your legs spread instinctively, knees shaking as he finger-fucks you, thick digits scissoring inside you to prepare for his girth. Meanwhile, you try to focus on getting his belt and pants undone, but it’s awfully hard when his fingers feel so damn good.

He pulls away suddenly, sucking the juices off his fingers as his hungry eyes roam your figure. The carton of cigarettes presses against his thigh and he smirks, pulling his digits out with a lewd pop.

Charlie suddenly pulls you off the door, putting himself in your spot instead. He smirks, fingers running under your chin, keeping your head tilted up at him.

“Will you go open the window for me please, beautiful?”

You nod, rushing over to push it open, then come back over to stand in front of him.

“Good girl. Thank you.”

His pointer finger twirls and points to the floor while the other hand grabs the pack and lighter from his pants pocket.

“Now, turn around and bend over right here, hold your ankles or feet, or whatever.”

As you position yourself accordingly, he leans back against the door, legs spread and sneaker-clad feet planted on either side of you, right within your line of vision. He’s almost fully hard again already as he moves to free his cock from its khaki confines, undoing his pants just enough to have it out.

Again, his cardigan feels suffocatingly hot, so he quickly pulls it off and tosses it away. He rolls the sleeves up on his button-up, a sight that makes your insides clench.

He jams a cigarette between his teeth, jaw clenching when he looks up and realizes that you’re bent over for him, in just the way he asked. Your glistening pussy’s on full display as you wiggle your ass a bit, his cock bobbing and twitching with excitement.

“Oh kid, you’re dripping.” Charlie whispers, almost to himself, hand kneading one of the globes of your ass.

You chuckle softly. “Hey, baby? As much as I love hearing and feeling you, my legs are getting kinda tired.”

Laughing, Charlie says a quick ‘sorry’ before holding and pulling your hips back, lining himself up with your soaked entrance. He pulls you back some more, impaling you on his cock, head falling back against the door as he does so.

His hands shakily ignited the small flame on his lighter, bringing it up until the tip of the cigarette turned orange before flipping the cap back on and shoving it back in his pocket. He takes a long drag, groaning on the exhale.

He keeps one hand on your hip while the other spreads out on your lower back, guiding you back and forth over his shaft slowly, gently.

“Thaaat’s it, just like this, kid.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, the impossibly deep angle created with this new position has it feeling like he’s reaching into your guts. Plus, with the natural up-curve of his cock, he’s brushing all the right spots inside you.

“C-Charlie…”

The familiar and comforting scent of Charlie’s cigarettes fills your nostrils, a haze of smoke surrounds your joined bodies. He continues to move you up and down on his length, buttocks clenching as his hips naturally rock forward, burying himself to the hilt each time you sink down.

“God...jesus christ...love this little pussy of yours, kid.” He breathes through his gritted teeth. “Taking me so nicely, always wrapped around me so goddamn tight.”

You quickly begin moving yourself up and down his stiff rod, bouncing as fast as you can manage. The sweet burn in your thighs only grows more prominent with each passing second, but you don’t care, too consumed in pleasure.

“Mmmmmyyyeah, baby, all for you.”

His hand comes down on your ass, giving it a firm smack before taking another quick drag, exhaling through his nose.

“That’s f-fucking right, all mine. You love being a little slut for this cock, huh? I know you do, you love when I bring you in my office and fuck your pretty cunt in the middle of the goddamn work day, can’t even wait until I get home, this f-filthy slut cunt needs to be split open and stuffed nice and full. Can’t go one fucking day without my cum fucked in you, always needs to be filled up and leaking, hm?”

Charlie was never able to do stuff like this or talk to Nicole like this. She was pretty vanilla when it came to sex, just like to be fucked quietly in bed. He called her a ‘slut’ once and she almost cried, lecturing him for half an hour afterwards on how disrespectful it was.

But now, he gets to explore everything he hasn’t gotten the chance to with you. You love it all, love the way he talks filth in your ear, calls you naughty names. You love getting fucked in all sorts of places, which at first made him a little nervous, cheeks and the tips of his ears bright red when you asked him to fuck you in your classroom or finger you under your dress on the subway. But, after almost a year and a half together, you can safely say that he’s a full-on exhibitionist deviant.

Your walls clamp down around him, eyes still squeezed shut as you feel his hips begin to thrust forward. Soon, he holds you almost completely still, moving his hips as fast as he can. His cigarette is almost ashes at this point, and he kicks himself for not thinking of a good disposal plan beforehand.

“Oh baby, oh baby...f-fuck!” You whine, hips squirming and gyrating as your impending orgasm grows closer. “Y-Yeah, I love it, love everything you do to me. Wanna take every s-single fucking drop of your cum, Charlie, want it inside me, want it dripping down my thighs.”

He almost loses his mind over your comments, drilling into you at an impossibly hard and fast rate, the lewd slapping squelching sound of your hips colliding overwhelmingly prominent in the space around you.

“You’ll go back to work with so much cum shoved into you, make you sit through your stupid fucking meeting with my cum dripping out of you. B-Better hope no one notices, huh? Better hope your boss doesn’t find out what a good little cockslut you are, how much you love having a pussy-full of your boyfriends f-fucking cum.”

A few muted cries leave your lips as he pounds you harder, his own words spurring him on. He can feel your walls pulsing around him, a sure-fire sign that you’re about to cum.

“C-Charlie! Charlie, I...I’m close.”

“K-Know you are, kid, I know you are. You’re doing so f-fucking well for me, Y/N, squeezing my big cock like a fuckin champ.” Charlie growls, quickly tossing his spent cigarette in a coffee mug on a nearby table. “And now you’re gonna rub your little clit and cum for me like I know you want to. C’mon, kid, wanna feel you come undone around me.”

You quickly begin rubbing your clit and, despite the odd angle, it brings you right up to the edge. You just need something, just a little something, to push you over the edge. Your eyes flutter open to look up at him, but then, you’re met with the sight of his sneakers.

“Goddamnit!” You’re cumming almost instantly, flooding his shaft with your release. “Yes! Oh god, yeah, c-cumming for you baby!”

His hips keep pumping, taking you right through your climax before abruptly coming to a halt when they’re buried as deep inside you as they can possibly be. His eyes go wide before squeezing shut, a guttural groan ripping through his chest as he pumps and shoves his thick creamy load into you.

“T-Take it, f-filthy whore!” He groans, rutting his hips the whole way through, making sure every drop is put inside you.

Once he’s finished, having ridden out his high to its fullest, he tucks himself back into his pants before helping you stand back up. He holds you close, looking down at you with a bright, genuine smile.

“You’re amazing, incredible...just so perfect.” He kisses all over your face before landing on your lips.

Your cheeks heat up at his compliments, hands weaving through his hair as the kiss deepens.

Suddenly, someone knocks on your office door, jiggling the doorknob.

“Charlie?”

His eyes fly open and he pulls away. Shit.

“Yeah, I’m h-here, just give me a minute!”

You quickly pull your pants up and jump under his desk to hide just as he opens the door, running a hand through his hair.

He talks to the person on the other side of the door in a rushed voice, answering their multitude of questions before quickly shutting the door, sighing as you crawl out from under the desk.

“At least we both got to cum, unlike last time.” You walk up and put your hands on his pecs, rubbing them over the fabric. “I gotta get going though, baby. I wanna grab lunch from the deli before my staff meeting.”

Charlie nods, dipping his head down to kiss you one last time, nuzzling his large nose against yours.

“Come over tonight, though? Nicole’s in town and she’s got Henry, so we’ll have the house to ourselves. I feel like we haven’t spent any quality time together lately.”

Nodding, you smile. “I would love to come over. I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Great.” He smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you later, kid. Have a good meeting.”

You laugh as you grab your bag and head out, turning back to wave and flash him a soft smile.

“See you tonight.”

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samwisethewitch · 4 years

Text

Divination Basics

From the Roman priest reading auguries to interpret the will of the gods to the modern fortune teller reading with a deck of playing cards, divination has been a part of human spirituality for thousands of years. Today, divination is an important part of many witches’ practices, and can be an important tool for self-reflection and analysis.

Merriam-Webster defines divination as, “the art or practice that seeks to foresee or foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge usually by the interpretation of omens or by the aid of supernatural powers.” Divination can be used for many things, not just to predict the future. It can be used to understand the past, identify patterns at work in your present, or as a tool for working through trauma.

In the book You Are Magical, author Tess Whitehurst describes divination as, “a way of bypassing your linear, thinking mind and accessing the current of divine wisdom and your own inner knowing.” As I’ve discussed in a previous post, all of us are receiving psychic information all the time, though many of us don’t realize it. Divination tools like tarot cards or rune stones act as triggers to help kickstart our natural psychic gifts.

Divination relies on the use of our intuition. Intuition is defined my Merriam-Webster as, “the power or faculty of attaining to direct knowledge or cognition without evident rational thought and inference.” These are the things you know without needing to be told. Another way of thinking of it is this: your intuition is the way you interpret the information you receive through your psychic senses.

The most important thing to remember when doing divination is that the tool you are using isn’t giving you information — it’s simply helping you to access information you already know. The revelations come from you, not from the cards or whatever other tool you may be using.

When using divination to foresee the future, it’s important to remember that the future is never set in stone. These tools can only show you the most likely outcome based on your current direction.

Beginner-Friendly Divination Tools

These are the divination methods I would recommend for beginners. For one thing, most of these systems are fairly easy to learn and use. For another, these are some of the most popular divination methods among modern witches, so it’s easy to find information about them and/or talk to other practitioners about their experience.

As you’ll see, each divination method has its own strengths and weaknesses, so you may choose to learn several methods that you can combine to get stronger readings. Or you may find that you can get all the information you need from a single method, which is also okay.

Tarot. This is my personal favorite divination method, but it’s also the one with the most misconceptions surrounding it. Tarot cards do not open a portal to the spirit world, and they probably didn’t originate in Ancient Egypt. In fact, evidence suggests that the tarot comes from a medieval Italian card game called Tarocchi, although the modern tarot deck as we know it didn’t come around until the 20th century. Tarot cards are not any more or less supernatural than ordinary playing cards. (Which, incidentally, can also be used for divination.)

Tarot makes use of archetypes, and many readers interpret the cards as a map of an archetypal spiritual journey. For this reason, tarot cards are especially useful for identifying the underlying patterns and hidden influences in any given situation.

