#'“fuck” is an excellent intensifier'

[roach-works]

hey i just wanted to say thanks for still expressing positive sentiments towards homestuck even after all this time. most BNFs aren't creating fanworks as much anymore (no one could maintain that intensity forever tbh!) but when they completely divorce themselves from that part of their life it's just... those creations brought a lot of joy, and it's extra sad when they feel the need to go scorched earth. i'm happy your works are still around and i really do wish you all the best going forward!

i think a lot of us abandoned homestuck because of two factors: the first was the collapse of the proudly sex-positive fandom space that let us be weird and creative without fear or shame, and the second was the fact that homestuck ended, then launched several epilogues, in a way that seemed specifically designed to mock fans for caring.

like, some very dark, sad, awful things seemed to happen to hussie, and he certainly did not have a good time with his own fandom. but from the perspective of someone in the audience, if a show i love turns on me and starts directly insulting me for loving it, caring for it, and hoping for the best, i get up and leave the theater.

'isn't it horrible to be the hero? aren't stories just prisons? isn't love ultimately meaningless? isn't hope the main driver of tragedy?' sure, fine. yeah. you're not the first man to ask these questions. they're big damn questions!

'aren't you stupid for sitting there and watching me ask these questions? because the answer is that i'm an idiot for asking them and you're twice an idiot for thinking that the answers might be worth the wait.' now you're just being an asshole to yourself, your story, and your audience. im taking my toys and going home.

homestuck was a brilliant, fascinating, unprecedented monument to storycraft... and it ended like a sandcastle getting kicked over by a toddler. that, to me, is the central tragedy of the piece.

[fantasylandloser]

Prude

Summary: Very awkward conversation with JJ and the gang

Warning: mentions of sex/ jj being fucking annoying/ reader slut shaming JJ

A/N: Found this in the vault

*******

JJ knew the rules. He knew he couldn’t touch you. No pogue on pogue macking. That didn’t make it easier though, especially not now. Not now that you were curious.

You were the worst prude he knew. He wished you were faking it, but you truly were lost when it came to anything that had a sexual nature. It made it worse for him. You could be a real priss when it came to talking about it too. Like you were just a few minutes ago when you called JJ a slut. Granted he started the argument per usual, but you had  never actually taken a real jab at him. You usually would just mock him, or ignore him. You’ve never called him a name, but you were in a mood today and  JJ just wouldn’t take the hint. 

“Ya know, I don’t appreciate that.” JJ states. “Someone has to be giving to the tourons, and as we all know.” He puts his arms out shrugging. “I’m a giver.” You roll your eyes at him, trying to continue on with your book, mad at yourself for even engaging.

“If you let someone give to you, then maybe you wouldn’t be acting so pissy right now.” JJ continued trying to get you to say something back, and missing your usual banter instead of this mood you were in.

“JJ leave her alone.” Pope steps in, knowing that you hadn’t had the best day and that JJ was just further irritating you. 

JJ ignores him continuing to egg you on. “You know if you ever need to rub one out, I know this excellent technique-” JJ cuts himself off when he sees your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “I’m talking about for when you… well you know.” JJ smirks, only to stop promptly when Kie smacks him on the back of his head. 

“Leave her alone, idiot.” And JJ would have maybe left you alone then if you weren’t still making that adorable stupid confused face.

“Ow! I’m just saying Kie. You do touch yourself don’t you?” He asks directly the wheels in his head spinning as the stupid little confused look on your face deepens. Now even John B was looking up from his map, awaiting your answer and Pope and Kie also seemed to be.

“What are you even-” You start to ask, because everyone touches themself, to put on lotion, to do their hair, to take baths-

“Between your legs.” He clarifies for you immediately making the words die in your throat and a heat rise on your face. 

“Oh…” The awkward silence that settles in the group seems to intensify by the second. “No, not really.” 

“Not really?! What does that mean? You don’t ever just… get the urge.” JJ presses, leaning towards you in anticipation.

“JJ leave me aloneee.” You draw out in a groan. Uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, which somehow always gets to topics like this one when you’re talking to JJ. 

“That’s my last question. I swear. Then you can go back to reading and calling me a slut.” He pleads, curious eyes digging into you. 

You huff in irritation. “I tried once and it didn’t really feel-” You huff again at your inability to find the right words, but also knowing JJ wouldn’t leave you alone until his curiosity was satisfied. “I didn’t like it.” You answer simply, wanting the conversation to end.

“That’s gotta be the most bullshit thing I ever heard.” JJ tried to continue even though he said he’d leave you alone. Kie smacked his arm, making him put his arms up in surrender. “Fine, I'll leave it alone.” JJ finally let a now very awkward silence settle over everyone, knowing that wouldn’t be the last of that conversation.

[actual-changeling]

crowley with chronic pain that gets worse whenever he is forced to return to hell is actually so dear to me and it provides excellent angst material

as someone who had chronic migraines and headaches (not anymore luckily, getting away from my abusive parents solved a lot of issues in that regard) i know exactly how irritated and taut it makes you. the pain never goes away and it never stops hurting, at some point it simply becomes your new normal because it's either that or dying.

so crowley returns from an unplanned trip to hell after doing one good deed too many, and the first and only thing he wants after that experience is aziraphale. his angel is familiar, comfortable, and, most importantly, safe; there's no place he feels and is more protected than in the bookshop with aziraphale by his side.

at first, it's one wave of relief after the other, aziraphale hasn't said anything about his slightly unusual behaviour and silence, just brought him a cup of tea and shooed him towards the sofa. crowley is desperate for a nap, he closes his eyes and blocks out what little light still gets through his shades, every ray of sunshine a piercing knife in his optic nerve, and tries to doze off.

just that aziraphale is chatty today. very chatty. crowley loves listening to him, he really does, but hell is noisy, he is completely overstimulated, in pain, and by god he wants quiet. but he's in aziraphale's home, he's a guest, so he can't ask him to stop talking, can he?

light-headed and with increasing pain, he attempts to ignore it.

it doesn't work.

after about an hour, every muscle in his body is as tense as metaphysically possible, his head is a pulsating drum of pressure and agony, and the next time aziraphale's voice intensifies with excitement, crowley snaps.

"for FUCKS sake angel, can you shut up for one minute? please?"

he regrets it immediately. there's no need to look at him, he knows exactly which expression is spreading across aziraphale's face, and he is not going to cry, he won't, he's a demon.

crowley breathes in the silence, once, twice, three times, each inhale more shallow than the last, and then the frayed thread holding him together snaps, too.

he has miracled himself home before aziraphale can open his mouth or he can make it worse, and his flat is dark and quiet, comfortably cool, and he curls up under his sheets. tears run into his silk pillowcase, the only texture that doesn't exaggerate his migraines, and he spirals down an infinite abyss of guilt and self-hatred until he falls into a fitful sleep.

the pain of loneliness far outweighs that of his migraine, and crowley years and regrets and loves like he always does, like he always has, always will.

(if crowley had waited a moment longer, aziraphale would kneeled next to him, concerned)

(if crowley had tilted his head to look at him, his angel would have gently pressed his palm to his forehead and asked what's wrong?)

(if crowley had stayed, aziraphale would have listened to him talk about hell and the pain it causes him, and he would have understood)

(but they're not like that, are they?)

(but they could be)

[seat-safety-switch]

Government waste is excellent. Unlike my moron neighbours, who complain about how much their taxes are, and how they wish that we could get rid of every government service except roads and cops, I know better. The government provides all kinds of amazing and useful services that nobody ever thinks about, much less appreciates. And I'm not just saying that because I got a cheap hovercraft from the auction.

