#“Not all men” but still ENOUGH men for it to be an issue.

[hueseok]

can’t stop thinking about boyfriend!yoongi who in a way, found his match with you.

for decades, his oldest friends always teased him for being the textbook definition of ‘nonchalant’, labeling him as a stoic man who loved to pretend that he didn’t care about anything—even though in reality, there were always a few tells that made it obvious that he did.

he was the type of guy who made it seem like he didn’t care if you forgot about his birthday, but would send a joke afterwards saying that he was disappointed that you didn’t remember.

or the type who acted like it didn’t matter to him if the meal he worked hard on cooking tasted delicious for your taste buds, only to grin really wide as soon as you complimented him and uttered a string of praises afterwards.

it was an endearing quality of yoongi’s, a rather fascinating trait that also became the butt of the joke at times whenever the topic was his love life and his bad luck when it came to relationships.

“you can come off as emotionally unavailable,” hoseok told him over beer once. “ladies don’t like that. they want men who can tell them how special they are.”

“isn’t it enough that i show it?” yoongi asked, having just been dumped by the girl he was dating. “i mean, i drive her to work every single day. i fetch her from work whenever i can too. i buy her stuff if it’s necessary, like shampoo or paper towels.”

hoseok stared at him. “paper towels?”

“yeah.”

“wow. i take it all back. you are the most romantic man on the planet.”

yoongi rolled his eyes at the sarcasm. “she mentioned she was running out of them so i bought more for her.”

“are you her dad or something?”

“i heard ladies like a provider.”

“yes, but not in that sense. it’s more like… you get the bill whenever you’re having lunch or dinner at a restaurant, or buying her a bag she’s been eyeing, or paying for her nails when she gets them done. doing all of that without not being asked is the key aspect of it, really.”

“how do you know this stuff?”

hoseok shrugged. “i have an older sister,” he says. “also, i’m engaged to my girlfriend of 6 years. being in a relationship that long ought to teach you a lot.”

thanks to that conversation, yoongi began understanding what it really meant to be a great and affectionate boyfriend without sacrificing his rather reserved personality. he knew what the right gestures to do, what the right things to say, what the right gifts to buy—and he did all of that with utmost sincerity, genuinely wanting to be a better partner for his current girlfriend, which also happened to be you.

the funny thing, though?

you couldn’t seem to recognize the nice boyfriend things yoongi was doing and how much he improved compared to his last relationship.

you were just… independent, he thought. a strong woman who didn’t like to be coddled and didn’t like asking help from anyone regardless of how much you may be already struggling. he had a realization that you were naturally like this because of the stories you used to tell him that made him understand that you just weren’t used to relying on others, a trait that he didn’t have an issue with and sometimes even admired.

however, he couldn’t lie and say that it wasn’t sometimes frustrating as well.

for example, just last week, the both of you had a semi-big fight because of how you constantly insisted on changing the broken lightbulb in your bedroom yourself even though yoongi was already telling you that he could do it instead. in the end, since you were stubborn as hell, you still tried changing it on your own but had a very minor injury due to falling off the stool you were standing on for extra height.

yoongi was furious when he found out, and you ultimately became furious because it seemed like he was being unfair to you, the negative energy impacting your mood and rationality that you didn’t get how he was more mad on the fact that you let your pride get to you than just asking for his damn help for the freaking lightbulb.

when the both of you calmed down and said your apologies, yoongi took your hands and looked directly in your eyes. “babe, you have to start depending on me,” he said.

the straightforwardness caught you off guard. “huh?”

“i mean…” you felt him squeeze your fingers softly, “i understand that you’re used to doing things all on your own… how you don’t like being treated like some baby… but that shouldn’t be the case with me, okay? i’m here to take care of you, to always help you with whatever you need.”

you opened your mouth, about to say something he knew was not going to align with his point, so he took the liberty to cut you off.

“i’m serious. you know what i’m talking about. let me take care of you, ____.”

“but—” you couldn’t continue with your sentence, a wave of emotions suddenly flooding you that made your throat tighten and voice quiver as you began speaking again— “how? i… i don’t—i just… you don’t need to. i don’t want to be a burden.”

yoongi gave you a look, a mixture of fondness and disbelief. “you? a burden?”

“yeah. you don’t need to take care of me.”

“i’m well aware that you’re a grown woman who doesn’t need taking care of.” he joked. “but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it. that’s why if i were you, i would just start depending on my poor boyfriend and learn how to be comfortable in being taken care of because it’s definitely how things are going to be now that he’s here.”

you snorted at the use of third person. “fine,” you sniffled, “okay, i’ll try to be better at asking for help next time.”

he sighed in relief, releasing your hands to instead engulf you in a tight embrace. “thank you, baby. i appreciate it a lot.”

****

the first time you willingly asked yoongi for a favor after that talk—regardless of how small and trivial it was—it still affected him big time.

“can you help me assemble the drawer i bought?” you asked him over dinner, ever so casual and nonchalant.

he almost dropped the chopsticks he was holding. “what?”

“i said, can you—”

“no, i heard that perfectly well. i’m just surprised at what i’m hearing.”

your lips twitched while your face visibly burned. “don’t start teasing me or else—”

“i’m not.” he laughed, a little too loudly than usual, before reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles. “i’m not, i swear. i’m just happy.”

“you’re happy because i’m asking for help?”

“i’m happy because you’re letting me take care of you,” he corrected. “it’s a bit overdue in my opinion but who am i to complain?”

you playfully shoved his hand away, which made yoongi laugh harder and lean towards you to give you a chaste kiss on the cheek, letting you know that your simple effort of trying to let him in meant so much more than words could ever say.

note. this blurb is unedited and has been in my drafts since december because it's always yoongi missing hours!!!!! but for real though, i wish yoongi is doing great and is always surrounded by good people who can give him the support he needs + remind him how loved he is :(

[taelophone]

Bitter ʚɞ ⸝⸝⟡⋆˙⟡ — Luigi Mangione x Reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆TWs: Liquor . Jealousy . Annoying/Disrespectful friends . ｡⋆A/N: A lil palate cleanser before I gear up to write the most filthy creation to hit my table <3

You made a conscious effort every day to be the best version of yourself, biting your tongue, minimizing conflict, and stepping into your bigger shoes whenever you felt yourself nearing slipping off the chain.

But it was hard when your boyfriend was so highly regarded— attractive in all his right and kind enough to keep men and women orbiting him in silent lovelorn. It was hard to stay calm and collected when it seemed like every other day there was a new woman begging for a slice of his confectionery attention.

Luigi, however, was none the wiser. Every new face with a warm smile pulled a fresh coat of hospitality, his arms stretched wide with welcome to every face that seemed to spark interest.

There’s nothing wrong with being friendly, really. But there’s only a certain amount of flirty comments and forced physical interaction you can witness before the bitter citrus burns your parotids.

Like now.

You had dragged your homebody boyfriend out for the day, claiming a need for oxygen and socialization in the form of what was supposed to be an intimate little get-together between you and a couple of your friends. What you hadn’t expected was for friends to bring other friends.

Not that you were mad! After all, the more the merrier. What started as a small house chill became a quiet gathering for drinks and charcuterie, courtesy of Helena’s last-minute catering cancellation. 

The issue began to bubble to the surface when one girl, in particular, began to take a sudden interest in your boyfriend. At first, you dismissed it, recognizing that your boyfriend was a rather interesting individual.

So instead of fussing and pouting, you chose to remove yourself from the situation before it boiled over. Your faith lay in Luigi, trusting him enough to know he would never shatter that faith.

But it still stung.

The blaring buzz of bitter envy sounded through your ears like a bunch of barmy bees. The light tap of her backhand on Luigi’s shoulder, her eyes sharp on the man in front, fixated on the goal of love.

“No! Oh my gosh, no! That’s not true, you’re literally so strong. Like, I can see your muscles,” she gasped, pinching the side of his bicep with feigned disapproval woven in her flattery.

The first crack in your resolve. Porcelain, but far from perfect.