Most tarot decks follow the same set of basic symbolism. Unfortunately, this does mean that new readers will need to study the accepted meanings. This isn’t to say that your readings will always match up 100% with the standard meanings of the cards — you may receive intuitive messages that deviate from tradition. Still, it’s helpful to know a little of the history and traditional symbolism behind this powerful divination tool. The good news is that, since most decks use similar symbolism, once you learn the traditional meanings you can successfully read with almost any tarot deck.

I’m planning to post a more in-depth introduction to tarot very soon, but in the meantime, if you want to learn this divination method I recommend starting with the book Tarot For Beginners by Lisa Chamberlain and/or with the website Biddy Tarot.

Oracle Cards. Oracle cards have been rapidly gaining popularity in the witchcraft and New Age communities in the last few years, and it’s easy to see why. One major appeal of oracle cards is how diverse they are — there are countless different oracle decks out there, each with its own theme and symbolism. Another big plus is how beginner-friendly they are; Oracle cards are usually read intuitively, so most decks won’t require you to learn a complex system of symbolism. (Of course, the fact that every oracle deck uses different symbolism can be frustrating for some readers, because they have to learn a new set of symbols for every deck.)

Some readers (myself included) also find that oracle cards usually give more surface level information. Tess Whitehurst says that, “While oracle cards can help us answer the questions ‘What direction should I take?’ and ‘What is the lesson here?’ tarot cards are more suited to helping us answer the questions ‘What is going on?’ and ‘What is the underlying pattern at work here?'” For this reason, many readers choose to use tarot and oracle cards together to get a more well-rounded look at the situation.

Another common complaint about oracle cards is that many decks are overwhelmingly positive and shy away from dark themes or imagery, which creates an imbalanced reading experience. I think this is best summed up by one Amazon review for the Work Your Light Oracle, which says: “Basically, this is very much a deck for Nice White Ladies(TM) who like crystals and candles but aren’t ‘super into all that witchy stuff.'”

There ARE oracle decks out there that address darker themes, but many of the most popular decks on the market are overwhelmingly positive. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes a little positive encouragement is more helpful than brutal honesty. However, too much focus on the positive can lead you to ignore your problems, which only makes things worse in the long run. For this reason, finding balanced decks is important — if you’re going to use a very shiny happy deck, my advice would be to alternate it with more grounded decks, or with a deck specifically designed for shadow work.

That being said, oracle cards are a great divination tool if you can find a good deck, especially for beginners who are intimidated by more structured systems like tarot and the runes. If you’re interested in working with oracle cards, the best way to start is to find a deck that 1.) you feel a strong attraction to, and 2.) has a good guidebook. (My favorite oracle deck is the Halloween Oracle by Stacey Demarco, which I use for readings all year.)

Runes. The Elder Futhark alphabet is a runic alphabet that originated in ancient Scandinavia around 200 AD. While this was an actual writing system, it also had magical and mythological associations in the cultures that originally used it. While using the runes for divination is a modern practice, it is based on the historical sense of magic surrounding these symbols.

Like tarot, the runes have a traditional set of meanings. However, because there are only twenty-four runes, there aren’t as many meanings to learn as there are with tarot. Some rune sets also contain a blank stone, which has its own special meaning. I have personally found the runes to be a great source of wisdom and insight, although they do tend towards “big picture” messages rather than small details.

However, there is one major stain on the runes’ history; they were studied and used by Nazi occultists before and during World War II. Like many symbols associated with historical Germanic paganism, the runes were appropriated as part of Nazi propaganda — for example, the Sowilo rune was incorporated into the SS logo. This isn’t to say that you can’t reclaim the Elder Futhark alphabet, but I do think it’s important to know the history going in. Because of their association with Nazism, it’s best to avoid wearing or publicly displaying the runes.

There are other ancient alphabets that are used for divination, like the Anglo-Saxon runes or the Irish Ogham, but the Elder Futhark is the most popular.

If you’re interested in learning divination with runes, I recommend the book Pagan Portals: Runes by Kylie Holmes.

Pendulums. Pendulums are interesting because, unlike tarot, oracle cards, and runes, they can be used to answer yes or no questions. For this reason, many readers use pendulums to get clarification on readings they’ve done with other divination methods, but you can also use pendulums on their own.

A pendulum is any small, weighted object hanging from a chain or string. You can buy a pendulum made specifically for divination from a metaphysical shop or an Etsy seller, but you can just as easily use something you already have: a necklace, your housekey, or a small rock or crystal tied to a string.

Pendulums may be the easiest divination method to learn. The only thing you need to do to learn how to interpret a pendulum is ask it what its “yes” and “no” motions look like. To do this, simply hold your pendulum in your hands and focus on your connection to it. Then, let the pendulum hang from its chain or string so it can swing freely. Say or think, “Show me ‘yes’.” Allow the pendulum to swing, and pay attention to its movements. “Yes” is often a forwards-and-backwards swing or a clockwise circle, but your “yes” may look different. (Some witches even notice that different pendulums in their collection have different “yes” and “no” movements!) Once you’ve gotten the pendulum to show you its “yes,” ask it to show you its “no.” For many readers, “no” is a side-to-side swing or a counterclockwise circle, but again, yours may be different.

The biggest downside to pendulums is that because they typically only answer “yes” or “no,” you have to be very specific with your questions. Pendulums aren’t the best tool for general energy readings or open-ended advice. However, that specificity makes them great for validating your gut feelings, interpreting your dreams, identifying a deity or spirit that you think may be reaching out to you, or any other situation that requires a little clarification.

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thatoneao3writer · 2 years

Note

i promised this a while ago, but only just finished it. not my usual style, clearly, so it is considerably shorter, but im still happy with it :)

at any rate this is dedicated 100% to @/narwhalismyname, for complimenting me and giving me all the motivation to finish this after it sat, untouched, for almost a month. thank you again <3

without further ado, please enjoy my very short and open-ended fic about Punz's first time seeing Sam Nook :)

(in case of confusion, before i took a break from writing we had talked about ttau characters pronouns, Punz uses he/they/lir/nyct/zed/ve)

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

Punz sighed, running a hand through their hair in frustration as they approached the front door of the Titans Tower. The doorbell stares at him tauntingly, which is quite stupid, honestly. ‘That's right. Stupid ass doorbell. Fuck you too.’

…

Okay, so maybe Punz was a little tired, a little dehydrated, a little bit crazed at the moment, but honestly? Who’s to know. It's not like you could tell that nyct hadn’t slept or eaten in the past 36 hours. It wasn’t virs fault anyways, it was virs fucking little brother Purpled, disappearing without a note, not a goddamn trace. Luckily, zed had found Purpled hanging around with Tommy and Tubbo sometime last night, just fucking around the city with no rhyme or reason. Now he was here to let Sam know that Purpled was back, seeing as the man had helped out a bit. He rang the doorbell, waiting as delirious thoughts flitted through his mind.

‘Why does a group of superheroes even have a fucking doorbell?’ Finally though, someone answers the door. Antfrost. Punz sighs, not wanting to deal with what has a good 80% chance of being horny bullshit. Luckily, Ant seems to recognise the look of absolute exhaustion on lirs face and huffs a laugh, before opening the door for lir without a word, and locking it behind the two. Relieved, Punz takes virs time making virs way towards the lab that ve had a feeling Sam would be holed away in, stopping in the Towers’ kitchen to grab a glass of water, saying hi to Puffy and Bad, and even grabbing a few snacks for the road, sticking cookies and the like into zeds pockets as nyct finally made lirs way to the lab. Punz reached for the door handle, chocolate chip half hanging out of his mouth.

To be quite honest, they looked pretty stupid.

Which is why they are absolutely mortified when the door swings open, revealing the most handsome man ve had ever seen. The man was tall, but not overwhelmingly so, and well built. He had long hair, pulled back in a ponytail, with facial features that were just similar enough to Sam’s own for even Punz’s sleep deprived mind to deduce that the two were related in some capacity. Unlike Sam, the man had Tanuki Ears, fluffy and fluttering ever so slightly to take in the sounds of the Tower. But the starkest difference lay in his eyes. Stunning, they were. Black and white, but not in the way that one would think, as the sclera was completely black, bleeding into white irises. Absolutely piercing, the man's eyes held a certain curiosity within them, as if no amount of knowledge could ever satiate the need to know. Punz gulped as the man walked past him, leaving Sam’s lab. Nyct offered a small, bashful smile at the fact that they had been caught staring, and blushed heavily when the man smiled back.

As Punz got lost in a dream world, Sam watched his friend develop a crush on his AI right in front of his eyes. He sighed lightheartedly, before tapping Punz’s shoulder to get zeds attention. He put on a sly smile before bumping Punz with his shoulder.

“So, Sam Nook, huh?” He asked playfully, poking Punz’s shoulder with glee.

“Fuck off…” Ve groaned, not quite meaning it. Sam laughed.

No harm in letting this go on for a while.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA- *this squeal goes on for about 6 whole minutes*

Hayden!! My!! Beloved!!

This is absolutely fantastic! I've probably re-read this like, five times already xD

I absolutely adored the different transitions from scene to scene, it really feels like Punz us walking through the tower- (honestly switching from different settings is hard to write for me, so props to you)

And the description of Sam Nook! It has so much detail, and it's so gently meticulous! I love how Punz mostly notices Sam Nook's eyes most of all, because that part of his design was actually one of the unfinished parts of Sam Nook! He was originally supposed to have 'normal-looking' eyes, but Sam wanted to finish him early and didn't feel like painting the individual parts. It's almost like its eyes are the closest thing in his outward appearance to being an android, and somehow, Punz finds it the most human part of him. <3

Oh, but one tiny criticism: Sam Nook is actually quite short, being 4"11 while Punz is 5"10! But it's not that important, I thought the story was magnificent even so!

(Hope you like my artistic rendition of the doorway scene :))

Love you Hayden /p

- 🐋

#ttau #asks #banghaydencoven #hayden tag #punznook #punz #sam nook #awesamdude

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rein-ette · 3 years

Note

Are you still working on your Commonwealth study? Do you have any thoughts on Arthur's relationships with his colonies apart from Canzuk + US?

Not properly, unfortunately with exams and then work I haven’t had mental/emotional capacity to do real research (and probably won’t for a while 😔). But I have continued to think about and develop certain relationships, and I think I also have old hcs I’ve never shared, so I’ll put those down!