Sure, there was a bit of a kerfluffle after I won it for $53. For instance, fifty-three dollars Canadian is a lot of money. It took me awhile to transfer it all to them, in the form of rolls of nickels shoved into an envelope marked "to the government." And then there was the classic bureaucracy, trying to figure out if it was even legal to sell a hovercraft to me. This argument went on for weeks, which only intensified my ardour for the utility vehicle. One of the government workers didn't pay attention to who they were cc'ing the email to, and ended up accidentally calling me a "greasy skid" to their boss in a way that I could see, which I think helped me (and my attorney) secure the final bill of sale.

So: now I had a hovercraft. They even delivered it. A childhood dream was finally satisfied. What did I do with an ex-military hovercraft, you ask? I drove that shit to work. In the winter, you often have to wait in traffic for a long time as everyone takes their turn polishing the ice with their not-really-all-wheel-drive all-wheel-drive SUVs on bald, financed not-really-all-season all-season tires. Hovercrafts are not cars, in the view of my province's Implements of Husbandry Act (it is a disappointment that the good people of 1906 did not predict them,) and so I can go wherever the fuck I want. Say, through public parks.

Winter driving has never been more fun when you're insulated from the ground by a glorious cushion of air. Ice is less precarious, because you're constantly sliding out of control at all times. And if you slam into a tree, or country club building, or herd of deer, you just bounce harmlessly off. Really, the only thing I really have to complain about is that I can't do a burnout. Also, the howling Rolls-Royce jet turbines behind it that I swapped in because I got tired of the original thrust fans. Keeps my hands warm.

[ayufufu]

OnionThief x Rival!MC

Word Count: 4368

Summary:  In which OnionThief and his rival get paired up for a project.  But for the first time, he gets to see what it’s like for them behind the scenes of their bratty know-it-all personality (basically academic burnout).

Author’s Note:  Started sometime in 2020, finished April 5th, 2024.  I present the sassy, probably out-of-character, OnionThief and his little rival.  Trust, it’s been like 3 years since I’ve played this game.  Oh lord am I out of touch with this fandom.  It is buried within me right now.  But hey, finished writing.  I am proud of the beginning half, the ending might not be it though. 

“Eat shit and die.”

“Yes, fuck you.”  These whispers flew past surrounding peers, already used to overhearing this type of bickering between the pair.  It was never truly clear how it began.  They tested each other’s knowledge, butting heads every year since high school.  Y/N and Onionthief simply found each other insufferable, their hostility seemed to intensify when they found out they applied to the same college.  It was as though they were water and oil, never being able to mix well.  The professors chose to pay no mind since both were still excelling.  Their grades were incredibly high, scores screaming in pain at the height they were reaching, extra credit opportunities never wasted.

“You’re all dismissed, please remember to review pages 556 to 590 for next week.”  The class let out dim cheers, the sounds of paper rustling, bags zipping, and peers exchanging words filling the large room.  As Y/N finished packing their last item away, they rushed straight to the door.  Walking to the outside of campus, they made a mental to-do list.  Assignments were beginning to pile up, but Winter break was right there.  Couldn’t stop now.

“Move,” Onion’s voice rang out as he shoved his shoulder into theirs harshly, a scoff coming from them as they’re broken from their thoughts.

“I wasn’t aware the 15 feet of space around me was nonexistent,” Y/N spat.  Their eyes followed his back as he continued his fast pace without a word.  Unbelievable.  Turning to walk the other direction, the sounds of their peers filled their ears.  Silently restarting their to-do list, the sounds became a blur.  The walk to their apartment was a routine, passing the different trees and couples before reaching the bridge.  Rushing across, the sounds of another pair of footsteps flooded their ears.  

“So you’ve resorted to stalking me,” Onion sneered.  Y/N turned around, head flooded with annoyance.

“I live here, you’re aware of that.” “Right.”  He walked over to the bridge pulling a small bottle from his pocket.  Y/N watched curiously as he tipped it over the edge and shook it a bit.  Realizing he was feeding the fish, Y/N walked off, bag bouncing with each step.  The eyes following them were left unnoticed, the sounds of class echoing in their mind all the way to their desk.

“I mentioned at the beginning of the year that there will be one major partner assignment in this class, serving as our midterm final.”  Groans and whispers of cheers filled the room, peers feeling dreadful while others spotted friends across the room.  Y/N sighed, head resting in their arms.  Glad he’s at least sitting somewhere else.  

“Alright, settle down.  These partners will be assigned by your latest test scores.”  Right...  Y/N clicked their pen impatiently, feeling the metal between their fingers, more sounds of displeasure filling the room.  The teacher droned on about the details of the project, explaining how lower scores would be assigned tutors for their projects.

“Let’s start with the highest scores shall we?”  They sat up.

“Y/N and—” Clack.  The sound of the pen hitting the table drew the attention of a few surrounding classmates, but Y/N didn’t even take notice.

“You two don’t need a tutor so you’ll be able to view the project details online. Now for…”  He was their partner.  For once, a teacher decided to pair them up.  They sat through the rest of the class, every word flowing through their ears and out the other.  Nothing was staying put into their mind.  I just had to be paired with such an insufferable… Shaking their head, they heard the professor dismiss them.

“Well, I guess I’m ready to fail this assignment.” And there he is.  They began packing their stuff, shoving the items in the bag messily.

“Same here, you’ll just drag down my grade even if we did try.”

“Right, what was this worth again, 50%?”  Y/N stopped their aggressive packing at this.

“Where did you get that this was 50%?” “Read the details dumbass,” he passed his phone to them.  Their eyes skimmed over the details, the 50 percent and “due in 10 days” standing out from everything else.  The phone was plucked out of their hands as he smirked, tucking it away.  He left the room, Y/N trailing behind.  They couldn’t just skip the assignment, their hard-earned A+ would easily drop in just one month.  Onion tried his best not to notice the footsteps behind him, knowing it was them.  He held back chuckles as he wondered how long they’d follow him.

“Hey shallot-head,” Y/N called.  He hummed in acknowledgment, but he still didn’t change pace or look their way.  Y/N was starting to struggle to keep up the pace, always one step or two behind from walking next to him, not noticing the smirk he was hiding.  They finally huffed before grabbing the back of his shirt to stop him completely.  He halted at the sudden pressure, a smirk forming a look of surprise while Y/N rushed to face him.

“Listen shallot, I can’t afford to skip this assignment.”  He cocked an eyebrow at this.

“The Y/N cannot afford to skip this assignment?  I’m sure you can lose half of your grade, still pass, and I would be able to avoid your ridiculously low IQ.”  Their head felt hot at the sound of his ridiculing.

“I need to pass this assignment.  I can do the work, but you just need to revise some parts to look like it’s yours,”  Y/N pleaded.  He seemed to ponder the options, putting his chin between his fingers.

“No.”  He turned to leave. “Wait– I offer instant miso!”  His head perked up.

“Green onions too, plus I’ll throw in extra tofu.”  He grabbed Y/N’s wrist roughly before beginning to drag them to the apartment in a rush, Y/N struggling once more to keep up, relief washing their body.

“I need to stop here for a moment.”  He approached the bridge again, the same bottle as before in his hand.  Y/N watched him shake the bottle once more, fish crowding the area again.  He turned back to them before nodding and walking to the complex, Y/N tailing after.  Once they called the elevator, awkward silence surrounded them.  For the first time since they began their walk (run) back, tension swallowed them whole, arms and legs aching from arduous journeys across campus and poor posture in class.

Y/N stepped into the elevator first, clicking the third-floor button once Onion stepped in.  They side-eyed him, taking in his tense yet relaxed state.  Y/N willed themselves to relax their stiff body while the elevator doors spread open.

“Do you need anything from your room or are you good to go,” Y/N asked, adjusting the bag on their back.  

“I don’t need anything else.  I bring all my work necessities with me”  They nodded at his response before putting in their pin and unlocking the door.  They walked straight in, putting away their necessities, shoes by the door, and water bottle on the table.