“Haha, yeah, uh—? Sorry, I think I lost my girlfriend..?” He said, frantically whirling his head around the kitchen in search of your familiar silhouette. 

“Aw, you ditching me? Runnin’ off to your ball n’ chain?” She mused, paired with a chuckle that seemed way too enthusiastic to be anything less than what she thought was the truth.

“Ha…haha, no. I just really miss my girlfriend” he chuckled. Breathy and uncomfortable, a clear warning sign of nearing his limit. “But it was nice talking to you!”

“Of course! Find me later, I’ll give you my number. I’d love to talk more” she offered with a pat on his broad shoulder.

And with that, he fought back a mildly confused arch of his brow before traversing through the sea of people in pursuit of you. What a strange experience…at least she’s friendly.

He shimmied his way through the hallway, taking a brief moment to admire the little intricate archway connecting the kitchen and the living room. It was a warm Tuscan brown, perfectly made with a nice round arch—nice.

He found you a couple of feet away from the kitchen, arms crossed in defiance with a hefty glass of some white wine you had been swirling around in its brandy balloon. A warm smile engulfed his features as he sat down next to you, one that was quick to fade when he felt the icy cold aura that radiated from your stone face.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, pinching his brows together with innocent confusion.

You sighed, a puppeteered smile creeping up on your face; one that failed to meet your eyes with venomous twinkles. 

“Nothing. Totally fine,” you huffed, rolling your eyes as far as they could go in such a short amount of time.

“No, c’mon, don’t do that…” he said, a flicker of desperation and annoyance crossing his features.

“Go talk to Mindy, maybe she’ll help you understand what’s wrong” you blurted, sharp and pointed with intent to harm.

He sighed, putting down his little can of beer on the coffee table. An elbow came to rest on his knee, propping up his head by his chin as he stared at you.

He was never really the type of man who liked beating around the bush and much less when people around him did it, but he was making an effort for you. With open ears and a heart full of affection, he tutted his disapproval but tugged you closer to him by your shoulders.

“Oh, my jealous baby…” he cooed, a cocky grin forming on his face as he sweet-talked you into cavities. “So worked up…did I make you jealous? I’m sorry, my love.”

“Stop that…” you huffed, leaning away from his touch with crossed arms.

“You poor thing must’ve been so lonely without your terrible wretched boyfriend,” he teased, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you into his lap to pepper gentle kisses to your head.

“I’m…” Kiss! “So…” smooch! “Evil!” Smack! “How will you ever forgive me?”

“Luigi, stop!” You breathed out in between quiet giggles, pink bubbly bashfulness bubbling under your cheeks as he garnered the many sympathetic and supportive eyes of people around you. “You’re making a scene!”

“I’m not afraid to show my wife I love her” he fired back with a wet and almost grotesque kiss to your neck that would have sent the average child into a spiral of gags and barfs.

“Okay, okay, enough!” You laughed, pushing his wandering lips away from your neck and jaw. “I forgive you!”

“Good. ‘Cuz you’re the only one I have eyes for here. Sorry I made you feel jealous, I didn’t know how to shake her off me” he smiled.

And the night carried on with the clinking of wine glasses, sports banter piloted by 5 ex-frat boys with lopsided caps, kisses and smooches from the lovebirds, and occasional grumbles from a very grumpy, stood-up Mindy.

[deadhands69]

Hitching a Ride

League of Villains x Villain Reader  Eventually: [Tomura Shigaraki x Reader]  [Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Reader] 

“what are the odds of two serial killers in one car?” A quick intro, no real tws for this series other than crimes committed? Unofficially a Route 66 type AU: no locations explicitly mentioned and some references are elsewhere but that's kind of the vibe.

Money acquired, security evaded, and you need to get out of here. 

The unlocked Kia you had your eye on is gone. So much for a getaway car. 

You'll have to hitchhike. With any luck, you can steal the car from whoever picks you up and be off the grid in no time. 

One issue, the deserted road you ran down has almost no cars. The few that have passed are definitely not bold stupid enough to pick up someone dressed head to toe in black with a suspiciously bulky bag slung over their shoulder. Especially not when the windows to the nearby bank are shattered.

But you keep trying, thumb held as high in the air as you can manage. 

You're aware the sirens in the distance are searching for you and you're about to give up hope.

SKKKRRRREEEEETTTCHHHHH

A white van with the words “New Faith Church of God †” on the side swerves two lanes towards you and over the curb half a block down. 

A church van isn't what you expected, particularly one driven so recklessly, but you're not in a place to complain. 

You run to make up the distance. 

Expecting a van of grandmas, you're shocked when a heavily scarred man in his twenties dressed in all black steps out and gestures you in through the sliding door. His turquoise eyes follow as you hastily enter, sliding to an open seat by a white haired man with red eyes. You notice he also has quite a few scars.

“You're in middle,” his gruff voice mutters before he climbs in after you, taking the seat on your other side after slamming the door shut. 

The van lurches back onto the road and you're off. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you exclaim, still breathless from the sprint over. 

“Of course,” a blonde girl in the passenger seat answers, “We had to. Someone thought you were pretty.” She stares at one of the men next to you. He's... also attractive, you think to yourself. Cheeks beginning to flush. 

“Where are you headed, anyways?” asks the purple haired driver. He swerves slightly while gesturing back at you. 

“Anywhere, preferably far.”

“Well, you certainly got lucky today,” a man with a top hat and feather laughs behind you. His face completely covered by a mask. 

The silence becomes tense as they wait for you to recognize them. Unfortunately, you haven't had time (or a consistent location) to relax long enough to watch the news so you have no idea who these people are. But you do know one thing - 

“You're not really a church group, are you?”

The white haired man next to you mumbles “what gave you that idea?” Most of the others laugh. 

In the next hour, you learn a lot. Everyone introduces themselves. Their names are pretty easy to remember, you're certain most of them are made up. You debate on giving them your real name, instead going with the alias you typically use (which might as well be your actual name at this point, no one's called you anything else in years.)

You also get the feeling they're in the same boat as you: on the run in a vehicle that clearly doesn't belong to them after doing who knows what. They haven't asked you why you were in a rush to leave so you return the favor. 

At this point, they've realized you're not a threat (and definitely not about to call the heros on them) so they loosen up. You do too.

“Who wants to play a game?!” Toga asks. The two on either side of you groan but everyone else seems interested so she continues. 

“I spy with my little eye, somethinggg green!”

Turns out I spy is incredibly easy when all you can see are fields and distant mountains. After a few turns, you've tuned the game out. As have most of the others. Twice, Spinner, and Toga continue to play while everyone else begins to nap out of boredom. 

Everyone but one person. 

The gorgeous guy from earlier, who is the reason you’re here instead of a jail cell. 

He rests his hand on the seat between you, pinky brushing against your thigh. 

This will be an interesting ride.

m.list

The following chapters start the same then split into separate Shig/Dabi routes.

This will probably be fluff/eventually suggestive, very minimal angst. I just wanted to make something light, fun, and easy.

Maybe a few smut side quests that aren't plot/are skippable, but idk yet. Those aren't written and i have no explicit plans for them.

This one is particularly short but they should all be pretty quick reads. This won't be a long series. (says everyone before dropping 20 more chapters of 5k words.)

[velvetvexations]

musing on the "you don't have to get gross hormones or surgeries to be trans :)" form of transphobia, you're right that it's extremely not a christofascist thing, but funnily enough, while i've seen it a little in liberal parents, i've seen it much more commonly that transphobic parents are conservative and simply don't accept trans people as our actual genders, period, no matter what. plus, liberal parents who have transphobic tendencies tend to go more for "wait until you're 18 to make irreversible decisions" rhetoric. where i've actually seen the phenomenon the *most* is lesbian partners of transmasculine people coercing them into not using testosterone because it would make them "gross" and "unattractive" and "you can just be a nonbinary lesbian or a trans man without trying to look like a cis man," usually with the addition of "i wouldn't want to date you anymore if you looked like a man."

which i also think makes those posts we're talking about even more disingenuous. those posts often focus myopically on transfemininity and don't even mention that transmascs are a primary target of this kind of transphobia. it's very disingenuous because the phenomenon is specifically rooted in the idea that testosterone is "ruining your body," and trans people who use testosterone are "taking poison." the idea is much less common about estrogen, and discouraging trans people from taking estrogen while still encouraging them to identify openly as trans isn't really as much of a thing--i can say this from experience. it happens sometimes, but usually it's "you shouldn't be trans at all, you have such an attractive body and it'd look so ugly if you grew boobs," without even a hint of "you can still be a trans woman, i'll call you she/her and everything" added on.

and finally: these posts started cropping up right after i started seeing a lot of positivity for trans men who transition while keeping their boobs, trans women who transition without voice training or shaving, and nonbinary people of all genders whose appearance combine a lot of different sex traits and look "visibly trans" as their actual transition goals. it's really hard to not view them as a reaction to that positivity phenomenon, because i really do not see the things they're claiming to refer to happening.