Born into the Empire

Australia

@oumaheroes has already done such great hcs on him idk what I can add, but basically he was a little bit of a rowdy child, always breaking windows and shattering fancy pots, never able to sit still. I think rainbow once mentioned that Ken (short for Kenneth, my name for Aus) was a lot like England as a child in his curiosity and energy, and I wholeheartedly agree. But I think Arthur’s intensity was more inwardly directed, pushing him to pursue and master new talents and learn whatever he could, while Australia is a little more carefree in his love for the outdoors, exploring, jumping around and off things, little wild animals. Unfortunately for him, he was born in a period of the empire when Arthur was very serious about his kids education, and therefore often praised those who studied hard and learned fast, which really just wasn’t Australia’s cup of tea. Australia took this kinda hard and thought he was the “dumb” one in the family that Arthur was always scolding, but in reality Arthur knew and appreciated that Australias interests lay elsewhere — he was just a frustrated, tired, parent who really wanted to give his kids the best while also holding his empire together, two goals that were never going to fit well in the end and would completely exhaust him.

As Australia’s grown older he’s realized a bit of this (not entirely, though) and also that 1) he really did break a lot expensive things and cause general mayhem 2) scolding us Arthur’s way of showing he cares, if he didn’t he wouldn’t have payed attention to him at all 3) despite being a penal colony, he was still one of Arthur’s more “legitimate” children (being white and a boy) and was therefore still incredibly privileged — never having to question, for example, why it was that Arthur was his dad, if it should be this way, or if he had a seat at the family table at all (more on this later).

New Zealand

Zee, from birth, was a clear favourite. Obedient, calm, quietly intelligent, he would also later develop a blistering sense of humour which combined with his appearance made it overwhelmingly clear who’s child he was. If Ken questioned his place in the family because of his poor academic record and others did because of their appearance/race/other complications, Kaelan never had such problems; his siblings called him the “prince.” Zee, however, also had a charm that, like Matthew, endeared him to his siblings and mostly protected him from jealousy, though he certainly still had issues with being called a try hard, daddy’s boy, bossy, arrogant. Certainly as a child Zee was a little prideful and, under that unperturbed demeanour, willful, but he grew out of it by the 20th century and became one of those most trusted by Arthur, second only to Matthew. He’s also always been inseparable from his brother Australia despite their differences, and today they both have one of the healthiest and most amicable relationships with Arthur of any nation, let alone former colonies (family road trips, every summer).

Bermuda

I absolute fell in love with this girl after reading about here, once, in this fic by @shachaai, and after that my mind just ran away with me. For me, her human name given to her by Arthur just has to be Ariel — for the little mermaid reference, yes, symbolizing her connection to the sea and stunning good looks, but also because:

1. Ariel is a biblical name, meaning lion of God. This makes sense to me, because Bermuda began as a Portuguese trade post, so Arthur definitely consulted our resident bad catholic Port before naming her.

2. Ariel used to be boys name. This also makes sense, because I hc Bermuda was and still is a tomboy. Bitch is fierce, takes no prisoners, and has zero filter. Her letters to Arthur, which all the colonies sent so Arthur could keep an eye on things, were full of shit like “I swear to god if the Spanish don’t get out of my waters I might eat one of them,” and “father, I asked you for destroyers two months ago, and yet you sent them to Hong Kong — could you explain this most unusual occurrence, surely it’s not that you forgot”, and “thank you for the harpoon on my birthday, I caught a small shark a couple days ago and have sent you some of its teeth for your collection.” Arthur tolerates this attitude because he’s weak when it comes to girls; he absolutely spoils his daughters (and flushes like a 16 year old when a woman so much as bats her eyelashes at him). Yes, p*ssywhipped Arthur is a hill I will die on.

3. It also suits her because? Ariel? Shakespeare? The Tempest? Bermuda Triangle? Shipwrecks? Daughter-like figure of powerful and vengeful sorcerer? Yeah. And this girl is a fire spirit — she is so lively, snarky, clever. As she’s grown older she’s mellowed out a little, but still: a no shit taken, no fucks given type of gal.

4. Speaking of growing up, she’s also become quite the beauty. Shacha, if I’m remembering correctly, described her as dark skinned, wavy-haired, and green eyed and that image has been burned onto the back of my eyelids ever since. Those Iberian genetics really be pulling through for her, that’s for sure. Engport love child if I’ve ever seen one. Definitely one of the prettiest in her family.

Singapore

I’ve already mentioned this to needcake, but I’m not too big a fan of canon Singapore, so this is my oc version. Singapore is fascinating to me because it had only a very small local population before it became a colony (The original settlement had actually been destroyed by the Portuguese about two centuries before the British started building a port there.) So nation-tans like Singapore and Bermuda really are Arthur’s children in the most direct sense of the word. And yet, Singapore is mostly ethnically Chinese, with Malays being the second largest group. Growing up Asian in a white, Victorian era family surely cannot have been easy and more than once Singapore probably wondered if there hadn’t been some mistake. To make up for the constant fear that he wasn’t “really” British, Singapore studied ferociously and had a truly terrifying work ethic. I’m not sure if this is common knowledge outside Asian circles, so I’ll mention that this hc comes from the fact Singapore is well known for having truly exceptional students and some of the most prestigious schools. Singaporeans score highly in literally everything and they have an advantage with good English learning environments, a highly desirable trait in Asia, but these results come from brutally long hours — and its really saying something that they’re known for working hard, considering the studying ethic of students in Korea, Japan, and China aint nothing to sneeze at, either. To me this actually fits really well with Singapore’s upbringing in Arthur’s household, because Arthur himself prizes intelligence and hard work above all else, being a workaholic himself.

As for their relationship, it was probably the best when Singapore was young and peaked in the 1930s with the massive naval base the British built at Singapore, at the time the largest dry dock in the world. Singapore was a well-behaved child, not necessarily introverted but not rowdy either, and all the way into his teenage years he truly admired Arthur and was proud to be a part of the British Empire, despite his lingering unease and insecurities. The British defeat in World War II, however, was a massive turning point. He had worked his ass off to be a good son, a good brother, to contribute to the only family and system he had ever known, and he had thought by the 30s he was finally on his way to becoming a fine adult. And suddenly, the British surrender brings his entire world crashing down. He had followed the rules faithfully thinking it was his destiny, but suddenly it was clear that all rules were made up. Of course, his insecurities exploded. If the empire was a ruse, what the hell was he? A part of the illusion? He couldn’t have a truly Asian identity, because many of the old East Asian nations shunned him for his Western upbringing, and he could not entirely understand their values either. So he was a kid who kinda had to figure out late and very very suddenly who the fuck he was and wanted to be.

And, well, he’s done pretty well for himself, hasn’t he. After having a total crisis and questioning everything, I think Singapore slowly started to realize that just because the British Empire as a political entity didn’t last forever, that didn’t mean that his entire childhood and identity weren’t real. The love he gave to his siblings and the love he got back, the hard work he put in, his bond with Arthur and the safe, happy childhood he had — those memories and feelings didnt have to be diminished by what came after. Essentially, he learned the lesson all nations have to learn, which is that one needs to be able to discern between duties as a nation and feelings as a human being, and to some extent keep them separate to protect both.

Whoooooo ok I’ll stop there because this turned into a dissertation, sorry. Let me know if there are any specifics u want me to elaborate on or anything I missed, but I’ll leave this here for today :)

#hws england #hws Australia #hws new zealand #oc: hws Bermuda #not gonna tag anymore I’m lazy #fun times with the commonwealth #I probably won’t write so much for all of them I just put it there to remind myself #needcake #ask #my hcs

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versegm · 4 years

Text

It starts, as many things do, with a letter.

White paper, messy handwriting. Folded in half in a small envelope and slipped under her door.

Of course, the letter itself doesn’t matter so much as the words written on it.

“A love note?” Nitocris raises both eyebrows in surprise. “Who is it from?”

“It wasn’t signed.” Ereshkigal answers. “But it was, uh. Quite generous in compliments.”

“As it should be. You’re a queen, after all.” Nitocris nods to herself. Ereskigal wishes she had the same confidence as her-

“Hey, girls!” A preppy voice rises from the door. “How y’all doing?”

“Great! Just great!” Ereshkigal hurriedly answers. She turns around with a wild smile, eager to change the subject. She can’t let them know she can’t let them know “How about you, Astolfo?”

Ereshkigal doesn’t know who the writer of these letters are. She does know, however, who she’d like them to be.

Because the thing about Astolfo, is-

“You’re staring again. Do I have something on my face?”

they’re handsome.

Pretty. Beautiful. Asu-shu-namir shaped Ereskigal’s taste in people for her whole life, sue her. She can’t help feeling weak before this smooth skin, this perfect hair, this high-pitched voice. She can’t help feeling weak before these strong arms, this broad chest, this sharp jaw.

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“The Underworld? Yeah, I’ve been there once! Not Kur, obviously. The one I went to was neat, though. It was fun.”

they’re soothing.

There’s something about them, the unmistakable mark of the Underworld, just below their skin. Not like the undead. It’s much closer to her or Nitocris. Someone with ties to down there, even back when they were alive.

Ereshkigal loves the Overworld, and loves living beings. But she can’t deny that they’re a little… overwhelming. A bit of familiarity is, welcome.

(“Aw, thanks! You feel the same, actually! A fellow Moon-dweller.”

“I… never went there, though?”

“It might just be that you don’t remember. The Moon is where everything lost lies. People can end there too, when they’re lost or forgotten. It’s hard work getting them back down.”)

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Oh, do you need help with that? Here, let me!”

they’re kind.

Overwhelmingly so. They get into trouble more often than not, and many think it’s because they love chaos, (which, to be fair, they do,) but Ereshkigal knows better. Astolfo cannot see someone and not help them. They’re very similar to the Master, in that way. A complete disregard for their own safety in the face of a troubled face.

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Ah, almost forgot myself here. Sorry!”

they’re so considerate.

Ereshkigal isn’t… good, with touch. She’s working on it! But the sheer warmth- the pressure- the knowledge that someone is touching her, the queen of Kur, mistress of the dead, willingly touching her-

it’s. A Lot.

Astolfo is nothing but touch. Always hugging others, always patting a shoulder, holding a hand, elbowing rips. That’s their default way of showing affection.

And you’d think it’d be a problem, you’d think there’d be friction, but-

Astolfo… doesn’t touch Ereshkigal.

Oh, they want to, that much is obvious. Often, they reach out for her. Often, they raise their hands, to pat or hold or pet.

But they always stop themself, inches away from her skin.

She knows it has to be really counterintuitive to them. And she knows it must be hard for them to remember not to touch her everytime. (It’s hard for Astolfo to remember a lot of things.) Yet they try. Yet they do. For her. For her comfort. And when they forget, they apologize, always, always.