“Right, um, you could set up in the kitchen while I make your miso?”  Onion nodded and began to set his stuff on the chair next to Y/N’s stuff while they began putting a pot of water on the stove.  As Onion began pulling out his laptop and notes, he stared at Y/N’s back while they shuffled around the kitchen grabbing things out of cabinets and drawers.  His brows furrowed in annoyance at the unwanted presence, punching his laptop code in with more pressure.

“Don’t you have a desk?”  Onion sighed at the environment.  

“I do, but it only fits me.  I didn’t plan on having anyone study at my apartment until now.”  The instant miso powder hit the boiling water, the aroma filling the room, the silence of their voices following.  Bubbling water and mouse clicks were the only things heard for a few more minutes, the atmosphere stiff.  Eventually, two bowls of miso, two laptops, two notebooks, and two comp sci students were positioned at the table.  

“So, let’s test the limits of your stupidity.” “...I literally have a higher score than you.”

“Ok, and?” Y/N leaned back in their chair.  They barely even started, the soup still steaming, but their bickering was starting up once more.

“I’m just saying, that B in algorithms seems to say something about you.”  Harshly sighing, Y/N tipped their head back to the ceiling, their eyes tracing the patterns in the material.

“If you don’t pay attention I will chug this miso and leave.”  They snapped their head towards him.  They sat up and positioned their arms to type before realizing they hadn’t even read all of the assignment details yet.  This was going to be a long month.

10 days.

“No dumbass, this is supposed to be–” “No it isn’t, what the hell?”

“Are you denying the truth? “I am denying what is clearly wrong.” “Look at my notes, it’s right!”  Y/N shoved their notes in Onion’s face.  Pushing his glasses further up his nose, his eyes scanned the text.  After a minute or so, he sighed.

“Your notes are wrong.”  Their eyes widened when Onion handed his own notes to them before rereading their notes with a confused expression.  Onion had wanted to work on homework before continuing the project to make sure their (mostly his) grades didn’t drop.  Upon looking at their notes from the day, their professor's words filled their brain again.  They couldn’t stop the disappointment from filling their face, a frown settling on their features.  Since they were so sure they were right, they didn’t think their understanding of the topic was off.  Onionthief observed their down face, an expression he seldom saw.

8 days.

“I couldn’t grab extra tofu last time I went out for groceries.”  Y/N set the bowls down carefully, taking their seat right after.  Onion didn’t budge, opting to continue typing away at his laptop.  At the lack of response, they cocked an eyebrow.  They thought he’d throw a fit, but surprisingly he stayed put.  Y/N sighed before opening up their work yet again, shoulders aching.  Onion stayed true to the deal, opting to revise the parts Y/N laid out for him while continuing his homework from other classes.  At the lack of help and the burden of other classes on their mind, Y/N could feel the shadows of burnout waiting to envelop them.  After this, they were prepared to let their bed swallow them whole.

6 days.

“Hey, this is still wrong.”  Y/N’s head jerked up from the part of the project they were currently typing out.  Onion observed them as they rapidly scrolled to where he was viewing.  It was an entry from the beginning of the project.  A part that affected the rest of the work.  Deeply sighing, the monotone voice in their head began reading again.  Despite rereading it constantly, nothing was sticking.  It was as though the words didn’t exist.  At the lack of response from Y/N after a good few minutes, Onion huffed before highlighting the mistake in the text.

“Oh.”  It was all they could let out at the moment.  Despite the sentence highlighted, the information wasn’t processed in their head.  Their face scrunched up at the hotness filling their head.  The sight made an unfamiliar feeling rise in Onion.  He breathed out harshly before deleting the sentence, correcting it himself.  If it wasn’t for the silence in the kitchen, he doubted he’d ever hear the quiet ‘thanks’ they let out.  He froze at the appreciation, the sound of it unfamiliar from them.  The hell do they mean ‘thanks’?

5 days.

The project was still unfinished, the amount of work left taunting Y/N as they were left staring at the blank screen yet again.  The homework had already seemed to have drained them, but they refused to call it a night yet.  Their miso bowl was cold, the ingredients settling to the bottom.  Onion had already finished his homework and revised the parts of the project he was given.  Now, he seemed to be collecting data on some fantasy web novel.  Rubbing their temple, Y/N shut their laptop despite having never even opened the project yet.  Their brain was on overdrive, the workload invading their mind and trying to push them to work.  Despite their efforts, Y/N just couldn’t bring themself to even pretend they could work, their gaze burning holes in the back of Onion’s laptop.

“Are you finally done with the project,” Onion blurted out, eyes not leaving his screen.  No answer.  Glancing over the top of his laptop, his eyes were met with Y/N’s drained demeanor.  As his gaze wandered over their face, it soon traveled to the untouched bowl on the side.  Adjusting his glasses, he shut down his laptop after saving his work, the sudden movement making Y/N jump.  He leaned forward, chin resting against the back of his hands.

“Do you need help?” “Why the fuck are you asking like that–” “I’m just asking.” “Yes, but what’s with that pose, you look dramatic.”  Onion’s confused face became deadpan at the comment.  He opened his mouth to let out a snarky remark before Y/N got up abruptly.  He watched as they trudged over to their room, the door shutting softly behind them as a muffled thud was heard.

3 days.

Y/N hasn’t emerged from their room since yesterday, the silence in class left everyone dumbfounded as Onion continued on with his day-to-day classes in silence.  Yet as the day came to an end, he found himself in front of the same door he’s gone to for the past 19 days.  What do I even say?  Why am I here? They didn’t say they’d work on the project today.  His hand raised for the buzzer.  

“Coming…”  Dull. A very dull voice.  “Come on in, miso’s in the pot.  I’ll be in my room laying down, we can just do it tomorrow or something.”

“But that would put us–”

“Behind schedule I know, shut up.  Please.”  He frowned at their small pleading.  I don’t like that they have to plead.  “If you want to you can work on it yourself…”

“But that wasn’t-”

“A part of the deal I know, it’s just a suggestion.  Take it or leave it, miso’s still yours.”

“Oh.. okay then.”  As they left, Onion felt bitter guilt rising in him.  He looked at the miso and sighed before pulling out his laptop and getting to work.  Might as well as payment for the miso.  He swiftly got to work as Y/N stayed silent in their room.

2 days.

Onion finished the last of his typing, the kitchen was oddly silent as there was no miso being cooked and no Y/N to bother him.  Y/N just let Onion in, apologizing for the lack of miso or food, and tried to turn him away, but Onion persisted that it didn’t matter.  They let Onion do what he wanted as they did the same as they did before, retreating back to their room in silence.  Yet Onion completed the project yesterday.  It was a minor error that needed to be corrected, one colon needed to make the code work.  When he found the error, all he could do was chuckle a bit before staring at Y/N’s room.  

“Why can’t I just leave,” Onion whispered to himself as he stared at his laptop in frustration.

“No one said you can’t,” Y/N muttered, walking over to the fridge to get water.

“I know,” Onion spat. “I don’t know shallot, doesn’t seem like it,” Y/N spoke in a flat sing-song tone.

“Could you just, shut up already, damn,” he spat.  Y/N carried no response.  They stood in place, the chill of the open fridge numb to their body as they stared into the light illuminating the numerous food products inside.  “Y/N…?”  They closed the fridge as if on autopilot and made their way back into their room, their heart weighing heavy as an ache formed in their chest, their cheeks damp.  Damn it.

24 hours.

No knock today.  The miso sat on the stove for 3 hours, cold, and untouched.  Y/N waited hours, even after they poured the miso down the drain.  Part of them laughed at themselves for waiting, yet the other part made them ache.  Of course, he got tired of me like everyone else.  The silence of their apartment bothered them, the lights and blinds all dimmed.  They stared at the freshly bought miso packets, the weight of their assignments and lectures missing pushed on their heart and crushed it as their tears fell.

22 hours.

“Oh,” was all Y/N could muster when they received an email from Onion telling them to get on the link to the project presentation.  Not a single “sorry” or “Are you okay” was typed out.  They grabbed their laptop and moved it from their bed to their desk as they prepared for another night in bed alone again.  Their assignments could wait just a bit longer.