Yes to both of these! It's so obviously just people who have a major issue with other trans people that are GNC.

[callsign-mimic]

A Part of the Pack

Chapter 5

Content Warnings: Mentions of violence, reality adjacent Mimic, cavity inducing fluff

Price and Gaz had to practically drag Saint out of the med bay once Mimic had been admitted. Despite her having been completely lucid and seemingly unbothered. It was only because Mimic herself had firmly requested that Saint adhere to protocol that they allowed themself to be led back to the den.

Alphas weren’t supposed to be anywhere near an injured Omega. And that normally wouldn’t have been an issue for Saint. If they hadn’t watched Mimic get stabbed right before their eyes. The fact that Saint still reeked of blood that wasn’t there, in spite of the copious amounts of neutralizer that they’d been doused in, hadn’t really helped put the medics at ease with their initial refusal to leave.

It helped that Ghost had promised to stay by her side. Hell, it even helped that Nikolai had offered to stick around until she was cleared to leave medical. Two huge Omegas that bordered on Alphas watching over the scrappy little operative was enough for Saint to begrudgingly leave.

“She’ll be fine.” Gaz promises. “She was still making jokes the whole time. One little knife won’t be enough to take out our Mim.”

“And it’s going to be a running joke for the little menace for the rest of our lives.” Price grumbles, running a hand through his hair.

“Ye know she’s gonna want ta keep th’ knife.” Soap says, a shiteating grin splitting his face.

Saint huffs, comforted by the men’s words, but far from satisfied with the situation. The faint, coppery tang of the enemy soldier’s blood was still on the back of their tongue. It had been incredibly satisfying to see the ruined remains of the man on the ground before they had rushed Mimic to exfil.

A lot of the residual stress washed down the drain with the blood, sweat, and grime of the mission as Saint showered. When they returned to the den, their Omegas had made a nest. A comfortable pile of blankets, pillows, clothes… Anything they could find with even the barest hint of Mimic’s scent on it. All to comfort their incredibly stressed Alpha.

Saint’s neutralizers didn’t stand a chance against the stress they felt as they waited for word of Mimic’s condition. It got to the point where they couldn’t really leave the den for long periods of time. For fear of overwhelming the rest of the base.

Mimic, to her credit, is a good sport about the whole ordeal. Requesting only the bare minimum for painkillers, not wanting to be too doped up to appreciate her watchful company.

Nikolai stays right by her side as promised. Though the medics don’t appreciate how he keeps making her laugh as he regales her with tales of his escapades during her three year absence.

“She’s recovering from a punctured lung.” One very annoyed medic snaps, glaring at Nikolai. “You’re going to exacerbate her injuries if you keep making her laugh like that.”

“Nonsense!” The burly Russian says with a laugh. “She is made of sterner stuff than you think. She will let me know when I am too much.” The medic rolls her eyes, huffing in annoyance before they finish checking Mimic’s vitals and flit out of the room.

Ghost acts as a messenger of sorts. Moving between Mimic’s bedside and the den to keep the rest of the team up to date on her condition. The more good news he brings back, the more Saint starts to relax.

It’s a week before Mimic is finally released from the med bay. She’s given plenty of medical restrictions, including a very pointed remark about not laughing too hard. Not that the team intended on letting her do much of anything, anyway.

Including heading back to her isolated cabin.

“Doc said you’re not in any state to be travelling overseas.” Price says, his tone just stern enough to discourage argument. He crosses his arms as he stares down at Mimic. Who was trapped on the couch in Soap’s arms with Gaz resting his head in her lap.

“Why do you want to leave so soon, anyway?” Gaz asks, massaging Mimic’s hand as it rests on his chest. “Don’t you like being here? With us?”

“I do. Genuinely.” Mimic replies. She feels Soap nuzzle against her neck, making her shift slightly. “I’m just not comfortable being around everyone else on base. It’s… It’s kind of overwhelming after three years alone.”

“Ah, солнышко, but you are not meant for isolation.” Nikolai says, wrapping an arm around Price’s waist and pulling him close.

“Ye need a pack, m’eudail.” Soap murmurs against her neck. Saint perks up at his words, catching the attention of Price, Ghost, and Nikolai.

“That’s implying that there’s a pack that wants me…” Mimic grumbles in response, then yelping when both Gaz and Soap deliver a sharp nip to her pale skin.

“You have a pack that wants you, luv.” Ghost growls, the low rumble betraying his irritation and causing Mimic to give him a sheepish look.

Saint moves over to the couch, gently disentangling Mimic from Soap and Gaz. They hold her tightly to their chest, muzzle buried in her hair. Saint inhales deeply before grumbling out a single word. Enough to make Mimic’s heart melt.

“Stay.”

[sharklovingaquarist]

Rich white women are still not on the same level as rich white men. How is that hard to comprehend? All of these surface level thinkers don't know how they downplay the massive effect of misogyny with this way of thinking. Are rich white women privileged? Absolutely. Are they as privileged as rich white men? No! Downplaying the tremendous mental damage from the patriarchy is disgusting. Being a woman should be considered enough to talk about oppression. Sorry!

And yall aren't ready to hear that you need to be calling out men of color like how you call out white women. I hear all about how white feminists have failed woc (and they have), but I never hear anything about how men of color have failed women. It is treated as an untouchable subject. You never intersect issues for women either. Let's start talking about the violence inflicted on women in prison, specifically women of color. Lets talk about mens violence towards lesbians. With leftists, it definitely feels as if there is a hierarchy with issues, and misogyny is not a concern to them. It honestly has to be the most normalized form of human suffering. And that is because men and women are biologically tied to each other but differ. And from that difference, men brainwash you to believe your oppression is innate. It is easier to use pseudoscience based on deeper differences compared to superficial ones, especially when those differences make two people a team. One team member twists the truth to make the other a servant. It goes down to your very identity and nature.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (2)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: Bucky is a dick; Bucky has issues; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, dead parents, sexism; prejudices; attitude

Author’s Note: Here is the second part already. Thank you for all those lovely comments!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Once again, you follow Barnes through the woods, wondering if this is what you are destined to do now for the rest of your life.

You’ve been walking the whole day. Through the same forest. With the same mountain of a man in front of you. It’s almost about to get dark again.

Leaves whisper around you, birds cry in the distance and you try - you try so hard - to find some sense of peace in those sounds since it really is the first time you get to listen to this so near, but it still doesn’t match the dreams you have imagined for so long.

The hem of your gown is tattered, stained with mud, and torn by thorns. The embroidery that once shimmered in candlelight is dulled. The fabric used to be so soft against your skin, but it feels abrasive now, like sandpaper scraping against a wound.

You want nothing more than to rip it off.

But you can’t.

This gown, as ruined as it is, is all you have left of who you were. A princess. A daughter of a king and Queen. A girl who once walked polished marble floors, who dined beneath chandeliers that glimmered brightly.

This gown is your last tether to that life, and you hate it for it as much as you need it.

Your feet are still aching and you stumble a few times in trying to keep up with Barnes's fast pace again.

The soles are raw and blistered.

But your senses seemed to have dulled enough to not care about that at the moment.

Your stomach growls.

It might be the fourth time now in however many minutes.