It’s been a couple months, and Ereshkigal has now worked her way to simple touches. Yet Astolfo rarely ever initiates. They wait for her to touch them, and even then, she can see how much they scrutinize her when they reciprocate, ready to back down at the first hint of discomfort.

For her. All of this, they do it for her.

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Huh. I don’t really get it, but you’re welcome!”

they’re not scared.

Of anything, in general. But most importantly, of her. Ereshkigal, goddess of death. Ereshkigal, chaotic evil. Ereshkigal, ruler of mesopotamian Hell.

They’ve never even flinched. From the first day they’ve seen her.

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“You… remembered what I said? You actually listen when I talk?”

they’re so, so deeply lonely.

Well. No. Lonely isn’t the right word. Astolfo has quite a lot of friends. They’re a social butterfly, always jumping from newcomer to veteran servant, chatting up even the Chaldea staff.

But there’s… something, like a gap, between Astolfo and others. It’s in the way they laugh Astolfo off as a naive idiot. It’s in the way they get frustrated when Astolfo forgets things.

And it makes Ereshkigal angry, so angry, that righteous fury that make gods tremble.

Because they don’t get it. Because they don’t try to get it. Because sometimes Astolfo talks about one thing or another, and pauses, and then apologizes, as if their thoughts were a bother, as if they were a bother. Because whenever she mentions something Astolfo talked about in the past, they get surprised- always, always, without fail.

Because Astolfo is so good, so kind, a ray of sunshine barely dressed in flesh. Because Astolfo deserves so many things, because Astolfo is so important, and they’re convinced that they’re nothing but a side character.

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Hey, check out that new card game Nobu gave me! Wanna play?”

(Fingers trembling over the door frame. Stiff shoulders. Forced smile. It’s subtle, but it’s there. It’s subtle, but something’s wrong.)

they trust her.

She hadn’t known what to do, that night. Something had clearly been… off, about Astolfo. But she’s never been the social one; they were. The best she could do- the best she did- was humor them. Play, and talk, and fill in the silences. (Sometimes, she hears people joke about wishing Astolfo would speak a little less. She wonders if they know. How downright disturbing it is to witness Astolfo being quiet.)

Her bed is small, and touch is difficult, but she’d tried really, really hard, and their back had been burning hot and impossibly broad against her own, but for them she’d endured it. She’d wished she could have hugged them, back then.

Astolfo hadn’t complained. As she’d drifted off to sleep, she swears she’s heard the softest “thank you.”

The next day, they’d been back to normal.

(She’d checked the calendar, afterwards. That night had been a new moon.)

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Hey, look! I made you a plushie of Hippo-kun!”

“This nail polish looks SO good on you. Give me your other hand!”

“Hey! I found these flowers earlier, and I thought of you!”

they’re her friend. They’re her dear, important friend.

And Ereshkigal is in love with them.

(In her opinion, they’re an easy person to fall in love with.)

Because the thing about Astolfo is-

“Oh, hey! Great timing!”

that they’re standing right in front of her door.

“Here, take this!” They hand her something. “And I’m off. Have a nice day!”

A small envelope. It contains, Ereshkigal is sure, a white paper folded in half, filled with messy handwriting.

She can feel her face heating up.

“W-wait! You don’t get to just leave!”

“Huh? Why? Do you need me for something?” They tilt their head. Genuinely confused.

“This is a love letter!”

“Indeed it is!” They nod, pleased with themself. “I worked hard on these, I hope it shows.”

“... But why?”

And now they’re back to confused. “... Because I’m trying to court you? I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“...” Ereshkigal stands here. Dumbstruck. Because they just said it. Because Ereshkigal never, in a million years, thought this’d be a possibility. That anyone- yet alone the person she herself fancies- might actually reciprocate. Because they make it sound so simple. Because they make it sound so obvious.

“I… the letters weren’t signed.” She says stupidly.

“...” Astolfo blinks. “Oh. It genuinely didn’t occur to me to.” They chuckle sheepishly. “My bad.”

My bad.

And it’s such an Astolfo thing to say, Ereshkigal can’t help but laugh, too.

“I should have known it was you.” (Couldn’t believe it could be them)”... Do you mean them? The things you wrote?”

There are a few seconds of silence. Astolfo looks at her, as if wondering how to best answer, and she can feel dread starting to gather in her throat and-

Astolfo suddenly gets on one knee, like a knight.

“Ereshkigal.” They sound solemn all the sudden, with that tone they use when they’re trying really hard to focus. They raise a hand, and, gently, seize just the tip of her fingers, and they’re so warm, warm, warm, “You’re one of the gentlest souls I’ve ever known. You’re pretty, and strong, and kind, and.”

A pause.

Then, really quietly.

“You listen. People don’t usually listen.”

(That loneliness with no name, this gap with no words.)

Slowly, so that she can pull away at any time, Astolfo raises her hand, and softly kisses the back of her fingers. For a few seconds, Ereshkigal forgets to even breathe.

“So, yes. I meant everything I wrote. And if you’ll allow me, I have plenty more praises I’d like to write about you in the future.”

They tilt her hands on the side, and their lips are on her wrist, and their eyes are on her, and there’s a look on their face, something like adoration, something like worship. A knight bowing before their queen.

Love.

“So, will you?”

“What?” Her face feels so hot there must be steam coming out of her ears.

“Allow me to write more to you?” They run a thumb over her knuckles. “I will stop, if you want me to.”

(Always. Always. If you’re comfortable. If you want me to. An inch over her skin, begging to touch her, yet stopping for her sake.)

“You could be writing to me about rocks you found on the side of the road and I’d love it.” She blurts out. And it’s true.

Astolfo laughs, with that beautiful voice of theirs that gets her head spinning everytime. (Happiness is such a good look on them.)

(They still haven’t let go of her hand.)

“See? This, right there. This is why I love you.”

#fate #fate grand order #fgo #astolfo #ereshkigal

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phoenix-angel-suyari · 2 years

Text

I just want to take a minute to say how happy I am for all of you who have found your significant others. To have that tried and tested and true.

Every relationship has it’s ups and downs, it’s trials and such. But, it’s starting to feel really hopeless. I’m single and it feels like I’ll always be single. I made peace with never finding my one(s) a long time ago, but I don’t want to be alone, you know? There’s just....SO MUCH. I feel like I need to have some sort of answer exchange with someone before I engage too deeply. And yeah, it’s probably a lot to do with fear and my trauma responses and my trust issues. My therapist is well aware of these, btw. But still, like, dating sites are good ways to weed through like that and yet...

13 years of cishet based dating sites have never gotten me anywhere. Even when I paid the dues. But, I have never even been able to LAUNCH on queer sites. There have always been so many (necessary) mandates that I just get fucking discouraged right out the gate. I don’t want to have to provide all this extremely personal, definitely identity compromising information just to be able to maybe get a few queer people to look at me. And it’s kinda super unfair just in general.

I’ve discussed with my therapist how I’ve never brought home a same sex or transgender partner to meet my family, because I don’t think it’ll be fair to subject them to my family. But, because therapy will fuck up everything you ever thought about literally everything in your entire life - and that’s the POINT, mind - recently I’ve been thinking that that’s unfair. Because it assumes things. It assumes firstly that anyone would be interested, that they’d be willing to undergo that. It also assumes that I’m not WORTH someone taking on that sort of challenge. And honestly, I will probably never really heal past that completely - but, we’re working on it. But, it’s monumentally unfair to count someone out and disregard their feelings (theoretical though they may be) like that.

I have wanted to feel loved and worthy and cherished for so damn long, that I’m not entirely certain anymore if this desperate loneliness for partners comes from somewhere that would be in any way fair or honest or fucking HEALTHY to someone else. I know it’s not someone else’s responsibility to save, fix or heal me. That’s entirely on ME. But, a little support - physical, emotional, mental - would be fucking overwhelmingly appreciated.

I don’t know. I’m just really frustrated. And even then...Like, I specifically stated in my bio on the queer sites that I am NOT interested in unicorn hunters or being anyone’s unicorn and like, that’s all the interest I’ve received. With shit like “We respect your stance but we just want you to know we think you’re really cool” and other shit that totally disregards what I have actually said in black and white and put rather bluntly on PURPOSE. Like I’ll somehow CHANGE MY MIND. Which just...

I am so fucking tired you guys. I’m just so damn tired of all of it.

#my life #my family #my non-existent relationships #and all that entails

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satan-chillin · 3 years

Text

in this lifetime and the next

Zhou Zishu was no better during waking hours, sparing what he could in reminiscing about what he actually recalled from his random dreams of a faceless little girl. She was dressed in hues of blue, sometimes pink with a touch of red. Effortlessly, he filled out the blanks among her vagueness: dark eyes in the shape of almonds, a button nose, pinchable cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips; altogether, they would crinkle adorably when her face lit up with a beam or when she stuck out her tongue in impertinence.

Albeit on a young girl’s image, those were exactly two of Wen Kexing’s trademark expressions.

(Or, the times Zhou Zishu gets to witness how Wen Kexing handles children and catches extra feelings. ™)

Also available in Ao3

Despite Wen Kexing’s frivolity on matters that had been outside his two-decade revenge plot, in hindsight, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he was good with children.

He raised A-Xiang on his own, in a place where he could have hardly taken care of his own barely adolescent self, and, all things considered, she grew up functional and eventually found a good man who cared and loved her. Soon, she would be a mother who wouldn’t let her children experience the same tough childhood that she had.

Zhou Zishu had seen Wen Kexing take care of the younger disciples, a couple of them orphans who had found their way in the Four Seasons Manor. Some were found by Wen Kexing the same way he had found A-Xiang, and while as the Manor Lord the last say would always be Zhou Zishu’s, there was of course no question of acceptance. He wasn’t heartless to drive away children in need of home and guidance, and he definitely didn’t have the heart to turn his back on what Wen Kexing considered important.

The first time he witnessed him interact with the youngest juniors, Zhou Zishu believed he was seeing a rare sight of Wen Kexing, the one capable of nurturing and caring selflessly for the vulnerable. He took them under his wing and let them follow him like a herd of chicks to his mother hen, instilling the fundamentals of values and discipline yet at the same time wanting to give them a chance in an unfettered childhood. He hadn’t had a proper one himself, he had said in that deceptively casual tone of his when he made a request to him to give the young ones half a day to spend in leisure alone. Zhou Zishu hadn’t been a child who played often—he was an odd kid—but he was a bit hurt that Wen Kexing had to ask this of him when he knew what the answer would be.