21 hours, 3AM.

Three knocks.  

“Hey, sorry I was finishing up the work in the library.”  Oh?  Y/N could smell the bullshit coming from him.

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry,” was all they could muster in response.

“Okay, here I’ll make miso.  I don’t smell miso, so I guess it’s safe to assume you haven’t been making any.  I’m sorry for ghosting,” Onion gave a sheepish smile.  What the hell do you mean sorry?  Their chest aches even more at the sight of his small smile.

They talked for a while on the couch about the assignments Y/N had been missing while the TV ran some background noise for them.  Turns out Onion and Y/N were excused from some extra tutoring that other students were given in the class, so it wasn’t too bad.  Y/N still had some work to do, but Onion mentioned how he finished the assignment way before, hence the email to check on the file.  Y/N breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why don’t I make us some miso soup for once,” Onion asked.  Y/N raised a brow at this in mocking offense.

“You, my guest, cooking?  Hell no.”  Onion scoffed.

“Just rest.”

“No I’ll make it–”

“Literally shut the fuck up and go.”

“Fine.”  Y/N pushed themselves off of the couch and semi-stopped over to their bed before plopping on it dramatically.  Onion walked in to make sure they were actually in bed before grabbing an extra blanket that sat on their chair and layering it on them.  Y/N side-eyed his every move the entire time as he did.  Their heart had a warm ache this time while Onion shut the door.

“Where the fuck do they put the pots.”  Now that Onion was tasked with “taking care” of Y/N, he realized he had no idea where anything was.  He sighed before going through each cabinet one by one.  Y/N heard the cabinets opening and closing before smiling softly to themselves.  Wait, what.

The weight lifted from their shoulder.  The heaviness of the world had gone.  They took a deep breath, sinking back into the soft blankets once more.

20 hours, 4AM.

“Damn this is good, what kind of crack did you put,” Y/N enthused.

“Just some extra ingredients I brought,” Onion replied.  Y/N froze.  “I didn’t fucking poison it dumbass.”

“Well how am I supposed to know, hm?”  Y/N spat.

“We’re eating food… from the same pot.”

“Oh yeah huh.”  Y/N hastily resumed their eating as Onion shook his head.  Y/N pondered as they ate.  “Hey… you’ve been acting different lately.  You’re less…”

“Less what?”

“Less annoying,” Y/N deadpanned.

“...thanks?”

“You’re more… enjoyable to be around I guess.”  Onion felt his face go a bit warm, having never heard those from their voice.  He stared down at his bowl as he felt it go to his ears.  “Woah,” he heard Y/N say.  “You’re red as fuck.”

“Yeah, wonder who’s fault that is,” Onion retorted.  Y/N chuckled at that as they stood up to grab more soup.  The TV was all that filled the room as Onion felt his brain restarting.  Rain began to patter against the windows.  “I guess you’re not that annoying too, enjoyable, even…”  Y/N froze up too, almost dropping the soup filled ladle.  They quickly shook their head as they put the bowl back on the table, mimicking what Onion had just done.  Shyness is cute on them…?  Onion was considering things immensely now.

With the change in attitude from his supposed academic rival, his emotions have been askew these past days.  The lack of brattiness left a hole.  Something, such as a shift in the force, had changed his whole routine entirely.

“Fuck off,” Y/N spat.

“Nah.”

“Whore.”

“Eat shit and die,” Onion smirked.

“That’s my fucking line,” Y/N gasped dramatically at their own words being used against them.

“Oh whatever,” Onion chuckled fondly.

19 hours, 5AM.

The two sat in Y/N’s living room now as they chatted and argued about anything they could find.  During Onion’s dramatic listing of every time he’s won against Y/N, he noticed them staring long and hard at their bedroom door.

“Earth to dumbass, what’s up?”

“I should get a start on some of my other assignments.  So close to finishing yet...” Y/N let out a harsh sigh.  “You probably want to head back to yours anyways.”  Onion sat upright at this.  “See, like a fucking dog–”

“No.”  Y/N raised an eyebrow?

“Fuck you mean, no?”  Onion himself didn’t even know what he meant.

“No as in… I’m not going home?”

“Suit yourself.”  Y/N got up and went to their bedroom, leaving Onion dumbfounded on the couch.

No?  What am I even going to do here…  He took a deep breath before walking over to Y/N’s bedroom.  They were already at work on their laptop.

“Hey, I’m gonna go,” Onion muttered.

“Figured, I’ll see you out then.”  Y/N led the way to the door while Onion trudged along behind them with his work bag.  

“Are you actually showing up tomorrow,” Onion snickered.  His face turned to an unreadable expression the second he noticed Y/N look away silently with a stone face as they pondered it.

“Nah, fuck that,” Y/N chuckled dryly.  An idea popped into Onion’s mind.

“Burned out?”

“What?”  Y/N knew what he was talking about of course, but the fact that Onion even questioned it felt out of character for him.  “So what if I am,” Y/N snapped.

“Well… you know that’s not healthy…”  Onion started.

“Yes, but it got everything done so I don’t see why—”

“Because you worried me.”  Y/N’s eyes widened.

“I worried you?”  

“Yes.”  By now the both of them were staring at each other in the entrance to Y/N’s apartment, neither of them moving and the silence filled with their heavy breaths.  Onion stepped forth and held out both of his hands.  Y/N gave a sharp look at him as he gestured towards them, keeping them outstretched.  Y/N hesitantly put their hands in his.

“You can’t just say that…” 

“I can’t?”  They dropped his hands.

“No, it.. It’s confusing for me.”  Onion leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket.

“It’s confusing for me too, you know,” Onion whispers, averting his gaze to the ground.  Perhaps if he stared hard enough, the wall and him would combine as one and he’d be able to leave.  Taking care of his little siblings was one thing, comforting someone his age was another.  There was a reason he resorted to talking to his friends online.

“Hey…”  Y/N stepped forward, their hand twitching.  “What’s on your mind, if you don’t mind my asking?”  A faint smile was painted on his face.  After all this, they’re still so kind.

“I.. don’t mind per say.”  His bag weighed heavily on his shoulder, pulling his heart to the ground in ache.  “I’m just not sure I know how exactly to say,” he sighed.  A gentle finger laced with one of his own as Y/N hooked them together.  Looking up in confusion, they dragged him over to the sofa.  

“Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”

After a couple hours, the two had made up that night, and with help from Y/N’s visitor and a sleepover numerous late assignments were turned in.  Now, it’s been a whole week since that night.

“Hey, you know you don’t have to keep coming over,” Y/N laughed as they stirred the miso in the pot as normal.  This routine came back immediately.  Onion coming over to Y/N’s, the smell of miso soup filling the apartment after settling down for a few minutes.  A chat about interests along with plenty of time for assignments.

“Yeah well, you make my day plenty more interesting, ‘you know,’” Onion mocked.  Feigning offense, the miso soup pot was set in the middle of the counter with a cork mat underneath.  As Onion grabbed himself a portion, Y/N strolled over to the TV and turned it on for background noise.  

“Yeah yeah, oh how I must brighten your oh so, dark, dreadful, drowsy days.”  Laughter filled the apartment, almost drowning out the TV noise.

“...festival lasts for a few days, but, due to fortunate circumstances, will be held during local schools' vacation days.”  The TV listed the dates as the two college students looked at each other.  “Not to mention, the Winter Festival is known for the competitive nature that it brings to it’s attendees with the plethora of games, contests, and more, only here at…”  

“That’s our Winter break dates huh…” Onion smirked. 

Y/N cleared their throat.  “Would you care to join me to this, uh, ‘friendly’ festival?”

“Oh,” Onion leaned forward.  “It’s on.”