Barnes hears it. You know he does, because he sighs - an exhale so sharp and pointed, he might have used his whetstone to sharpen more than his blade.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t offer a single word.

His broad shoulders remain squared and rigid.

The last meal you had was at the banquet - if you can even call it a meal. You barely ate, too consumed by the intensity of the watchful eyes of men who saw you as anything but a person. Your skin still crawls at the memory of those gazes.

You try and stretch your limbs out a little. They are still sore and weak from the night before, from the contorted position you were forced to sleep in because of the cold wind.

The ground had been unkind, its hard surface pressing against your ribs and hips, you might believe you have bruises.

When you woke up this morning, the fire was burning. It had been cold when you fell asleep.

You don’t know when Barnes lit it. You don’t know why. He didn’t say a word to you when you stirred, didn’t even look at you beyond a cursory glance.

He simply tossed you a get ready to move before turning his back and tending to his blade. Did he sharpen this stupid thing the whole night?

Part of you wanted to thank him for the fire. But the larger part bristled at the thought. And who is to say he put it on for you? So, you said nothing, stood, and got ready to move on.

You glance at Barnes’s back. The muscles beneath his worn brown armor shift with each step. You find yourself looking at his back quite often.

The trees grow denser. The air is damp and earthy and you are sure the scent of moss and decaying leaves won’t leave your hair any time soon.

Barnes stops suddenly. His head tilts to the side faintly as if listening to something beyond your comprehension.

As before, you nearly collide with him, too lost in your thoughts to notice his abrupt halt.

He turns to look at you then. His blue eyes piercing and assessing. There is something in his gaze you don’t know what to make of. Not kindness, not really. But it is not the coldness or indifference you’ve come to expect either.

With his eyes on you, he jerks his chin to a fallen log nearby.

“Sit,” he says gruffly, his voice low but carrying something that makes you do just that.

Obeying, you sink down onto the rough surface with a gratitude you don’t voice.

He unslings his pack and begins rummaging through it, pulling out a small pouch of dried meat and another of what looks like nuts.

He tosses them to you without ceremony, then pulls out a flask and takes a long swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Eat,” he orders, his tone as brusque as you came to know.

The food is unappealing as it is necessary, but you don’t complain. The dried meat is tough, each bite requiring an effort that makes your jaw ache, but the saltiness is oddly satisfying.

The nuts are bland, their texture chalky, but they fill the emptiness in your stomach, if only temporarily.

You chew slowly, hoping to maintain the grace you’ve been taught your whole life despite living a different now all of a sudden.

Barnes is watching you. You are aware of his gaze but choose to ignore it. Perhaps there is something critical in his eyes and he is asking himself why the hell he agreed to take you with him. Or perhaps he is simply keeping track of your pace, ensuring you eat enough to keep up.

But something doesn’t sit right.

You glance at his pack, then back at him.

He is perched on the edge of a moss-covered stone, arms resting on his knees, and he is no longer looking at you, head tilted slightly downward, lost in thought as it looks like.

The flask rests by his side, but he makes no move toward the food he just handed you, or gets himself something from his pack.

You haven’t seen him eat anything since you met him. Maybe he ate something this morning when you were still asleep but that too is many hours ago now.

The food sits heavily in your stomach and you swallow hard. You prepare yourself to break the silence. Or, rather, you build up some courage to talk to him.

“Why don’t you eat?”

His head lifts, piercing blue eyes snapping to yours with an intensity that makes you flinch. There is irritation there, the faintest flicker of exasperation, but no answer.

He looks away just as quickly, his jaw tight. “I’m fine,” he says curtly, as if the matter is settled.

Your fingers curl around the pouch of nuts, frown tugging down your brows.

You are tired. Tired of all this. Tired of the silence, of the questions you don’t get answers to, feeling so unwelcome in the presence of this man you didn’t even want to have anything to do with. Tired of you being brushed off all the time.

“You have been walking all day, same as me. You need to eat.”

He exhales a vexed breath, shoulders rising and falling tensely with the effort of keeping himself calm. “I said I’m fine. Eat your food.”

But you don’t let it go. You reach into the pouch, pull out a handful of nuts, and hold them out to him. “Here,” you say softly, hoping your hand stays steady enough so he won’t notice your nerves playing with you.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His gaze falls to the offering in your hand, then back to your face. Something unreadable passes through his expression, too fleeting to make out. Then his lips press into a hard line. “Keep it,” he bites out, roughly. “You’ll need it more.”

You don’t lower your hand. “Why won’t you just take it?”

His patience snaps like a brittle branch.

He lets out a frustrated groan that might have been a growl, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Because I’ve got nothing else,” he snaps, his voice louder than you’ve heard it before. He looks away after his little outburst, his jaw working almost painfully hard.

It hits you harder than you expect. You glance at his pack, at the threadbare state of his clothes, the patches on his jacket that tell of years and tear.

He’s been rationing - not just food, but everything. He doesn’t have more. But he gave you the rest of the food he had, and he has been doing so without a word, without complaint. The thought makes your throat tighten.

You are silent for a moment, but an idea sparks in your mind.

Slowly, you reach for the clasp at your neck. You had almost forgotten it was still there. Your necklace. The delicate thing of gold with a single, small ruby at its center. One of the few remnants of your old life. The one you had been living just yesterday.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo it and hold it out to him. “Take this,” you say quietly.

His head jerks towards you, his expression shifting to confusion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You can sell it,” you explain, trying to push down your nerves. “Get food. Supplies. Something.”

His brows draw together, gaze moving from the necklace to your face and back again. “Spare me your pity.” His words are gruff, almost angry. But there is a hint of something else. He is genuinely bewildered by your gesture.

“It is not pity,” you insist, trying to hold his gaze. “You… You’re keeping me alive. It is the least I can do,” you add a little hesitantly.

The muscles in his face tighten and loosen as he stares at the chain in your hand with an expression you haven’t seen before. It might be the softest he has looked since you met him.

He doesn’t move to take it, but he doesn’t refuse outright either. You seem to have gotten him off guard for a moment. He looks away for a while, gaze fixed on some distant point in the forest. For a long moment, the only sound is the rustling of leaves in the wind.

His voice, when it comes, is somewhat thick, quieter, and low, almost grudging. “Keep it. For now.”

You hesitate. But with a small sigh, you lower your hand, grasping the necklace tighter again so it won’t slip through your hands to the forest floor.

There is a tension in the air. It seems to bend it. Making you hold your breath as you avoid looking at him again.

He won’t look at you either but there is something in his posture that has changed. It is a shift in the way he holds himself. As if he is no longer preparing for the next hit.

You tuck the necklace safely into the folds of your gown since you sure as the devil won’t ask the man to put it back on you.

The silence stretches on. But it feels lighter somehow. Unspoken words easing just enough to let you breathe.

Yet the food in front of you feels uncomfortable now. Each bite you have taken feels like a theft - from him, from his dwindling resources.

You glance back at him, still perched on the moss-covered stone, his expression unreadable as he stares at the forest floor.

He’s been silent before, more so than not, but something about his stillness now makes your heart feel heavy.

Without thinking, you nudge the remaining food toward him, standing up swiftly, needing the act to be completed before doubt can settle. “Here,” you say, voice as resolute as it would go. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

His eyes are fixed on you in an instant again, narrowing warningly. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his voice low but biting, like the crack of a branch beneath too much weight. “You’re still hungry. Eat.”

“I’m fine,” you counter, echoing his earlier words with a stubbornness that surprises even you. Your heart is pounding. Your hands are getting clammy at the way he looks at you, but you force yourself not to back down.

You have never been good at pushing back against people, not like this, but something about your new situation makes you dive in your heels. After all, you’ve also never been without your parents to this extent, or without a home, a ceiling atop your head.

You feel like, you can allow yourself a little attitude. And when you have to find out that he has been sharpening his knives in that almost passive-aggressive manner just to kill you, well, then you will go down as the princess you are.

He sits there stiffly, clearly aggravated, but you turn away before he can argue further, deciding to continue your trek, following the narrow path that winds deeper into the trees.