So, because he was a little frustrated and overwhelmingly happy at the tenderness and compassion Wen Kexing had for their disciples who might as well be their children at this point, Zhou Zishu flicked his forehead in reproach for needing to ask, before embracing him and inhaling the scent of his hair. They’ve never been good with words, that much was clear, but Zhou Zishu liked to think that they were making progress on that front. He still had a lot of things to learn about Wen Kexing, after all.

And about himself too, apparently, as Zhou Zishu came to realize one evening.

He woke up alone, and after wandering around the manor found Wen Kexing by the gardens carrying their newest unofficial recruit, a boy of almost five who seemed like a toddler given how small he was. Wen Kexing cut an ethereal image with his pale white hair under the moonlight, with a boy sleeping deeply in his arms as he hummed a faint tune.

Zhou Zishu had no idea how long he was standing at a distance, mesmerized at the serenity of the sight and sound. Wen Kexing turned to him with a curve of a smile on his lips, gesturing mildly at his burden. Zhou Zishu approached him as if in a trance, led by an ache that he dared not examine. Not yet, anyway.

“A-Chen can’t get back to sleep,” Wen Kexing murmured once Zhou Zishu was close enough to admire how natural he was with a slumbering child. “Nightmare.”

Zhou Zishu was half-tempted to ask whether he was woken up by similar reasons as well but settled with silence. Any words now would be poor enough to break this moment. He glanced at the boy’s unruly hair and did not resist the urge to smooth it down gingerly. How peculiar that he hardly felt self-conscious the longer Wen Kexing watched him, watched the gesture, that soft, fond smile of his not leaving his face.

He followed as Wen Kexing wordlessly led the way to one of the juniors’ shared quarters. Gently, as if he had done it several times, he laid the boy down and tucked him in without rousing him.

It was a sedate pace, with Wen Kexing’s arm wounded around his, on their trek back. Zhou Zishu had no notion of the late hour, which, while knowing they both would have another early day ahead, he frankly didn’t care about. If he decided to pull him towards the direction of the same garden they came from, Wen Kexing would happily follow him, that he knew. Though with the full moon pleasantly out, Zhou Zishu had no idea who would be leading who, especially when he had the feeling of a man bewitched by an unearthly creature in white.

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu whispered, pausing to hold Wen Kexing’s hand to his lips in reverence. “Lao Wen.”

“A-Xu,” Wen Kexing whispered in return, none of his usual note of teasing. “A-Xu, let’s go to sleep.”

Gladly, Zhou Zishu let himself get lured away in the night.

...

They were quite known around town at this point; those two young masters from the local manor, as they were generally called, or the Manor Lord and the Second Master from a couple of traders who had dealt with them personally twice or thrice and knew them by their names. To the wizened elderly who lived for years in town and who did know better, they were dearly known as the xīn hūn fū fù.

Wen Kexing thrived in the odd bits of friendships he formed, from the tavern owner to the traveling peddler. He was a novelty, with his striking appearance of long white hair that contrasted against his dark eyebrows, the jut of his cheekbones, the cute button of his nose, and the fullness of his lips that Zhou Zishu had taken the time to familiarize with. A face Wen Kexing deemed once a treasure from the gods.

Zhou Zishu must have amassed a huge amount of good karma in his last life to be the blessed person to see it every day the moment he opened his eyes in the morning and when he closed them at night.

He cleared his throat, hoping he wouldn’t appear shameless to ogle at him in broad daylight among the present light traffic of people. The unhealthy amount Zhou Zishu spent on staring at Wen Kexing recently was a tad concerning, not to mention that he honestly had no idea what brought it on.

“A-Xu?” Rubbing a finger on his wrist, Wen Kexing leaned closer than was appropriate, imploring. “Is there something wrong?”

Whatever excuse Zhou Zishu might have given would fall short. To his luck, Wen Kexing looked past him, his attention abruptly captured.

There was a little girl by the post, hunched into a ball by herself and was close to unnoticeable. Wen Kexing was crouching by her side in an instant, coaxing her to speak with his kind murmurs of encouragement. Zhou Zishu felt useless standing there, not even sure what to do with his hands. In the next minute, short arms were reaching for Wen Kexing, and he obliged with lifting her to his level.

“A-Xu, this little guniang is A-Li,” he introduced. “A-Li, that’s A-Xu. You can call him da-ge instead of uncle because that makes him feel old,” he added cheerfully.

Zhou Zishu rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. I’m not the one with white hair,” he groused. A-Li, with her small fist, reached for a stray lock of Wen Kexing’s hair and held it in wonder, still sniffling. It was incredibly adorable, and as quick as a blink did the memory of that dream-like evening drifted at the forefront of his mind.

Seemingly catching himself, Zhou Zishu gestured silently at the teahouse behind them so A-Li could be seated. Wen Kexing cajoled her into speaking about what happened by cooling the steaming baozi and tea she was fed. It wasn’t long until she was talking about getting separated from her mother around the market that was merely two streets away.

A-Li had taken an immediate liking to Wen Kexing, hardly lacking in questions once her curiosity overtook her shyness. Wen Kexing listened to her patiently, finding the stories of a roughly six-year-old interesting. It helped put her mind at further ease before they went searching for her mother.

Zhou Zishu wished he could say the same, wished he could say that he wasn’t distracted instead by the way Wen Kexing smoothed A-Li’s hair, his slender fingers expertly looping on her braids and rearranging them neatly. Zhou Zishu could imagine him doing the same for A-Xiang all those years ago, perhaps not as deftly from a much younger Wen Kexing who kept tangling her hair on the comb and with A-Xiang protesting when he had pulled too hard.

Unbidden, a different image presented itself in his head—or not so different, he supposed, not when it featured Wen Kexing but this time there was a different little girl in teal whose dark hair he lovingly combed and braided. Once done, she’d smile that familiar impish smile that spelled trouble and… and…

Zhou Zishu blinked, shaken out his reverie by Wen Kexing’s voice that told him they better start looking for A-Li’s mother before sundown. A-Li refused to part from Wen Kexing, hence her tiny hand clutching his as they walked. She was an observant child than expected, however, and had mistaken Zhou Zishu’s lingering stare in their joined hands as something else. She grasped Zhou Zishu’s palm, determinedly keeping him to her opposite side despite her wariness of him.

Touched at her consideration, who was he to deny her? And how could Zhou Zishu deny himself this peculiar but pleasant sensation that wormed in his chest upon realizing that it was something he could get used to?

It would remain in his thoughts, brewing for hours since their successful return to the manor, and by then Zhou Zishu would begin to have a semblance of understanding at the particular sentiment that tended to well up at the idea of Wen Kexing and children.

Later, there would be another silent inquiry on what was preoccupying him in the form of fingers intertwining with his. Zhou Zishu would rather reach from behind Wen Kexing, making a place for himself by his shoulder, against his skin a promise of an answer soon.

...

It was the dreams that caught him off guard, disjointed as they were that Zhou Zishu initially believed they were random images in his head as he slept, until they started to create an outline of a pattern.

There was always a child in his dreams.

The first occurrence could be explained by the recent incident with A-Li, and, sure enough, she was also there, merrily playing with another girl whose back was on him. Zhou Zishu already forgot the randomness of that dream once he awoke.

The second one did not have A-Li anymore, though the unknown girl was around, running across the yard that resembled the one in Four Seasons Manor. She was strangely distant from where he found himself standing, too far for Zhou Zishu to make out her features aside from her bouncing pigtail buns atop her head for every step she took.

When a similar scenario was shown to him for the third time, Zhou Zishu was surprised at the name that was at the tip of his tongue. He did not hear himself uttering it, though it was enough for the unknown girl to run towards him, anticipation building the closer she got. He tried not to be dismayed when he woke abruptly without seeing her face.

He was no better during waking hours, sparing what he could in reminiscing about what he actually recalled from his random dreams of a faceless little girl. She was dressed in hues of blue, sometimes pink with a touch of red. Effortlessly, Zhou Zishu filled out the blanks among her vagueness: dark eyes in the shape of almonds, a button nose, pinchable cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips; altogether, they would crinkle adorably when her face lit up with a beam or when she stuck out her tongue in impertinence. Albeit on a young girl’s image, those were exactly two of Wen Kexing’s trademark expressions.

It became a pastime of a sort, contemplating how Wen Kexing’s physical characteristics would look like on a younger appearance, leading him to remember Zhen Yan with an odd vividness. Ironically though, it wasn’t a memory of Zhen Yan that started to bleed into Zhou Zishu’s sleep—oh, the boy was almost identical to Zhen Yan, alright, but the shade of his eyes and the sternness that belied them were different. Different but familiar, a fact that had Zhou Zishu barely tempering down that powerful surge of clarity.

Both the girl and the boy were the perfect images of what his subconscious thought his and Wen Kexing’s children would look like—and Zhou Zishu yearned, had been for a while. He yearned as strongly as he had yearned for his zhi ji and living a peaceful life with him. He must have been a greedy man, to want more than what was already given to him against all odds.

Zhou Zishu already had his mismatched family with Wen Kexing in the form of Chengling, A-Xiang, and by extension, Weining, and yet he couldn’t help but long for an addition that was purely theirs, impossible it might sound. Zhou Zishu wanted a daughter who would inherit Wen Kexing’s grins and a son who would be as stalwart as Zhou Zishu.

It turned into a wish buried deep down, and lest it threatened to overwhelm him, something he would only allow on the surface during the moments he was around to see Wen Kexing with Chengling, their bond turned comparable to that of a father and son than that of a master and student; or when Zhou Zishu was privy to watch Wen Kexing fuss around a heavily pregnant A-Xiang, not exactly faring better than Weining when it came to keeping A-Xiang on strict bedrest and monitoring her diet with her due date closing in, much to her utter frustration over her husband and older brother.

After A-Xiang bore triplets, Zhou Zishu’s wish stopped being a well-kept secret anymore. It would be forever burned in his mind, perhaps, the picture of Wen Kexing carrying the second of A-Xiang’s babes and lulling him to sleep, awed and adoring like he might cry in happiness.

“A-Xu,” he called for him with a notable giddiness, not even glancing up from the infant. “Look at this baobei. He’s the most well-behaved among his brothers. I think he likes my voice.”

Likely, Zhou Zishu mused. Wen Kexing did have the kind of voice that children find mellifluous. Zhou Zishu idly traced his finger on the babe’s forehead, to his wispy hair, then back to the line of his tiny nose until it was blindly grasped by small fingers.