[pooks]

alright, thanks to some good One Piece fanfics, i got Ichiji brainrot and here's an AU i have in mind

never expected that to happen, so i blame the good OP fanfiction writers. you know who you are and keep up the good work

it basically begins like this...

Germa 66 (but before Sora dies)

Ichiji gets the first of his modification surgeries, which happens to be his eyes (it's meant to enhance his sight and develop further modifications). being temporarily blinded, Ichiji gets the wrong room and meets his mother in the medical ward.

here's the thing; Ichiji has emotions, but he can't express them and he got an excellent poker face so Judge never suspected anything. also, Ichiji is extremely mature so he knows that displaying emotions is a very Bad™ idea

anyhow, since he's blinded and can't train/study as he usually do, he's allowed to meet with Sora until his eyes has healed. Sora is overjoyed to spend time with another of her children (only Sanji comes to see her frequently).

during the time Ichiji learns to know his mother, he also starts to notice difference between right and wrong. it doesn't take him long to realize how absolutely toxic and fucked up this situation is. he knows that as the firstborn son, he's the next in line for the throne and will one day rule over Germa. he doesn't want to and he's jealous of Sanji who will never have that burden.

Sora becomes his safe zone, even if he can't see her. Ichiji also discovers that he loves knowledge, he enjoys listening/reading about everything. he notes that there is little to no archived recollections of Gold Roger's adventures on the Grand Line and Ichiji dreams of sailing to the Grand Line and write about all the adventures he'd experience.

Ichiji is also a realist and knows this dream is nothing else than a dream that'll never come true.

after his eyes are healed, Ichiji can't go to see Sora again and his training is intensified because he's "the heir". Ichiji still tries to see his mother in secret, during the middle of night when no one else is awake. meanwhile, he isn't exactly "cruelly bullying" Sanji, but his words are very harsh and cold. he does this because he wants Sanji to open his eyes and understand their duty. their lives are not "fun and games" and Sanji needs to grow up. (classic frustrated older brother attitude)

then Sora dies and everything goes to hell. the last words Ichiji exchanges with Sanji is his pentup frustration that Sanji still hasn't learnt his lesson; that he "needs to grow the hell up". Ichiji also says things he didn't intent to, such as Sanji is so lucky that he doesn't have to inherit the throne, being forced to be perfect and he has still the freedom to leave Germa as he pleases, unlike him.

then Sanji doesn't turn up for several days and the next thing Ichiji knows, his little brother is suddenly declared dead to the kingdom.

Ichiji, in a rare moment of impulsivity, waits until after the "funeral service" to demand answers from Judge and his mind snaps when he called Sanji a failure, a burden and especially the words "a stone around your neck". Ichiji attacks Judge without thinking and he's defeated within seconds. and his left eye got burnt by firepower

Ichiji is then subjected to a series of unethical medical experiments (he's too proud to ever admit this, but they were so horrofic and painful that Ichiji screamed for his mother). His eye is fine, still functional but the scar he got will remain for the rest of his life. Judge says it will remind him to never try to defy him.

Ichiji, being completely resigned to his fate, makes a deal with Judge (at this point, he has all but officially denied Judge as his father); he promises to endure the "Training of Hell" to become his perfect soldier project and when his genetic modifications is 100% complete and in return, Judge won't let Sanji become harmed or starve to death in his prison and when Ichiji becomes of age, Judge (who, of course, doesn't intend on honoring his promise) will release Sanji from his prison and let him go.

he endures daily experiments along with extreme training for six months.

Reiju, who has been on the sidelines and watched everything unravelling has conflicting thoughts about this development. she is happy that Ichiji has human emotions, but also saddened over how willing Ichiji is to suffer for Sanji's sake. she watched her first little brother endure a training that's worse than torture and she knows that Judge doesn't intend to keep his promise.

(fyi, Niji and Yonji are still the same. but they are confused why Ichiji is now seperated and isolated from them.)

when Germa 66 invades the island Cozia in the East Blue, Reiju frees Sanji, like in canon. while she tells Sanji to get the key to his iron mask, Reiju frees Ichiji from his confinement in his private quarters (the windows and the door are locked from the outside). Reiju tells Ichiji that if he wants to escape and become free, this is his only chance and he won't get another one.

they meet with Sanji outside and Reiju tells them to run away, to never look back. Ichiji takes Sanji's hand and runs towards a ship, the Orbit. he doesn't look back and he doesn't cry, unlike Sanji.

(end. part 1)

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"The Carter Academy for Omega Excellence" Pt 10

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: age gap, boarding school au, a/b/o, dub-con/non-con, spanking, feminization, dumbification, sexism, misogyny, prostate milking, discipline, D/s elements, hurt/comfort, mentions of past self-harm, predatory behavior, teacher/student, bathroom use control, humiliation, omorashi

Summary: Bucky Barnes is young, confused, and conflicted—a real "rebel without a cause" type. His parents ship him off to Steve's reform school to help him get straightened out into a "proper young omega."

Wait! I haven't read an earlier part of this fic! Story Masterlist

Part 10 Expedient Action

Steve watches as the kid’s lower lip trembles, his stubborn little cleft chin moving along with it, and he hums sadly. “Do you remember the last time you were happy, Bucky?”

The boy shrugs, won’t meet his eyes. “Dunno,” he eventually says.

Steve nods, having expected as much. Slowly, he curls his fingers over the top of the towel at Bucky’s waist. Bucky’s stomach sucks in with tension when he realizes that Steve intends to pull the towel off him, but he makes no move to try and stop it. Steve lets it fall to the floor, then looks at Bucky’s lap, eyes briefly considering the state of the omega’s rigid little prick, before sliding to the side to look at his leg. Sadness fills him again at seeing them, even though he’d known they were there.

Right along the top of Bucky’s left thigh are a series of pale lines. Scars, lined up in a tidy little row that begins at his hipbone and ends several inches before the knee. Most are white, but some are pink, still in various stages of healing from the recent past. Months old, but not years. Steve grabs Bucky’s hands when he tries to cover himself. “It’s okay, Buck. You’re not in trouble.”

Bucky whines and tugs his hands away. “Leave me alone,” he groans, sounding miserable. Steve has no doubt that he is, though that doesn’t mean that he’s not aroused, as well. Steve could smell his slick as soon as he’d gotten out of the shower, and it’s only intensified since then. Understandable, after what they’d witnessed from the doorway of Parker’s room. (Steve really needs to give Natasha a good bonus this semester. That woman knows how to get a task done.)

With the towel discarded, Bucky’s scent is rich and unimpeded, that pleasant mix of loamy earth and spiced verbena combining to arouse Steve’s senses. Virtually all omegas smell nice at bare minimum. Even ones pregnant by other alphas still smell good, if not particularly arousing. But again, he’s reminded that the notes of Bucky’s scent stand out to him more than what he’s accustomed to, pulling at all the baser instincts that live in the back of his brain.

He tries his best not to let his enjoyment of it show, but there’s only so much a man can do. He’s wearing his own special brand of compression underwear at the moment. Made for alphas, thank god, or else there’d be a very different situation at the front of his slacks right now. The bloody things are tight as fuck, but they do a good job at concealing all but the most aggressive of boners. And for an alpha who spends his days surrounded by hundreds of teenaged omegas reaching the peak of their sexual maturity, they are a godsend.

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s leg, right over the scars. Oh Sweetheart, he thinks mournfully. Who did this to you? He lets his thumb trace one silvery-thin line, probably one of the oldest, and hushes Bucky’s whimper when it comes. “When did you start doing this, Honey?” he asks, being careful to keep his voice as gentle and as coaxing as he can. “Shh. It’s okay.”  Poor thing’s just embarrassed as all get-out, and Steve isn’t trying to scold him. “When, Bucky?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs and won’t meet Steve’s eyes. “Couple’a years ago, I guess. I don’t do it anymore. Not … not much.”

“That makes sense,” Steve observes. He’s baiting Bucky, and it works.