Behind you, you hear him exhale, though it sounds more annoyed than angry. A muttered curse follows you and you almost can’t suppress the smile that tried to make its way onto your face.

His heavier footsteps follow, quickly closing in and he strides in front of you again, sighing once more. There still lingers a little displeasure at the whole situation but it sounds softer. And you might have heard it turn into a suppressed and breathless laugh for a second.

Amusement.

The path is uneven, strewn with roots that twist gnarled across the ground of the earth. You keep your eyes on the ground, not wanting to snap your ankle and become an even bigger burden.

Walking this path is tiring you out, considering the fact that you have been on your feet the whole day without getting a good night's sleep.

You don’t know how long you keep going, but it is completely dark again and Barnes's back is only illuminated by the moonlight barely sinking through the trees.

Your mind has been on edge ever since yesterday, so full of questions about yourself and the mystery surrounding this man.

They churn ceaselessly, those questions, clawing at the walls of your mind, making you almost wince. Each question is a stone dropped into a bottomless well, the echo spiraling down, down, down - never reaching an answer, only silence.

Your mind is as twisted as the tunnels you had escaped from and it only makes your head hurt so much more.

You are exhausted beyond belief.

Even your usually straight spine is turned into a question mark.

The part of the forest you are walking on is relatively straight but you feel like you are walking uphill. Through air turned to syrup.

The longer you walk, the more the world in your mind slows - not with peace, but with the sluggish drag of overuse.

Ahead of you, Barnes moves with the same annoying purpose as always, his tall, dark frame cutting a path through the thick forest.

You wonder if he is as unaffected as he seems, if his endurance is as unshakable as the armor he wears.

“Barnes.”

Oh, no.

You didn’t know your mind is that far gone already to let your mouth have a mind on its own.

The man in front of you freezes for a fraction of a second.

You should not have used his name. Not so directly. So you keep on talking, pressing the words out quickly but with a hesitation you are sure he hears.

“Perhaps we should find somewhere to rest soon.”

Barnes continues to walk in front of you, but you see the slight shift. His shoulders are still tense but in a slightly different way. He seems to contemplate something.

It takes a while for him to answer and when he does, his voice sounds almost hoarse. Rough. “It’s Bucky,”he mutters.

“What?”

A pause. A sigh. Another pause. “My name. Call me Bucky.” There is no warmth in his tone, but there’s something else - a reluctant offering, perhaps, or the faintest dent in his hard armor.

You blink, surprised. That is not what you had expected. And you are unsure whether to acknowledge it or stay silent. Your fingers fidget with the fabric of your gown as you search for the right response. You nod, more than for yourself than for him, and steady your voice. “Okay. Bucky.”

He doesn’t respond. His gaze is firmly fixed ahead, but now there definitely is a change in his posture. It’s not quite softness, not an invitation, but it is something - subtle and fleeting. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You barely manage to suppress a yawn when you notice his stride falter.

He glances back.

That’s the first time he’s done that. He never looked back at you while wandering through the woods, never even hinted that he needed to confirm your presence.

You have grown accustomed to the idea that he just knew you were there, trailing behind like a load he can’t shake.

But now, his head turns slightly and those deep eyes find yours.

The moment is so startling, that you almost trip, your foot catching on a root.

His gaze rakes over you, studying, but giving nothing away. There’s no gentleness there, no sympathy, but neither is there judgment.

His attention makes your skin prickle and your neck heat up.

He seems to focus on your trembling limbs, the way your shoulders sag.

He sees all of it, and for a brief second, you think you catch a glimmer of something. Again, it is gone so fast but you know it was there.

As quickly as it began, it’s over. He briskly turns around, the glance seemingly nothing more than an instinctual check.

“We’ll settle down soon,” he announces. His voice gives nothing away. There is no acknowledgment of the toll the journey has taken on you, but it’s enough.

Relief floods your chest, filling your lungs with something sweeter than oxygen, intertwining with the residual tension his gaze had created.

****

“Where are you taking me?”

Sitting a few inches away from you, Bucky lets out a sigh. It’s long and drawn out, but surprisingly not as sharp as you had expected. It sounds tired.

“What did I tell you about askin’ me questions?” He doesn’t say it like a question. His tone is dismissive. He sounds annoyed.

Your chest tightens. Your breaths are shallow.

Each exhale aches with want - wanting resolution, wanting action, wanting answers, wanting something to crack.

He didn’t say anything to you since announcing that you would settle down soon. True to his word, he actually stopped not long after.

But he basically ignored you. He didn’t even order you to go to sleep.

He just shrugged off his pack and sat by the base of a large tree - one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. You watched him as he pulled out his dagger and began to clean his nails with the casualness of someone who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

And again, you hated him for it.

In fact, something starts to burn inside of you. A fire, burning low and smoldering, its smoke wafting into every corner of your mind and clouding your senses.

Each thought is a spark, feeding the flame.

It burns like your home has. Like your parents have. Like your old life has.

And the only remains left will be the ash, piling high, darkening everything, dirtying your title.

Your fingers tighten on your legs, having wrapped them around you in your seated position to try and make yourself warmer.

Nails dig into your gown, hurting your skin through the fabric.

“I deserve to know.”

That makes him pause. He looks up then. His blue eyes look dark in the dead of night. He fixes you with the kind of stare that makes you want to take a step back, though you don’t move. “Do you?” he asks with a low voice. Dangerous. “Do you deserve to know? You think this is a negotiation, princess?”

The title sounds like acrid on his tongue.

Like it burned in his throat on its way up and he needed to spit it out.

You crack.

“Yes!” you spit it out the same way he did your title. “I do deserve to know. Because in case you have not noticed, I’ve lost everything. My home is gone, my parents are gone, and I am here, in the middle of a forest, with you! I know you did not ask for this but neither did I. People have been making decisions for me my whole life. They don’t ask me what I think, what I need, or what I want. And believe me, this-”your hands point at your surroundings and him “-is not what I want. So, yes, I think I deserve to know where you are taking me.”

Each sentence feels heavy. It’s like carrying a stone all the way up a hill to the edge of a cliff, only to see it tumble soundlessly into a void.

Silence follows.

Blood pounds in your ears. It pounds like a ticking clock. The clock that might count the remaining seconds of your life.

Bucky stares at you with an unreadable expression.

His dagger is still in his hand. The blade catches the light of the moon for a second and you almost flinch as he lowers it.

The smirk you have seen before - the one that twists at the corners of his mouth in a taunt - is absent now. His expression makes you uneasy.

“You’re right,” he finally says, his voice quieter than usual but no less hard. “You didn’t ask for this.”

His words are a concession, but his tone doesn’t make them feel like one. There is no apology in his tone, no softening in his gaze. He tucks the dagger back into his belt and leans closer. Even with the distance and your sitting positions, he towers over you. His shadow falls long against the forest floor.

“But here’s the thing,” he continues, voice colder than the night air. “Nobody will ever care for what you ask for. Nobody will ever care if you deserve better, or fairer, or easier. Life takes what it takes, and it leaves you with what’s left. Right now, that’s me.”

The space between you seems to shrink with every word he basically throws at you. Or maybe that’s just the force of them, pressing against your ribs, your shoulders, your head, your legs. Until you feel trapped.

“You want to know where I’m taking you? Fine. I’m taking you somewhere safe. That’s it. That’s all you need to know. Because if you start askin’ for more, you’re going to be disappointed.”

You push against the walls of your own limit, only to feel them close tighter. The space shrinks. Tighter. Tighter. Until you can no longer remember the purpose of breathing.

He takes his time to watch you. His gaze is like the steel of his blade - sharpened to perfection.

His eyes burn through you but without warmth.

Frost creeps across your skin, freezing you in place, though you refrain from tightening your arms around yourself.

Your pulse is in chaos, each beat shaking your composure, thudding loud, and reverberating in your ears.

You feel exposed. In your entirety. He might as well see through your skin, through your bones that seem to shrink under his stare, right to the tender places inside you, that you’ve worked so hard to protect.