“A-Xu, try carrying him.”

He was not given a chance to respond before the infant was passed to him. Though alarmed at the sudden transfer, he cradled the babe’s neck at the crook of his elbow with Wen Kexing’s support. Zhou Zishu froze when the baby hiccuped and sniffed, and promptly eased in relief when he did not react to him.

It was a tad difficult to scowl at Wen Kexing when he was looking at him in delight, with a wide grin and a wistful look in his eyes. Zhou Zishu grumbled half-heartedly, though there was a telltale heat creeping up his neck. Sighing, he rocked the babe slightly. He might as well practice knowing A-Xiang and Weining would require all the aid they could get in handling their three newborns.

Weining was the one who was run ragged taking care of his three sons and a recovering A-Xiang who had more complaints of getting distressed over a finicky husband than the three babes she had to feed thrice each. Weining was glad to have Chengling’s eager assistance in bathing and cleaning the three, and with his terrible job at babysitting—or generally keeping the three children entertained, really, else they would wail the house down and, consequently, their own father—the task was up to Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu. Wen Kexing could be quite creative, especially when it involved Senior Ye who had stopped by a week after the birth without knowing of it before coming. Suffice to say, Senior Ye was roped into assigned duties as well and was not able to escape them for another month.

By the end of each day, it would all be the five of them thoroughly exhausted, Chengling and Weining more often than not passed out. Zhou Zishu would also find himself fighting to keep his eyes open late at night before remembering that Sanyu was the one who would wake past midnight and would cry if not rocked in his bassinet.

Tonight, though, he was beaten to it by A-Xiang who stood by their cradles. Her previously wan complexion began to shift into a healthier one these days after several long rests. She hovered by her sons, gracing them with an affectionate smile. She might no longer be the childish young woman Zhou Zishu met years back, though traces of her youth remained, merged with the kind of maturity that was motherhood.

A-Xiang has been around with him for as long as Chengling, and Zhou Zishu couldn’t help but think that one of his children had grown up too fast in front of his eyes. Soon, it would be Chengling, and a part of him knew he would rue when that day came.

“Why are you still awake?” A-Xiang demanded once he caught him by the door. At his startled blink, she pulled him away to close the room behind her. “They’re fine. I made sure Sanyu won’t bother his brothers. And us.” She huffed. “If you say you don’t mind, I’ll kick you.”

“Okay.” Zhou Zishu cracked a smile. “And you? How are you feeling?”

“If A-Ning and gege have to tell me to sleep again, I’ll take my children and run away with them in the mountains.” She harrumphed. “They keep telling me to rest when they need it just as bad!” she exclaimed, her fondness and concern unmistakable. “Old man Ye at least is happy to see me up and about.”

“Yilian peed on Senior Ye once,” Zhou Zishu told her. “With his trauma, he’d rather pass the kid to the mother.”

A-Xiang glowed with pride before eventually bursting into fits of giggles that had him chuckling as well.

“That old man better stick around for a few more decades. I want to see his reaction first to your and gege ’s children!”

Zhou Zishu choked in his own spit, coughing harshly. A-Xiang took pity on him, patting his back somewhat roughly; smacking him, actually—and was that a triumphant smirk?

“What? You think I don’t notice you sighing longingly when gege’s holding a kid? I am very observant, Zhou-ge.” She reveled on his dumbfoundedness, beaming. “Besides, if it wasn’t for me, you two won’t be together.”

Zhou Zishu wouldn’t exactly attribute that to her, but whatever. “You noticed,” he muttered.

“You’re not being subtle anyway,” she said. “So why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Have children! Your silly boy will love brothers and sisters, you know.”

While he recognized A-Xiang as an adult, Zhou Zishu still preferred not to talk about this with her. He thanked whoever deity was out there for the dimness outdoors or he wouldn’t hear the end of it if she noticed his flush.

“It’s… complicated.”

“Is it?” A-Xiang retorted, unconvinced. “Huh. You’d think you two old men already have the babymaking down to an art—”

“A-Xiang!”

“—that it’ll come easier for you two.” In a fit of insightfulness, she asked, “Did gege tell you he doesn’t want them?”

“No. I mean, it’s not a subject we’ve discussed so I don’t know if it’s something he’d like to have or not.” There was a large possibility of Wen Kexing not wanting them, in spite of how he was with children in general. “And in case you missed it, we’re both men.”

“So far, the only problem I see is you’re not communicating with gege.” A-Xiang lifted a finger to his face before he could protest. “Now, about the obvious one, have you already searched for ways?” She must have seen how lost Zhou Zishu was feeling, given the way she stomped down her foot. “You’re telling me you have access to that armory but have not once thought of checking it for answers? Zhou-ge...”

Zhou Zishu raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. Alright, I see your point.” It was beyond seeing her point, in fact; so he was an idiot for not thinking about it before letting himself imagine various scenarios of illogical proportions, what about it? Zhou Zishu’s head was buzzing with possibilities.

A-Xiang tugged on his sleeve. “Talk to gege, okay? Don’t assume what he’ll say. You know him better, but I’ve known him longer. He’ll listen no matter what.”

...

In the end, it was Wen Kexing who sought him first, slipping next to Zhou Zishu in a late afternoon and laying his head to his shoulder. A bit of tilting and Zhou Zishu was nuzzling a head of white hair, his arm wrapping automatically around Wen Kexing’s back.

“A-Xu, do you think we’ll be good parents?”

“Chengling turned out alright, and A-Xiang isn’t so bad.”

Wen Kexing grinned lazily. “Chengling was already a sweet boy before he became our disciple first. A-Xiang… yes, she isn’t so bad.”

Zhou Zishu snorted. “I thought I’d hear a stellar compliment to the person who raised her. You did well with her, Lao Wen, now it’s her turn to do her best to her own children.”

“I did what I could for her then, but this time, if...” Wen Kexing trailed off, inching closer to Zhou Zishu that he was practically on his lap. “If I’m given a chance to raise another child, I'll give my all a thousandfold.”

There was no room in Zhou Zishu for doubt, though it warmed his heart to hear the words aloud. “We’ll have a spoiled kid, won’t we?” he asked lightly.

“That’s a given, of course. No child of ours should lack for something.”

“Ah, they’ll be a menace.”

Wen Kexing pouted. “A-Xu’s a tiger parent so he’ll handle their discipline, but you can’t stop me from pampering them with their father.”

“If they turned out to have your personality, get ready to deal with them. I have practice, but you don’t,” Zhou Zishu pointed out, tucking a lock of Wen Kexing’s hair behind his ear delicately. He paused with a thoughtful frown. “If it’s a girl and she inherits your features, I’m not looking forward to fending off suitors.”

“Who says you’ll fend them off alone? I’ll join you.” He made a grimace. “But if she turns out to be a great beauty because of you, we better prepare against a horde of—ow!”

Zhou Zishu swatted his thigh playfully, settling him comfortably on his lap. “Laying it a bit thick there, but yes. We won’t marry her off until she’s thirty.”

Wen Kexing nodded sagely. “And not until the person who wants her hand has proven their capabilities against the both of us.”

“Individually or together?”

“Both.”

“... She’ll be an old maid, Lao Wen.”

“And she’ll still be our daughter no matter what, A-Xu.” Gratified, Wen Kexing loosely wrapped his arms around Zhou Zishu’s neck. “But we can divide the responsibility equally if she has a protective brother. He’s going to be skilled in martial arts and leadership and beautiful like his father; strict when the situation calls for it but is a perfect gentleman like his other father.”

“Lao Wen.”

“Hmm?”

“You do realize we’ll be fending off nuisances on both fronts?”

In their present proximity, Zhou Zishu could see the manic gleam in Wen Kexing’s eyes at the prospect of, well, not so much of a fight but definitely a challenge. The faint glow of the setting sun reflecting off of Wen Kexing did not help one bit with Zhou Zishu’s overflowing endearment.

“A-Xu,” Wen Kexing called, touching Zhou Zishu’s forehead with his and leaving a hair’s breadth. “Since I met you again you make me wish for things I used to dare not even think,” he whispered. “So ask me.”

Zhou Zishu readily complied. “Lao Wen, will you have children with me?”

He took Wen Kexing’s smile for the answer that it was and closed the rest of the space between them. Zhou Zishu learned that he was an entranced man, in this lifetime and the next.

...

He could name each flower that bloomed all year in Four Seasons Manor, though at the start of spring there was a single flower in the shade of blue that Zhou Zishu did not recognize.

Soft, fragrant petals met his skin, and the scent lingered even as he threaded his fingers through Wen Kexing’s flowing mane of white.

Later, Zhou Zishu would dream of Wen Kexing surrounded by the very same blossoms, their smell and hues of blue mingling with white, and at a distance, the breeze carried the faint sound of children’s laughter.

#shl fic #shan he ling #tian ya ke #tyk #word of honor #fanfic #fanfiction #zhou zishu #wen kexing #wenzhou #gu xiang #cao weining #zhang chengling #domestic fluff #big wenzhou family

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sourwolphs · 3 years

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Like an Animal - Bucky x Reader (5/8)

Read on Ao3 (for better interface + formatting)

Summary: Reader is an enhanced Omega kidnapped by Hydra and trapped in a cell with Alpha Bucky Barnes. Tags: A/B/O, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending Warnings: Rated M A/N: Angst ;) And Bucky being cute as all hell. Leave a comment on Ao3 if you’re enjoying!

The sound of Bucky’s door slamming down the hallway resounded like a thud in my chest. At the risk of sounding like a hopelessly romantic, dopey-eyed Omega, it felt like something cracked inside of me.

For the briefest moment in the lounge, I had caught his scent— that Alphacomforthomesafe scent I’d searched for for weeks. Just a hint of it had sent a jolt of electricity, hope and relief through my entire being. We’d locked eyes— his facial expression carefully blank, beard unshaven and growing long, hand gripping white-knuckled into the strap of his duffle bag, before he had fled to his room— leaving behind the confusing, raw scents of guilt and despair behind him.

Natasha and Steve both looked to me in concern, before engaging in a silent conversation through their facial expressions. Both smelled overwhelmingly of unease, but neither said anything to abate the awkward tension suffusing the room. Steve gave a lame excuse for Bucky, looking bewildered as he did so— something about the other Alpha having a rough few weeks, but I quickly bowed out of the lounge, retreating back to my apartment to process the heartbreaking fact that he’d been away, and now that he was back, he clearly wanted nothing to do with me.

Maybe he was just shy, I thought, self-comforting. But he hadn’t been shy in that cell. He’d been quick to introduce himself, to alleviate my fear by baring his throat to me.