The kid peeks up at him. “It does?”

“Sure. Your heats mature at about fifteen, sixteen. That’s when it gets harder. Without a safe and consistent partner with you each cycle, you’re not going to be very fulfilled.” He watches as Bucky frowns down at his lap and thinks about that. “Has that been your experience?” he prods gently. “Feeling unfulfilled?”

“I … no.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Want to try saying that like you mean it?”

Bucky grimaces. “I mean, I didn’t use to think so. It just was what it was, y’know? Most kids don’t have a heat partner, so I figured I was just bein’ oversensitive. I at least had Brock. … Once in a while, anyways.”

“Hm.” 

“I thought that was good,” he says, looking to Steve for confirmation in a way that is pitifully naïve. “Nobody else pairs. Unless they’re dating. And even then, people have lives. They can’t just stop everything for a week every single month. That’d be ridiculous.”

“Right,” Steve says, hating this. He wants to growl and bundle Bucky up and make him see how neglected he’s been, how he deserves so much more. “You felt like you had to make due on your own.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I could get a hookup, at least for the second day of my heat. Those are usually the worst.” Bucky looks away, evasive. “And … I tried some things.”

“Suppressants?”

“Yeah. But before I figured out how to get a doctor to prescribe ‘em, I used to steal Ransom’s credit card to buy some of those supplements you see in the infomercials. You know: with the testimonials and everything? People saying how good they work?”

“How well they work,” Steve corrects under his breath. “Those are expensive.”

“Hundred and fifty bucks plus shipping, every month,” Bucky confirms. “Well, at least until Ransom noticed it on his credit card statement.” He colors a little and admits, “I also tried those things they sell over the counter at the pharmacy. Those, erm, those things that you can take. That you stick up your—”

“I’m familiar,” Steve drawls. “So, you put multiple things in your body without knowing what was in them.”

“Well I figured they couldn’t sell ‘em on tv if it wasn’t safe,” Bucky defends. “And besides, everybody does it.”

“Not exactly winning me over, here, kid.”

“Look, you don’t understand!” he snaps. “You’re alpha. You don’t get it. Heats are stupid, they're not fun. They just get in everybody’s way, and these products help. They help quality of life. They help make it less of a problem.”

Steve holds back the actual growl that wants to come at hearing such a tragic pile of tripe. “Did you ever stop to wonder why it’s always your natural biology that gets labeled as the ‘problem’, hm? Always something to be fixed, rather than something you’re entitled to? Something you deserve to have accommodated?”

Bucky blinks a few times in a row, mouth working. “Well … no. That’s just how it is.”

“Oh is it?”

“It is if you want to make it anywhere in life. Get into a good school, get a good job, work your way up at some company.” He blithely rattles off the examples, speaking like this is all pre-determined truth, and Steve is the only idiot who hasn’t been clued in. “People won’t hire you if you need all that time off of work and stuff. You’ve got to make yourself as good as a beta employee, at least. Otherwise nobody’ll hire you.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Yeah, well that’s where I take issue. I think omega rights—true omega rights—demand that society value omegas for what they naturally are. And that means allowing them the space and time they need for their cycles, not treating it as something inconvenient, not expecting people to use a bunch of drugs to try and force themselves into some, some …” He makes a frustrated gesture. “Some employable box.”

“Well yeah, I guess. But—”

“Omegas deserve to have their contributions as mothers and homemakers valued, too,” Steve asserts, then narrows his eyes at Bucky when the kid rolls his eyes. “You scoff, but the omegas who consistently rank highest in self-reported life satisfaction are those who choose to take on domestic roles. The only thing career omegas consistently rank highest on is level of  antidepressant usage. It’s a trend we’ve seen increasing ever since the seventies.”

“Right,” Bucky snaps. “Back in the good old days when we didn’t have any rights.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says sternly. “Omegas had all the same rights as other designations, it was culture that was different. There was a place carved out in society for them. Omegas’ natural affinities were valued. Those who did work were able to find jobs that fit their lifestyles and needs. Now, employers expect you to change yourself for the job, just like you said.” He shakes his head sadly. “One could make the argument that that’s equality, but it sure as hell ain’t fair. Betas and alphas have society shaped to fit their needs, and omegas simply have to try and force themselves into difficult spaces just to get by. I don’t think it’s right that the way we do things is geared towards what alphas and betas naturally need, and nothing that’s naturally omega is accommodated for anymore. Do you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but his posture slumps with uncertainty the more he considers what's being said.

Steve softens his tone to something more gentle. “That’s why I think the erasure of gender roles is unhealthy, Buck. Not because I’m a sexist who hates omegas and doesn’t want them to be able to do anything, but because I think you guys deserve so much better. So much more.” He watches Bucky’s face, the growing doubt in his features, and figures it’s time to stop with the proselytizing. He's given the kid something to think on. That's good enough for now. It is bedtime, after all. “Just think on it a bit,” he advises kindly. “You’ve had a lot of experiences, but there’s still a lot for you to learn. Try and do it with an open mind, okay? You might come to see one or two things a little differently.”

Bucky grumbles unhappily, but Steve can tell when his point is getting through. Most students start to come around to considering the school's curricular viewpoint by the one week mark. After a week of constant offers to have his needs fulfilled—and constant refusal of those offers—it’s pretty obvious that Bucky is nearing the turning point. Steve decides to end this little talk on a positive note. He gives him one final pat on his legs. “Okay, Hon. Time for bed.” He stands up and observes the way that Bucky seems to physically stall, unable to quickly process Steve’s sudden departure. 

“You’re leaving?” he blurts.

Steve offers him a gentle smile. “Would you like for me to scent anything? Maybe a blanket or a pillow?” Right now there’s only a sheet and a single, thin blanket on the bed. He thumbs backward at the room’s cabinet of nesting supplies. “The nurse said you’re mid-cycle. The urge to nest must be waxing rather than waning at this point, yeah?”

Bucky seems surprised by the offer, but after a moment he nods shyly. “Maybe an extra blanket wouldn’t be so bad.”

Steve turns and goes to grab a blanket out of the cabinet and scent it, taking Bucky’s compliance as a significant win. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and is doubly pleased when Bucky makes no snippy remark at the gendered praise. He doesn’t face Bucky as he scents the top edge of the blanket with his wrist and then his neck. He doesn’t want to push his luck and make the boy so embarrassed that he’ll revert back to his pattern of disrespectful misbehavior. It’s always a balancing act, with new students, but once you get the right combination of domination, kindness, and familiarity? That's when things begin to smooth out.

Bucky takes the blanket with a bashful, “Thank you,” when Steve hands it over, and Steve gives him a quiet rumble of praise for being polite.

“You’re welcome, Honey.” Bucky moves like he’ll get under the blankets, but Steve stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hang on a sec. You forgetting something?” Bucky blinks vacantly up at him, and Steve can’t help but chuckle. “We don’t sleep naked, do we?” 

Bucky looks back down at himself, like he’d forgotten he was naked in the first place. “Oh.”

Steve fetches him a pair of underwear from the room’s dresser. The students’ nighttime briefs aren’t dissimilar to what they wear under their uniforms during the day, but they consist of one piece rather than two, and the padding’s a bit more … thorough, meant to help deter wandering hands at night. Steve finds himself unable to look away as Bucky puts them on, sliding them up his legs with shaky fingers and whimpering near subvocally when his leaking prick gets covered up by the padding. His hands fist the bedsheets at either side of his hips, and for a second his face gets red and his eyes go unfocused.

Oh Jesus. Steve grinds his teeth at the display, unhappy to feel his own cock pulsing insistently against the seam of his slacks. Bucky’s tortured, straining efforts to not touch himself are near-pornographic to watch, making that warm, sexual urge swirl up harder in Steve’s belly than before. He shifts in place and flexes his hands as he tries to think of something to counter the pulsing in his dick—picturing his grandparents fucking is his usual failsafe, in times like this. He doesn’t want his scent to grow so strong that it affects Bucky right now. Not when they’re ending the night on such a positive note. 