“You think you’ve got it bad, huh?” Bucky sneers. “You lost your palace, your shiny crown, the cushy life of being waited on hand and foot? Poor little princess. Maybe that’ll teach you how to be thankful for simply being alive.”

Your hands tighten around your legs.

“So you think you can just shove me through the mud without a single explanation, without even the slightest bit of humanity-”

“Humanity?” His laugh is short, cruel, and humorless. “You think humanity is what’s gonna keep you breathin’ out here? You think I’ve got the time or the patience to coddle a girl who’s never had to survive a day in her life? Save the sob story, princess. It doesn’t change a bloody thing.”

He stands up then. His tall frame looks menacing in the way he stands above you. His gaze is so blank. So uncaring.

“You see, your Highness - your palace is ash, your parents are dead, your title means nothin’, and the only reason you’re here right now, instead of lying face down in a ditch with a blade in your back, is because of me.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you ground out, voice shaking but resolute. You rise to your feet yourself but still have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Do you believe being born in a palace means living a perfect life? Do you believe you are the only one who suffers? That I’ve never felt trapped, or powerless, or suffocated because of the decisions all the others are making for me my whole life? I did not choose this life. I did not choose to have every moment of it dictated by someone else. To be looked at like I’m nothing more than a symbol. A prize. A pawn.”

It’s like speaking into a canyon. Your words echo back to you, hollow and distorted. Meaningless. Because they never reach anything. They only repeat themselves to you.

“You think your crown made you a pawn?” Bucky scoffs. “Your crown was the only thing keeping you alive-”

“I thought that was you-”

“-Out here, you’re nothing,” he continues firmly as if you never even talked, but his eyes flash. “Just another girl who doesn’t know how to survive. And if you keep wastin’ time whining about what you’ve lost, you’re gonna lose a hell of a lot more.”

“I’ve already lost everything!” you cry, your voice breaking, your hands trembling. The words just barrel out of your throat, rushing and violent, without pause for precision. “All that’s left for me is a man who treats me like I’m worth less than the dirt under his boots. I did not ask for you. I did not ask for any of this. So stop acting like I am the one who is supposed to be thankful. You are here because you were ordered to be. Don’t act like you’re my hero.”

He steps closer to you. His shadow falls darker than the night around you, covering you in its entirety. His eyes blaze with an intensity that borders on feral. He doesn’t take them off you for a second.

The tension he radiates crackles against your skin. Your instincts scream at you to move away from him, to cower and hide, to shield yourself, to run into the woods, and never look back. But you are rooted into place.

“Oh, but you should be grateful.” His voice burns itself into the air. “You think bandits in these woods are gonna stop and bow because you’re wearing a filthy gown and calling yourself royalty? You think anyone out here gives a damn about who you are or what you’ve lost? Or whatever dreams you have about what you deserve? No one’s coming to save you, your Highness. They’re all too busy tearin’ apart what’s left of your kingdom. All that matters now is keepin’ that pretty head atop your shoulders. And the only person able to keep it that way is me. So, yeah, you’re damn right you owe me. Every. Single. Breath.”

Your lips part but no words come out.

You don’t know if the ground gives way beneath you. But it feels like it might have. It crumbles and tumbles and falls into itself. You reach and you reach and you reach and there is nothing but air to meet you. But even as you fall, you will still be grasping, will still be fighting, until the very end.

Beneath the fury in his words, there is something else - a bitterness, a weariness that feels older than you can fathom.

It carries a weight. A gravity that demands not just your attention, but your surrender.

“You think you can survive without me? You think you’d last a day?”

Your skin flushes with color, cheeks burning crimson at the fire of fury that scorches your throat, making it feel raw and blistering. Making your next words sound rough as they come out.

“Maybe I wouldn’t. But at least I would die knowing I wasn’t at the mercy of a man who looks at me like I am already dead.”

Something shifts in his eyes for a second. His lips press into a line so thin, it might be a boundary you seemingly are about to cross. His eyes turn cold again. So cold. And yet, they feel alive. Piercing. Penetrating you with his unrelenting focus.

“I didn’t grow up in a palace,” he spits out. “And you know what that taught me? That the world doesn’t care about your sob stories. It doesn’t care if you’re a princess or a pauper. The only thing that matters is who’s still standin’ at the end of the day. And the only reason you are is because I’ve decided to keep you that way.”

You grit your teeth. Your body is holding a scream too big to let out.

“Oh so now I am supposed to grovel at your feet, is that it? Thank you, great and noble Barnes, for dragging me through hell without caring a damn bit if I even live or die. Should I kiss your boots while I’m at it?”

“Watch your tone,” he warns, his voice low and taut. “You’ve got no idea what it takes to survive out here, and you’ve got no idea how close you’ve come to being just another body on the road.”

“Then maybe you should have just left me,” you try to yell, but it sounds fractured, snapping and curling back on itself. “Maybe you should have left me to burn just like my parents did. Why didn’t you leave me behind? Why did you agree to this and drag me out here like some burden you can barely stand to deal with?”

His eyes flash with something dangerous, but you don’t stop.

“What did my mother-”

“Don’t,” he seethes lowly.

“You swore to her-”

“Shut up,” he shouts, voice rising for the first time. “That has nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing to do with me? She was my mother!”

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, his hands are gripping and releasing nothing, just the air that holds all the tension - akin to a hunter assessing its talons before plunging them into its victim.

You try not to shrink but your space feels diminished.

His shoulders are stone, drawn up and braced. He seems to thrum with energy. His eyes draw into a narrow, tightening at the corners.

“All you need to know,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, almost growling tone, “is that I’ll take you somewhere safe and make sure your head stays in place. So unless you want to lose it, you’ll keep your mouth shut about things you don’t understand.”

You stare at him. The heat of all that’s been said burns in the air between you but you still feel colder than ever. A shiver creeps up your spine, muscles releasing with a shudder.

The breaths that fall from your lips are too shallow, as if the atmosphere is being pulled away, claimed by his intensity.

A thousand retorts claw at your throat, but none of them make it out.

You feel it draining out of you. The energy. The fire that burned hot, but now leaks away. Leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Your chest feels hollow.

Your heartbeat slows, not peacefully, but with a kind of aching fatigue.

Your hands fall open, fingers slackening.

Your jaw loosens, leaving your mouth slightly open. Making room for the words you were ready to speak to flee, leaving only silence for you to stand in.

But even standing in front of him feels precarious. The earth beneath your feet might tilt at any moment and your body would lack the will to catch itself. And you know Bucky wouldn’t dare to even lift a single finger for you.

It is a surrender not of choice but of inevitability.

Because he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t try to. He doesn’t care to.

“Now go to sleep,” he says so flatly as if nothing even happened. “We move tomorrow at dawn.”

“Silence just feeds the rage, a calm that screams with hurt, and there I was, trapped in the quiet, my mind a chaotic storm of pain. Every word I swallowed felt like a match, lighting up the ashes of my frustration, until the heat inside me became too much to hold back.”

- Jaelyn Young

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv

[rey-jake-therapist]

So I keep reading that Sauron and Galadriel couldn't have spent sexy times together because it would have bound Sauron to his form, which I'm pretty sure is wrong, so I searched Google and found something funny dating from 2013. 'Couldn't not share it.

"Sex as means to reproduce.

My answer depending on what that s-word means: I. Couple Glue: Sauron: Not interested in such thing. Wears only friend in his world on his finger until he looses both. Valar: They surely had a couple thingy. Tantric sex that Sting hasn't dreamt of or something. Maiar: Not as apparant as the Valar but probably yeah. II. Love pendant (Obsession) Sauron: The REAL baddies in Tolkien's world aren't some misunderstood emos (for which he has my respect). They don't love or obsesse over gals. EXCLUSION: While he was a blender, he might have faked it (if it was useful for him he would have). Valar/Maiar: Dunno. Probably. Possibly. They want the couple thingy, after all? III. Physical activity Sauron: Surely. I mean why not? And the time argument is irrelevant if we exclude the love/obsession/couple thing. Valar/Maiar: The ones that were happy to try new things surely… Unless it was binding to human form and/or the couple thingy was great enough. Wizards: The time argument holds, as they will also engage in a love/couple thingy. The old age probably protected them from it. Saruman, just as Sauron, was a complete Baddy: yeah he prolly did it. He even got new clothes, as he probably tried to tell himself that the women actually liked him for himself. IV. Reproduction Sauron: Deffo not. Immortals probably had some way to control this, as there was no overpopulation issue in ME. But he would probably kill his women and eat the babies before he conceives possible competition. Valar: Couldn't. If the tantric thing was also as good as sting thinks - lucky bastards. Maiar: Had probably something to do with choice."