Maybe I’d made him uncomfortable. Had I made him uncomfortable? It’s not like I could stop myself from falling into a sympathy heat, especially under the influence of an Alpha purr.

Then there was the other creeping, dreadful thought that had been plaguing my thoughts for the past few weeks: Maybe he already has an Omega.

I hadn’t smelled one on him in that cell, hadn’t felt a bond mark on his neck, but both could have been hidden under the scents of rut and fear, and the filth of our surroundings.

I even briefly worried that he was Wanda’s mate, since I’d never met the Alpha she always spoke about with a soft and wistful smile. But when I tentatively asked after her mate later that night during our evening Full House marathon, she had given me a sad smile and told me he was working off-world.

I barely slept the night after Bucky came home. Knowing that he was just a floor away made the longing even harder, my Omega anxious and desperate for comfort. I shuffled through a hundred different explanations— each more frustrating and heartbreaking than the last— for why he’d been away for so long, why he’d reacted the way he did when he saw me, why his scent had reeked of guilt and sadness.

But above all— my Omega worried viciously whether he was okay. The connection I felt to him burnt bright and hot within me, tugging at my heart. Find Alpha. Comfort Alpha.

I tried my hardest to bury my thoughts deep down, feeling like a crazy person. Bucky barely knew me, and here I was lying in bed, staking a mental claim on him like some feral, unsocialized Omega. For all I knew, he was snuggled up with his bondmate, recovering from the turmoil of our kidnapping in his or her embrace, thoughts of me all but forgotten.

The next day, I moved tentatively around the compound, bracing myself for an interaction. I’d run through one hundred potential scenarios in my mind— one hundred introductions, one hundred apologies, one hundred questions I wanted answered. But one day stretched into two, stretched into a week, without anything more than a flash of his retreating form as he exited the gym before I entered one afternoon.

Despite his intentional or unintentional attempts to avoid me, he couldn’t erase his lingering scent, which tucked itself into every available corner of the compound, driving my Omega insane with want and worry.

Rationally, I knew that the compound smelled like everyone— like determined Steve after a boxing match, like Sam’s bubbly joy over breakfast, like Wanda’s gentle concern, like Natasha’s smug laughter, like Stark’s curiosity.

But even knowing that I could smell everyone didn’t stop my Omega from catching his scent in every room— musky, heady cedar, warm and inviting campfire. It was maddening.

On top of the Alpha scent that left my brain in a muddled haze, there was also the situation with the gifts.

They weren’t really gifts. But, I didn’t know what else to call them.

The first one appeared three days after Bucky returned to the compound.

When I shuffled out to the kitchen around six am for a coffee and some eggs with Sam, I found my favorite mug (a cute green ceramic one made to look like a tin camping cup) already set out on the countertop, along with a spoon, a pot of sugar and a folded napkin. Next to it, the coffee pot was spitting out the last few dregs of brew— fresh and hot.

At first, I thought it was Sam who’d prepped the coffee for me, and a warm smile spread across my face at the Beta’s sincere care and friendship. But then he appeared ten minutes later, still in his camo pajamas, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes, and I frowned. Sam and I were the only early risers around here, as far as I knew. But maybe he’d fallen back asleep after getting up to make coffee.

The next day, my yoga mat was missing from its usual spot tucked high into a cubby on the wall in the gym. Figuring I’d left it in Natasha’s training room, I headed in that direction, only to find it rolled up neatly right outside the door, along with a massive, full water bottle and a charged pair of StarkPods. Weird. These Avenger Betas sure do let the hero thing get to their head, I thought. Sure enough, Natasha was already inside, balancing in a graceful arabesque as I readied myself for yoga. I thanked her with a smile and nod, which she returned.

The day after that, Steve and I got way too riled up on our morning run with Sam, and I tried to outpace him (failing, spectacularly) one too many times, causing me to have to limp back home with blisters on the back of my heels from my running shoes. After a shower in my room, I nearly tripped over a little pile of blister bandages and antibiotic cream sitting outside my door, which I snatched up, eager not to have to poke around the medbay for something as simple as band-aids. Even Steve was getting in on this babying nonsense, I thought. Maybe I wasn’t hiding my distressed Omega scent as well as I’d thought, moping around after Bucky.

Later that week, I meandered down to the movie room for another previously scheduled watch party with Sam. I got there about 20 minutes early, planning to stake out my favorite spot before the others arrived, but I found Wanda already in the movie room, flicking through channels on the projector-TV. She was working her way through a bag of crispy Gozinaki— her favorite sweet snack from her childhood in Sokovia. Steve always made sure to keep bags of it stocked in the common kitchen, attentive Alpha provider as he was.

In my usual spot on the shaggy brown couch rested a fluffy, folded plaid blanket, with a pair of soft gloves on top.

“Aw, Wanda, you didn’t have to do this,” I said, scooping up the blanket to tug around my shoulders, my inner Omega shivering in delight at the cozy texture. Perfect for a nest, my mind unhelpfully supplied. The past couple of movie nights, I’d been complaining about my cold hands, especially after long afternoons training with Wanda left my limbs frigid and achy from the force of my abilities. Sometimes it took hours to get my skin back to a human-feeling temperature. I slipped the navy blue gloves on gratefully.

Wanda looked over at my snuggled up form and quirked a brow. “Those were there when I got here. I thought you left them for tonight,” she said curiously.

I looked down at the blanket as if it would give me an answer, then brought it up to my face for a curious sniff. The faintest scent of cedar wood hit my nose.

Alpha.

I felt a whoosh in my head and stomach, like I was floating away from my body, and knew I must have had a dazed expression on my face.

If Bucky had left the blanket and the gloves… Maybe it wasn’t Sam who’d prepped my coffee. Maybe it wasn’t Natasha with the yoga mat and the water, or Steve with the blister bandages.

But why would Bucky…

“I can hear the gears turning in your brain from over here,” Wanda interrupted. “I take it it wasn’t you who left that pile down here?”

I shook my head, biting my lip as I muddled through my thoughts. If I was going to talk about what I’d been feeling for Bucky with anyone, Wanda would be the least likely to judge. She was a fellow Omega, after all.

“Can I ask you something? About your mate?” I hedged.

Wanda nodded, brushing crumbs from her lap before standing to sit down next to me on the shaggy couch. “Anything.”

“I’ve been here for over a month, and I still haven’t met him. And I wonder— What does it… feel like. For you. When he’s away.”

Wanda smiled, soft and wistful. “My mate is the Vision. He is not really human, but he was programmed as an Alpha, and when we mated, he gave me his mark,” she explained, reaching up to the back of her neck to press her hand to her mating gland. I had seen the shiny silver scars before, when Wanda had swept her hair up into a ponytail off the back of her neck during a training sesh.

“Even though he is not human— he does not have a scent as you or I do— I still struggled with what we Sokovians call gajovi. It means “heart-rending,” the feeling when you are separated from your bondmate. The longer we have been bonded, the easier it is to be apart. But I still sometimes feel the ache. Like a physical pain, inside,” she offered, moving her hand to the center of her chest, the same place where I had felt the same unbearable ache for weeks.

I took a deep breath, willing my scent to stay calm as anxiety, uncertainty and confusion warred in my mind. I feel the same thing.

“Do you ever feel like you need him… to fall asleep?” I asked, cheeks flushing. Even though we had grown close, I still felt uncomfortable asking Wanda about my craving for Bucky’s purr, as it was such an intimate act between mates.

“I have a feeling we are no longer talking about Vision,” she murmured, no judgement on her face. She placed a comforting hand on my knee, and I felt some of the tension in my body release slowly. “Sometimes it feels impossible to sleep. To eat. To even get out of bed. A bond is the most beautiful and powerful connection you can have, but it also makes you vulnerable. When things are bad, I can… feel him. Through the bond. We support each other,” she explained. Wanda closed her eyes momentarily, and I knew she was reaching through her bond to feel her mate, thousands of miles away. A warm smile crept across her face as whatever she was projecting through the universe was returned in kind.

While I was undeniably happy for Wanda and her mate, my heart ached at the realization that I was experiencing the same or similar withdrawal symptoms after my time with Bucky. But without a bondmark on my neck, without the connection she used to draw soothing strength from her mate, I was drifting— alone in a sea of longing and pain.

Wanda scented my sour sadness, giving me an empathetic look. “Do you? Have a bondmate?”

I saw her eyes flick towards my neck, where a bond mark would be, knowing that she had already seen my gland void of any bite scars.

I shook my head, looking down at my still-gloved hands in my lap.

Wanda opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated. Instead, she placed one hand in mine.

I wondered, then, if she knew more than she was letting on.

“When will Vision be home?” I asked, changing the subject and forcefully shaking off my sadness.

“This month,” she said, unable to hide the smile that crept across her face.

“What’s got the lovely ladies down?” Sam teased, interrupting our moment as he stepped into the movie room with a massive, unopened bag of Cajun-spiced Lays tucked under his arm.

Steve was right behind him, looking cozy in what was probably an XXXL hooded red sweatshirt. He came up behind my couch wordlessly, wrapping me up in a huge bear hug. I laughed, leaning into him and allowing his comforting Alpha scent to wipe away the remaining tendrils of my unease drifting in the air. I’d learned quickly that Steve was generous with his affection, and extremely protective— the type of Alpha an Omega could only dream of finding. Not an aggressive and possessive knothead, but a supportive provider and protector— always there when you needed him, but never overbearing.

Just like Bucky, my brain unhelpfully supplied. I shook away the thought. You barely know him.

I could hardly focus on the movie Sam selected, some Russell Crowe action flick set in Ancient Rome. I was too lost in my thoughts, curled up in the blanket Bucky had inexplicably left for me, squished between Steve and Wanda on the couch.

If I didn’t know better, it would seem like Bucky was trying to court me with these weird offerings, like some old-fashioned, 1940s Alpha would woo an Omega with flowers and chocolates. But even if he was, that didn’t explain his flightiness, or the bond withdrawal-like symptoms I was experiencing, or the frightening possibility that it was just me suffering from them. Faulty Omega.

Either way, after my conversation with Wanda, my resolve had hardened. I had to confront Bucky, even though my inner Omega withered at the thought. I needed to know if he was feeling the same way I was. And if not? Well, then— I’d cleared the air. That was that. I’d give him his space, leaving the compound and the pack behind if I had to. Go back to being on my own.

The thought made my hands tremble.