The thought of Nana and Pawpaw doing the nasty does the trick, and Steve retreats to the doorway. He hums in approval as he watches Bucky climb into bed and get settled. He nests only the barest bit, almost tentatively, tucking the scented end of the blanket up alongside his pillow and draping the rest of it over his body. He curls up on his side and nuzzles his cheek against the pillow. Steve waits with his hand poised to flip the light switch. “You have everything you need?” he checks, giving Bucky one final chance to be honest about his needs.

But he simply tucks his face into the scented blanket and closes his eyes. “Uh huh.” His still-damp hair is stark against the white pillowcase, and Steve’s heart gives a fond twinge at the sight.

It does dry curly.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He flicks the lights off, knowing that by tomorrow morning, he’ll have a punishable offense to address with the boy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“… Night, Steve.”

Despite the excellent performance of composure that he’s managed to maintain with Bucky for the past few hours, all that time with the omega really has taken its toll. Steve is relieved to get back and shut himself away in the confines of his office. It feels like a sanctuary right now. It’s a deep mental and physical relaxation that hits him as soon as he sinks into his desk chair and inhales the professionally filtered, pheromone-free air of the room. 

“Ahh," he sighs, rubbing at his temples. "God save the queen. Fuck."

Compared to other alphas, he’s got excellent control of his reactions and is able to mask a great deal (an invaluable skill when one works with hordes of hormonally-peaking teenagers), but the end of the school day always provides a bit of relief—today more than most.

He opens his laptop and leaves it to boot up while he goes over over to pour himself a drink. He pulls out one of the cork-coated lowballs that he keeps in the freezer (because he prefers his drinks on the rocks, but whether he likes it or not Peggy’s had an influence on him these past twenty years, and he knows it’s blasphemy to add ice to a 30 year old Scotch). He eyeballs a finger of the liquor—okay, maybe closer to two fingers—and brings it back to his desk to sniff it and swirl it around. 

It’s a vintage that one of Peggy’s relatives gifted them years ago, worth quite a bit of money apparently, and it’s been Steve’s one petty protest amongst the many bigger ones of his soon-to-be ex-wife. He’s only begun making use of it since their divorce proceedings intensified over the summer, with Peggy’s obstinance against fair division of assets reaching damningly selfish levels. Steve never thought of her as someone who’d go for the nerves in a divorce just for the hell of it, and it’s upsetting to see that nastier side exposed. It feels like all his good memories are slowly being tainted by it, made ugly and ruined, like paint thrown over a fine portrait of the woman he’d once admired. Steve’s not a heavy drinker, but he’s nearly made his way through the entire bottle these past few weeks.

At his desk, he peruses current events on his newsfeed and a few academic articles of interest, being sure to sip steadily despite his leanings as a teetotaler. He wants to feel a bit of a buzz by the time he dares to brave his inbox. The little icon tells him that he’s got dozens of unread emails waiting in there. Not unusual for a weekday, but there’s one from Peggy that he purposefully puts off for last. And surprisingly, there’s one email each from the personal accounts of both Tony Stark and Harlan Thrombey.

He clicks on Stark’s first, expecting the email to contain more demands for the accommodations he wants for the upcoming parents’ weekend. Sure enough, Stark doesn’t disappoint, asking Steve to please arrange for a 2-minute slot for one Ms. Pepper Potts to speak during that coming Sunday’s evening ball. It’s during said ball when the school has its traditional slew of scheduled, “spontaneous” rounds of toasts over betrothal announcements. Steve’s happy to agree to a slot for Ms. Potts, just grateful that it won’t be Stark himself making the speech. Thank god for small favors. 

Stark also has a footnote jotted in, as though it’s a nothing, requesting a black Rolls Royce Phantom to pick them up afterwards to take them to their hotel in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In the distinct manner that Steve’s learned only multi-millionaires ever really have, Tony blithely throws out his specifications for the car’s interior temperature (73 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely), a fully-stocked bar, and a selection of snacks and juice boxes that sounds suspiciously catered to a certain omega's tastes.

Smirking and shaking his head, Steve spends a moment researching the costs of this additional, last-minute amenity. He tacks an extra two grand onto the price and shoots the email back with an inflated invoice that brings him no guilt. Academia is little better than a break-even industry, after all. And besides, Stark can afford it.

Normally, Steve would save any email of Peggy’s for last, but given his growing obsession with interest in Bucky’s case, he decides to save Thrombey’s email for last.

Peggy’s email is also very typical of what Steve’s come to expect from her: curt, concise, and infuriatingly presumptive.

📨Peggy: Asset Divisions Update

Steven, it reads, My solicitor will be in touch after this next weekend with an updated proposal for division of assets. I did not find your last offer acceptable. Mr. Jorgensen is out of the country on account of an emergency this week, which is the reason for the delay. I do apologize and hope you will understand. In the meantime, I look forward to enjoying a pleasant and uncompromised parents’ weekend with our two schools. I’ll be in touch soon, in regards to those preparations. Cordially, Peggy.

Steve sneers at the ‘cordially’. “More like cold as ice,” he grumbles, grabbing the glass of scotch to toss back the last few sips. Parents’ weekend is going to be hell, having to be in such constant proximity with her. 

Thrombey’s email is long and flowery, in the distinct manner that only novelists ever really have. He rambles on, bemoaning the state of his grandson for several long paragraphs before getting to the point. Finally, he lays out the issue, and it is a doozy:

📨Thrombey: Expedient Action Required

—has come to my attention that the boy has been engaging in a form of online prostitution. Something called only fans.”

Steve’s jaw drops as he feels the blood drain from his face. Oh no. Bucky wouldn’t … would he? Shit. He totally would. Steve’s eyes flick back to the email.

—can imagine my horror to find that for a monthly fee, subscribers have access to his nude photos. I hadn’t the stomach to look myself, but Ransom assures me it’s all him on the webpage. There are even videos, and Ransom says that James’ face is visible in some of the footage. His face! This is outrageous! 

“You’re telling me,” Steve mutters. 

Thankfully, the Academy’s structure seems to have put an end to his production. There’s been no new footage uploaded since the week before his enrollment. My lawyers are working on having the account erased, and I can only pray that nothing comes to light publicly before then.  Now more than ever, an intervention is required for my grandson. His eligibility for a good marriage will be out the window if word of this pornography spreads, his prospects ruined. I want you to put your full efforts into seeing him matched up with a suitable Alpha as soon as possible. I don’t care who it is, what nationality they are, if it’s a triad, if there’s no notable family name—nothing. All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment. Do be thorough in your searching, but do not drag your feet! I’m sure I needn’t explain how damaging this will be to my family, if word gets out.  I am counting on you to take expedient action, H. Thrombey

At the bottom of the email is a link. It’s to an OnlyFans page. Steve’s heart rate picks up and he hesitates for a long moment, knowing that he shouldn’t look. Harlan’s lawyers are handling it. 

But his morbid curiosity wins out, and he clicks on the link. It leads directly to Bucky’s personal page, and Steve experiences a very unpleasant combination of sensations: his dick filling with blood at the same time that his stomach turns from seeing the images that are on the page’s banners. It’s Bucky’s body, that’s for sure, with his face cleverly turned away or artfully clipped from the shots. Below the title page and summary are links to “Exclusive new hot videos!” with 3 second thumbnails of Bucky’s ass moving, his back arching, his hand moving over his—

Steve looks away from the computer screen, furious and aroused and mortified. “Goddammit, Bucky,” he hisses, angry that the kid has done something so inherently damaging—not just to his reputation like Harlan is thinking, but to himself, to his soul. Steve’s stomach churns something awful at knowing that this stuff is available for any creep with a credit card to purchase … and at his own reaction to even the barest glimpses of it. He peeks up again, this time reading the titles of the videos: 

“Hot O-on-O action!”