To be clear, I didn't write this stuff: Source

More seriously, regarding the subject itself:

From Tolkien's essay Ósanwe-kenta, Vinyar Tengwar #39:

Here Pengolodh adds a long note on the use of hröar by the Valar. In brief he says that though in origin a "self-arraying", it may tend to approach the state of "incarnation", especially with the lesser members of that order (the Maiar). "It is said that the longer and the more the same hröa is used, the greater is the bond of habit, and the less do the 'self-arrayed' desire to leave it. As raiment may soon cease to be adornment, and becomes (as is said in the tongues of both Elves and Men) a 'habit', a customary garb. Or if among Elves and Men it be worn to mitigate heat or cold, it soon makes the clad body less able to endure these things when naked". Pengolodh also cites the opinion that if a "spirit" (that is, one of those not embodied by creation) uses a hröa for the furtherance of its personal purposes, or (still more) for the enjoyment of bodily faculties, it finds it increasingly difficult to operate without the hröa. The things that are most binding are those that in the Incarnate have to do with the life of the hröa itself, its sustenance and its propagation. Thus eating and drinking are binding, but not the delight in beauty of sound or form. Most binding is begetting or conceiving. "We do not know the axani (laws, rules, as primarily proceeding from Eru) that were laid down upon the Valar with particular reference to their state, but it seems clear that there was no axan against these things. Nonetheless it appears to be an axan, or maybe necessary consequence, that if they are done, then the spirit must dwell in the body that it used, and be under the same necessities as the Incarnate. The only case that is known in the histories of the Eldar is that of Melian who became the spouse of King Elu-Thingol. This certainly was not evil or against the will of Eru, and though it led to sorrow, both Elves and Men were enriched."

So it's clearly said that the most binding is "begetting or conceiving", in other words: making babies. Melian lost the ability to change form ever again because she conceived Luthien, not because she had sex with Thingol (yeah I know that one event often leads to the other, but Elves are known for being able to decide when they want to conceive, and I presume it's the same for a Maia). And even in this case, in the text it's said that begitting and conceiving are the "most binding" things a Maiar can do, but it doesn't straight out state that it automatically involves losing their capacity to shapeshift... But then, Melian is the only example of Maia who had a child, and she remained in an Elf form.

Regarding everything that's not begetting/conceiving, it would take Sauron to use his hröa (his body) during a certain time before losing the capacity to shapeshift. And if I understand this text well, it would be the result of him getting attached to this hröa, in a way: he would be so used to this form that he would also lose the desire to leave it.

[kalinara]

It really is interesting to read this issue after the fact.

One thing that I always thought could give future fans/creators ammunition is Jean's reaction to Bobby suggesting he's bi. She says something like "they say everybody is."

Then, she fairly gently (for her) says that she's pretty sure he's "full gay".

The only reason she brings up Bobby's sexuality at all is, as you've said, a reaction to his objectification of Magik.

It's interesting then, to think about how things would have happened during the adolescence they remember - the 1960s comic. (Or whatever decade we update it to now, thank you rolling timeline).

The X-Men were brought to the future during the events of Uncanny X-Men #8. They're all still relatively new to each other. There's been enough time that they've settled as battle comrades. Scott and Jean have already had a few of their angsty thought bubble monologues. But her telepathy won't be active for quite a long time. At least a year or two, even taking the rolling timeline into account.

IIRC, we learn about her telepathy after Xavier's first "death". When it's revealed that he was faking it, and made Jean take part. So even though Bobby was acting like an idiot with Alex and Lorna (...actually, that is a storyline that would be really interesting to examine with modern eyes), I can see why she wouldn't have brought it up.

But I still think the "they say everybody is" is a potentially interesting response. It COULD be a neutral denial. But it also could be a "yeah, but the others aren't acting like a cartoon wolf right now." (Though they certainly did in Uncanny X-Men #1, as I recall. Heh.)

And as to who "the others" could be...that has interesting potential.

Teen Jean outs Bobby Drake pt 1

So... Marvel finally decided to confirm that Bobby Drake is gay in All-New X-Men vol 1. I'd forgotten it was a response of sorts to Bobby aggressively performing heterosexuality by objectifying Magik. Not that it makes Jean's behaviour any kind of model for being an ally, but it's easier to see how she arrived at this conversation. It wasn't just out of the blue.

It's clear he absolutely knows he's gay, but he's been closeted for years and I think his persona was built for self protection. A person's openness with their sexuality is entirely up to them (thank fuck telepaths aren't real) and the O5 had grown up in the 60s then suddenly were taken to 2014. Homophobia is still absolutely rampant, but the difference must have been stark. Bobby's parents are also super conservative assholes - given their attitude to him being a mutant he knows they would be awful if he came out to them. Xavier isn't exactly progressive either.

The ice barrier he puts up is him shutting the conversation down while holding back. I'd probably freeze her solid and flee. Interestingly he stops denying it very quickly (not like he had a fucking choice, JEAN) and brings up the headfuck that is his older self who 'isn't [gay.] It really is a unique situation.

I get the impression that Bobby's 'speculation' is spot on, it's obviously the same thought process he had. It's incredibly articulate and thoughtful, which should give an idea of just how much of a performance he has been putting on. Plenty of gay and queer folks date people you wouldn't 'expect' them to. Experimentation is how we figure ourselves out, and heteronormativity is a hell of a drug.

He accepts it pretty quickly, and they briefly discuss the cultural differences compared to their own time.

He accepts it super quickly and allows himself to think out loud about people he finds attractive. Warren, mainly. I don't believe him for a second that Warren is 'too pretty' as I'll discuss in part 2, but I have to say I misremembered the privacy aspect of this. Obviously Jean went to Charles Xavier school of psychic consent (literally) but she at least talks to him privately about this, and assures him 'it's no one's business until you say it is.'

She didn't so much out him as drag him kicking and screaming out of the closet, but she kept it between them and stuck to that. That, at least, is a positive model for supporting queer friends. There's a lot of trust there, and Jean outing Bobby isn't as bad as I remember it. Bobby certainly seems a LOT happier afterwards and while his exploration of his sexuality/dating is awkward as hell, that's true for everyone. I wonder if he's grateful to Jean for this. It feels weird to say it but he probably is. The flipside of telepathy existing is the misery someone who wasn't his friend could have inflicted. There's Xavier, too, who surely must have known, right? He doesn't know the meaning of privacy - what should he have done with this information? We know what he did in canon - nothing. It's such an odd situation that it's hard to judge but if someone in your care is closeted for decades then maybe you didn't provide the best environment.

Thus, the ice twink was born. Next time, Teen Jean and Teen Bobby talk to the Bobby of this time period. That's going to be awkward to write about. Ultimately, it does portray common queer experiences (albeit with telepathy and time travel involved) and emphatically normalises not being straight. It's not perfect, and it wasn't very groundbreaking for 2014, but it's something.

[galaxytoons]

I just found out that women can’t get their tubes tied until they’re 25, married, and has at least one son and one daughter, but a 19 year old dude can just walk in and get a vasectomy, no questions asked???? Wow, time to add this to the list of “Reasons I Fucking Hate My Country’s Government”. Also, fun fact, Ancient Romans used to crush a man’s testicles between boulders if he was found guilty of sexual assault. I think we should bring that back 🥰

[dykedvonte]

I hate the stretch lines in the front of Curly's uniform because that means the devs rushed to make a model in like a month or so and thought "They gotta at least know he has huge knockers, gotta know he's got back pain." Cause like what is the thematic importance of his tits having overhang?