I clasped them resolutely in my lap, leaning closer into Steve’s absurdly thick bicep for comfort. At least for now, I could enjoy this.

————

Bucky has officially gone insane. After over 70 years of world war, Hydra torture, memory loss, coerced assassinations, cry0 chambers, getting dusted by a purple space god and fighting a war of disgusting aliens, it was one cute but deadly Omega that pushed his ancient Alpha ass over the edge.

After their disastrous reunion in the lounge, Bucky made it his personal mission to evade Y/N at all costs. He knew he was leaving the stink of shame all over the compound— both Steve and Sam called him out on it after they’d watched him flee the gym upon Y/N’s arrival one day— but even his snarling inner Alpha couldn’t get him to soften his resolve. There’s a reason he and Steve were thick as thieves from the jump— they were both infuriatingly stubborn people.

Y/N was happy here. That much was obvious. She left behind that peppermint-and-snow scent wherever she went— sweet with her joy, sharp with her determination— and he caught himself taking deep, pathetic inhales when she’d recently left a room that he’d entered.

In the mornings, he could hear her in the common room kitchen with Sam, laughing and bickering over the smell of eggs and bacon. In the movie room at night, right underneath his apartment, his super-soldier hearing clued him in to the team’s laughs and murmurs, the musical sound of her voice— unintelligible through the floor but soothing to his Alpha ears nonetheless.

He’d watched from a distance through the bulletproof glass a few times as she’d trained in the reinforced rooms with Wanda. Each time he spotted her she looked more and more powerful, more in control of the abilities that Hydra had kept locked away in restraints when they’d met in the cell. Wanda would watch patiently nearby, her red magic coiling along her fingers in anticipation as Y/N breathed in deeply, drawing her hands up in an elegant swoop along her midline before forcing them outwards in a jab, sending a spray of deadly ice shards at the steel wall, where they left hundreds of minuscule puncture wounds. Some days, the two Omegas would spill out a gallon of water on the floor, and Y/N would lift and arc it up into frozen creations, an intricate, jagged weapon or a delicate, curving flower, leafs of ice ivy crawling up the walls or pillars of impenetrable cold built from ceiling to floor.

What tore at him the most, though, even more than her delicious scent, which lingered on everything— and enticed more than a few embarrassing hard-ons he had to flee to his room to hide— was her scent mingled with another Alpha’s.

One Alpha in particular that hurt more than any other.

It hadn’t escaped Bucky’s notice that Y/N and Steve were spending lots of time together. Steve accompanied her on her morning runs— sometimes with Sam, sometimes without— but they always returned to the common areas flushed, sweaty and smiling, pumping out happy, sated pheromones. He’d passed the movie room and the lounge more than a few times to find her curled particularly close to him, his arm around the back of the couch behind her or her head resting against his bicep.

He’d even seen her and Steve sparring in the gym, Natasha and Sam cheering and whooping from the sidelines as she held her own against his restrained moves— a punch here, a kick there, which she dodged and delivered right back. They were comfortable in each other’s space. Comfortable enough that he’d even spotted her sleeping on the red lounge couch next to Steve one day, a book open in her lap while he sketched away in his notebook, using her hand draped off the side as an anatomy study. Her red socked feet were pillowed in his lap.

That mental image had kept Bucky up for a few nights, his Alpha flushed with an instinctual, possessive rage that he shoved shamefully down into the darkest recesses of his brain.

He couldn’t be mad. Even if his Alpha was roaring at him to step forward, to stake his claim, to pick her up and drown her in his scent, to crawl into her nest and cover her completely with his body.

He couldn’t be mad because she had sized up both Alphas and made what even he knew was the correct decision. Of course she had.

Why choose Bucky— broken, red-ledgered, half-vibranium, nightmare-riddled Bucky— when you could have the human embodiment of a golden retriever? Steve. The model Alpha. A gentle, caring provider— never aggressive or out of control, always protective, supportive and calm.

Plus, super-serum aside, Steve had always been handsome. Y/N wasn’t blind.

All of that is to say that Bucky hadn’t meant to start offering her gifts. It was his Alpha instinct, is all. Some feral, competitive nature still ingrained in his hindbrain. An instinct left over from a more primitive civilization, one where he would have had to prove to his Omega that he could be the best provider.

And if nothing else, leaving her the gifts soothed the terrible ache in his chest, helped him sleep another hour at night as he lay there agonizing about her smell, remembering how her face had felt cradled in his neck.

Wondering if she was sleeping in her room alone or curled up in her nest with Steve.

He knew that what he was feeling, what he was doing, was beyond wrong. If she knew why he was leaving her these gifts, she’d feel threatened, or stalked. He would be the creepy Alpha desperate for her attention.

But his hindbrain didn’t care. Alpha will provide.

It first started when he noticed that she always left the same green cup in the sink after breakfast. So one day, he got up early to leave it out for her— alongside a napkin, a spoon and the pot of sugar— though he didn’t yet know how she took her coffee. He also started the coffee pot just in case, slipping back to his room before she woke up, machine still whirring behind him.

Then, he noticed that she always ran out of water halfway through her yoga sessions with Natasha after she almost stumbled upon him in the kitchen the few times she’d come up to refill it. So Bucky topped up a 36 ounce bottle he found in the kitchen instead and left it outside the training room. Just so she won’t get thirsty, he reasoned. He couldn’t resist leaving her the yoga mat and earbuds as well. It was nothing. Not an exorbitant expense. Just something she needed, and would have gotten for herself anyway. What does it matter that he bought them for her first?

Then, he heard Sam ribbing her about her bleeding heels after their morning run, so he scrambled to the medbay to ask Dr. Cho for bandages and antiseptic— much to her confusion, as he didn’t ever need either. He dropped the supplies outside her door before she could finish showering off her run.

Then, he overheard her complaining about her cold hands one night as he passed the movie room. Bucky had to fight to repress the growl in his throat as he watched Steve take her hands into his own, rubbing them together for warmth while she laughed. He went back to his room and asked FRIDAY to help him order a pair of top-rated, insulated gloves in navy blue— he liked that color, but didn’t know if she did— as well as a blanket marketed as “perfect for nesting,” because he has officially lost all self-control. While the rest of the pack was out, he snuck into the movie room to leave the soft bundle on the couch that smelled the most like peppermint.

After a full week of secretive little offerings, Bucky was curled up on his own couch with a book, rubbing absentmindedly at his chest where the constant ache felt sharpest, when he heard someone start to turn the knob on his door.

It had taken him a few years, but he’d stopped jumping at unexpected noises like this, though he still often caught himself subconsciously scenting for threats, unable to shake the conditioned hyper vigilance. His Alpha instinct to constantly be prepared for a fight, made infinitely worse by Hydra’s torture, had gradually mellowed out with the safe reassurance of living with a pack. Knowing he had people close by who would protect him and people he would fiercely protect in return had served as a balm for his PTSD symptoms.

Bucky scented him before he saw him, but Steve slipped through the door upon finding it unlocked, giving Bucky his signature golden boy smile, before plopping into the armchair across from him.

“Hey, jerk. Are you avoiding me? Are you okay?”

Bucky felt his hackles raise as he caught a lingering whiff of Y/N on Steve and willed his expression into nonchalance. “No,” he said, before returning his gaze pointedly to the pages of the novel that he wasn’t really reading. “What makes you think I’m not okay?”

“Well, for one, you’ve barely left your room since I dragged you back here from Brooklyn, your apartment reeks like your dog just died and you’ve almost rubbed a hole through your shirt.”

Bucky quickly snatched his hand away from his chest where he’d continued rubbing circles without even noticing he was doing it. “I don’t have a dog,” he replied snidely.

His words came out a bit more venomously than he intended, and Steve’s easygoing expression faltered. Shit. He hadn’t meant to take his Alpha bullshit out on his best friend. It’s not like Steve was doing anything wrong. The problem was that he always did everything right.

“Sorry,” Bucky sighed, putting down his book and scraping a hand across his jaw, where his stubble was starting to border on a full-grown beard. Ugh. “I’m still just… processing.”

Steve gave him a concerned look, his eyebrows drawn together.

“You’re not still feeling guilty, are you?” Steve said. Bucky broke eye contact, studying the logo on the other Alpha’s oversized red sweatshirt instead. (“American University Est. 1918”— a gag gift from Tony last Christmas.)

“Buck— Come on, Y/N’s fine! Everyone loves her, and she’s doing great here. She doesn’t even talk about yo—“ Steve cut himself off, catching the grimace that flashed across Bucky’s face before he could reign it in. “I didn’t mean it like— She hasn’t even seen you, man, you’re always hiding away here or in the library.”

Bucky sighed again, tired yet begrudgingly appreciative of Steve’s attempts at soothing the issue. The other Alpha might not always know the right thing to say, but he was always earnest and honest about things.

“It’s okay, Steve, really. I just need some time, is all,” Bucky said, making a concerted effort to push out a less depressing version of his scent to mollify his best friend.

Steve gave him a tentative smile. “I talked to Fury about Y/N, by the way. Wanda told me she’s progressed a ton over the past month or so, you should really see her use her abilities in combat, it’s incredible! And Nat trusts her completely— you know she’s always the hardest to win over,” he said, his grin broadening. “I’m going to ask Y/N to join the team, officially, this week.”

The ache in Bucky’s chest ramped up, throbbing like a bass drum, but he forced out what he hoped was a convincing smile, knowing it didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m glad she’s fitting in,” he said. And he was glad. He was thrilled to know that his Omega was safe, loved and happy, that she had grown her powers with Wanda, that Steve was asking her to join the Avengers.

Even though it meant that if he couldn’t get his own urges under control, he’d need to find a new pack.

“Why don’t you come join us downstairs? Sam’s putting on Gladiator in a few,” Steve added.

For a second, Bucky really considered it. He could sit through one movie with her, after all, without falling apart at the seams. He was a freaking super soldier Alpha. He’d survived Hydra.

Then he remembered the bundle of blanket and gloves he’d left sitting on the couch a few hours ago in anticipation of their movie night and decided against it. If she put two and two together in front of the pack, Bucky didn’t think he could explain his way out of that one.

“Maybe later,” Bucky said, lifting his book up in a half-hearted attempt to look occupied. Steve could see right through him, he knew, but the other Alpha just gave him a smile and a reassuring shoulder squeeze, before slipping out of the door.

It was better this way, Bucky thought. Better for everyone if he rode this out on his own.

His Omega was okay. That’s what mattered.

#my fic #like an animal #bucky x reader #bucky reader fic #bucky reader insert #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #marvel fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic

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