What responsibility is that representing? Breast reduction? It shows an inherent greed in his character due to the excess and heshouldletmeholdone and that he clearly is blinded cause if he tries to look down his damn ladder all he's seeing is his own cleavage.

[butch-bakugo]

Its not a shock to me that most "transandrophobia doesn't exist" people are trans women, mostly white trans women. They have a very specific image of what a trans man looks like and it's only two categories: the hyper fem, tits out, make up, twink trans man who doesn't pass nor try to and the hyper masculine, bearded, t'd up, all the surgeries, big buff trans man who you could never clock. They genuinely think every "transandrophobia truther" is lieing about not getting privileges they don't fucking have.

They genuinely believe every trans man passes and therefore we get male privilege and they get backed up by trans men who do pass and think a cis man making rape jokes with them and asking about their lift set is male privilege. Lemme shatter the illusion because as much as you like to scream about some wide spread privilege that doesn't exist, most trans people, in general, do not pass. This is especially true for trans men due to the hyperfocus society puts on feminine features. I have never met a fully passing trans man and I've met over a hundred personally irl. never. I know they exist but the fact y'all think we, en masse, get male privilege is factually just fucking wrong.

Trans men are not more acceptable or palatable to transphobes. Trans men are not more likely to pass. Trans men in mass do not get male privilege by virtue of our lack of passing and our medical history. Most trans men are still affected by the gender pay gap and thus can not afford surgeries.

You do not acknowledge the existence of non-passing trans men, only uphold the voices of trans men who pass and have the money for surgeries (a small percentage) then wonder why trans men laugh in your face when you make claims about male privilege we do not experience.

We are more likely to be conversionally raped than you. We are more like to be forcibly detransioned than you. We are more likely to experience domestic violence than you. We are more likely to experience hate crimes than you.

Trans men's hyper visibility in online spaces dose not transfer to real life visibility. You are more likely to see white cis gay men and white trans women in any media or ever mentioned than even white cis lesbians or white trans men. Your rhetoric is the origin of the "theyfab" myth. Our issues are invisible to you cause you do not care about other trans people besides yourself and other transfems. Everyone and their trans mother knows about transmysogny and the issues you personally face yet you expect trans men to be silent about their issues and feel like they should be silent because they are men. Trans men are more likely to experience litterally all forms of violence over trans women in every single avenue of violence that exists; religious, sexual, domestic, familial, etc. We are more likely to be stopped and abused before we socially transtion than anyone else due to hyper vigilance of society over afabs. You can scream all you'd like about how we only bring up our sex/the gender we are often raised as when it's convenient but you always ignore those often traumatizing experiences when it's convenient for you.

Many Transmascs and trans men had a traumatizing upbringing because society views us as "bad women" and " bad women" get treated so much worse and by many more angles than "bad men" specifically because we were forcibly assigned as women. You take advantage of a lack of nuance in the community by trying to group us with cis men specifically because you group yourself with cis women. News flash, neither of us and our experiences should be grouped with ANY cis group because we do not have cisgendered experiences.

I seriously think you think you are the most oppressed group in the trans community and you are not, not by a long shot. You are not the most oppressed group in the transgender community and that's a statistical fact. The most oppressed group, by far, are two spirits and cultural genders by virtue of them being inherently indigenous and indigenous people being the most oppressed race of people in the community regardless of the location they are indigenous to.

You are literally taking advantage of the things that were drilled into transmascs at a young age to be seen and not heard and to be quiet and let others talk, that they are lesser than everyone. Everyday there's a new story in the community of a cis man or a trans woman getting a trans man/masc pregnant to hurt them or force them off t or to detransion, this is not a fucking accident. You are not men, no one ever said you were, but you sure love to silence them like they do.

I'm not quiet, you do not intimately know our issues the same way we do not intimately know yours, You don't get to tell us what we do and don't experience and the fact you'd rather cry wolf and suspiciously call us "bitches" than hear us out, tells me everything i need to know. That alt right to trans woman pipeline you said you escaped? Yeah, you didn't. Ur just an alt right trans woman, Try Again.

[xeversayfishxace]

Xever nods making a dramatic shrug while within the camera's view.

"Well, might as well not like we can do much else."

Xever moved over towards the corner too crouching downwards before then gesturing for Mondo to do the same so they pair of mutants were crouching in the corner together while they planned. This would be hard since while they were in a blindspot now they could hardly talk since that would be caught by the camera.

So Xever guessed it was time for hand gestures. He knew this would likely be a mess since Mondo could never resist the chance to make up his own while they were communicating silently to one another. It had been funny still for the process the handsigns Xever made to Mondo would be translated to the reptile mutant as.

*We could still do the the flash but do it offscreen? That wouldn't be too obvious right? I get that it might still be strange. But, we need to make a move here.*

Xever was trying to be tactful here but the longer they stayed in this room the more chances that men or worse were gathering outside. It was still way too strange that no one came in the moment they broke out. Time was of the essence here so the two needed to plan.

*If worse comes to worse I can break us out. My legs are strong enough to do it. The only issue is that they'd know. But, they might know already and could be preparing an ambush.*

A lot of these gestures Xever made with ease he was sure Mondo would understand what he meant since they had worked together for so long. He did want to protect Mondo above all else.

*If someone needs to take the risk. I don't mind if it is me. I will protect you no matter what.*

“Aw, nuts!” 

Mondo threw up his arms in alert before running his hands down his face.

“We are seriously doomed!!”

He was also playing up the theatrics to make it more believable. Mostly because he knew there was not a lock in the world that would stand a chance against Xever.

Something about the situation was - pardon him, Xever - fishy.

For starters, they were alone in this room. If this was mafia (and considering the gas Mondo assumed so) …last time Don Vizioso was with him and Donnie in the room, as were those twins. So why are they alone now? Did they just watch from behind that camera? For what purpose? Shouldn’t they have at least come in already when they were awake?

Or - you know, the moment Xever cut them free?

Maybe they were not even watching.

“Y’know, the least they could have done is give us comics to read if they were plannin’ on makin’ us wait this long … Sheesh. Slowpokes. Probably busy chewin’ on some fancy food or something.”

Maybe this one was a bit of mockery for the camera if those goons were listening. You hit villains where it hurts them the most: their egos. Might as well mask the unease by becoming cocky now.

Besides - the fish said act natural, so.

Flash time, huh? Mondo still has no idea where his skateboard was, they probably did not bother to pick that one up from the junkyard. Another quick glance was given around, at the top of the shelf…is his skateboard.

Ah.

The gecko climbs up the wall to get on the shelf, grabbing his skateboard. Mondo didn’t go down and instead performed a handstand among other tricks - but what he was actually doing was trying to take in the room in from a few different angles.

Surely they would notice if one of them did the flash, right?  It would be obvious if the camera gets destroyed that it likely was one of them. What he did notice, however was that the camera was more aimed towards the door, which means…

Yeah. He has figured out a route in which he could go.

"Might as well skateboard as long as they are not here."

He swiftly zooms into a corner - doesn't look like the camera was going into this area. Mondo shrugs at Xever, mostly to let him silently know this area seems clearn.

[goddessofroyalty]

I think a lot of people misunderstand when I (and probably other writers but can only speak for myself) say things like “omega men are more likely to have trouble producing milk than beta or omega women” to mean that most if not all omega men will have milk production issues.

And it’s like, no, actually, I mean that if the percentage of beta or omega women who struggle to produce milk is 10 then the percentage of omega men is 15.

It’s enough for people to notice but still far from “nearly every omega man will have this problem”.

[monsieuroverlord]

One of Marvel's Pride Stories this year, apparently:

(Hi, still internally screaming, thanks for checking in!)

[bibuckleykinard]

how many times do we need to learn as people that irony and hyperbole can be harmful because 'jokes' aren't easily distinguished from genuine thoughts and feelings until we stop rewarding people for speaking or posting about violence

like even if you're joking/don't actually believe that/think whoever you are insulting is bad/immoral/fictional therefore deserves it - ad hominem attacks always do more harm to the people who share those characteristic then the individual you intend to cause harm to or discredit