“Omega dominates Alpha Slut”

“Horny Teen Twink in Heat”

His jaw ticks angrily. What fucking awful, typical titles. He looks down at his cock, which is visibly pressing against the seam of his slacks. “Fuck,” he groans. He can’t jerk off to porn of Bucky. He can’t. It’d be beyond unethical. Even if the kid was his mate, Steve would still feel the moral obligation to—

Oh. Well there’s an idea. 

His brain stalls on the thought of him as Bucky’s mate, his Alpha, in charge of him and giving him what he needs … and taking what he wants. Mortifyingly, a growl builds up in his chest as he glances once more at the thumbnails of Bucky doing lurid things. The kid’s got such tight, smooth skin; such a perfect, pretty shape. Steve’s mind slips into editorial mode, imagining what it would be like if Bucky was his, the omega’s ass moving under his hips, his back arching in his bed, his quivering hands smacked away from his cocklet while Steve rails him from behi—

Jesus fucking Christ. Stop!

His hand is halfway to his pocket when he realizes that he’s reaching for his wallet, contemplating buying a subscription just so that he can see. Disgust floods his chest, extinguishing the growl, and he snaps out of it. He pushes away from the desk and stomps over to grab the bottle of Scotch and bring it back, dumping himself back in his desk chair and heedlessly pouring another fill. 

And so what? he thinks. Who cares if he finishes the whole fucking bottle? He might as fucking well. His wife, the woman who agreed to be his life partner, who placated him with endless promises of “one day” and then went ice cold and bitter and reneged on everything she’d ever claimed to want with him, is putting him through the wringer just for shits and giggles. And now come to find out, his newest pupil, a boy for whom he’s got way too much personal interest, is selling himself on the internet—For $9.99 a month?!!! The videos seem to cost extra on a pay-per-view basis, but even still, what the ever-loving fuck?!

Steve’s whole body stiffens as something else occurs to him: Harlan’s email said that Bucky’s face is visible in the videos. Bucky’s stepfather reported that to Harlan. Which means he's seen the videos. Which means … 

Steve’s jaw ticks as he glances back to the computer screen, to Bucky’s homepage and the free lurid teaser photos that don’t show his face. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses, angry. That Drysdale guy had been a prick during the tour of the campus, and now Steve knows what a fucking pervert he is, too. Because the only way he could know that Bucky’s face is shown is if he bought the subscription and paid extra for the videos.

Steve closes out the browser window, not wanting to see any more of it. The warring disgust and temptation to be one of those creeps who pays money to view omegas degrade themselves is just too much. He yanks his wallet out of his back pocket and chucks it angrily at the couch, missing by a country mile. He takes a gulp of the Scotch, exhaling harshly at the burn as it goes down. “Fuck.”

Pornography for omegas carries a heavy social stigma—far beyond what any beta or alpha porn star would ever face, and deeper in the nature of its contempt and consequence. Omegas who do porn make big bucks, because they’re making an even bigger trade-off. Engaging in any sort of sex work virtually erases an omega's chance of mating. It hadn’t merely been upper crust snobbery in Harlan’s email, but common sense as well. People from all walks of life treat omega sex workers as an untouchable caste, damaged goods, not worthy of real relationships. 

It’s one of the few holdovers from the old days, even though porn isn’t what it once was. It’s easier to make than ever. Amateur is in. Omegas who would’ve once been exploited by large production companies now work from home, in control of their own content creation. More and more of them are choosing get rich quick schemes over mating, turning to platforms like OnlyFans and giving away their most sacred gifts to any scum bucket with a credit card. Ruining their lives. 

Steve loosens his tie and takes another gulp of liquor before setting the glass down heavily. His hands go resolutely back to his laptop with what he knows he has to do. It sickens him that he even has to do it in the first place. He considers himself a man of morals, a man who lives by his word. But in this one thing, he’s let himself become a hypocrite. He navigates to his internet bookmarks and opens the subfolder marked “Meditations.” It’s his porn stash. Favorite videos he’s saved for lonely nights. Nothing too wild, but virtually all of it involves omegas. Watching A/o porn has been his guilty pleasure for … a while.

He used to avoid it on principle, but these past few years have been different, his desires harder to ignore, the urge to bond, mate, and breed pooling in the back of his brain and the pit of his belly, winding him tight with a tension that he doesn’t like. At first, he’d just chalked it up to being a horny bastard, but that wasn’t it. The unrelenting tension came with a hollow, forlorn ache that refused to go away. Even after a good jerk off session imagining himself in one of those videos, it never went away for long. It’d taken Steve a long time to figure out what that ache really was. For the first time in his life, he felt unfulfilled. 

He only hesitates a second before right clicking on the folder and pressing delete, a grim sense of rightness settling over him at the action. He should’ve done it long ago. He shouldn’t have compromised his values in the first place. Of course he’d made all sorts of excuses for it: the porn was amateur, it was self-made, the omegas were getting off and enjoying themselves, he wasn’t paying for it, maybe the Alphas in the videos were actually their mates.

And then of course, the lamest excuse of all: that he deserved to watch it, because his erstwhile wife was ruining everything. 

He closes out the browser window and frowns at his reflection on the screen. “Lame,” he mutters. He opens Harlan’s email back up and begins drafting a response, assuring the man that he has nothing to worry about, that Steve will find Bucky a suitable match in no time.

He uses one of the school’s proprietary databases that tracks eligible bachelors, typing in search parameters for sex and nationality (any), net worth (≥ €2,000,000) and age (25-45). Alphas live longer than other designations, so he isn’t worried about being too picky on the age range. Just so long as it isn’t some young sap who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing. Bucky needs a firm hand and lots of attention. He needs an Alpha who can handle him with gentle dominance, who’ll know when to be indulgent and when to put their foot down.

Steve can’t say why he picks €2m to be the cutoff point for a prospective Alpha’s net worth. Maybe he likes the idea of Bucky being given an easy, comfortable life. And if he sets the search results to list from lowest to highest net worth, well … maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the idea of Bucky being smothered by ludicrous levels of wealth (like Parker’s undoubtedly about to be). 

The list of possibilities starts with a landowner in rural Scotland, and ends with an Israeli shipping magnate based out of Cairo. Steve scrolls through the profiles, dismissing anyone he deems unworthy of being Bucky’s mate. Too ugly, too ugly, too fat, too old, too many divorces, too ugly, too ugly. Nobody seems good enough. Steve finds flaws in every profile he sees. And underneath it all, the thought remains: he could be Bucky’s mate.

He shakes his head like he can rattle the idea loose, thinking: don’t be stupid, Rogers. He’s the headmaster here. Taking a student as a mate would be a violation of his professional duties. Not illegal, hell, not even technically against the rules, but certainly embarrassing, perhaps bordering on … unseemly. Parents entrust him with their omega sons to train them up and secure good matches for them, not to mate them himself. 

… But Harlan’s email had specifically said that nothing else mattered. Not race, nor gender, nor pedigree. ‘All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment’.

All Steve can think about is how that could be him. He could be Bucky’s Alpha. He could take care of him, provide for him, have a family with him. Pieces of an imaginary life layer up in his mind like paper mâché, one on top of the other, slowly congealing into a picture that makes the yearning in his gut that much worse. He imagines Bucky as his omega, living in the Pendergast Street cottage together, a scar on Bucky’s neck; holing up in the house’s nesting closet with him each month, fucking him through his heats, getting him pregnant, watching him give birth and nurse their baby inside a bundle of blankets that have Steve’s scent on them.

He’s always wanted kids. Peggy had, too, or so she said. They’d talked about it infrequently, but they had talked about it. How one day they’d mate an omega and live a blissful family life, have a traditional triad marriage. But that was the problem: they’d only ever talked about it. And on the rare occasion when they had, Steve was always the one to bring the topic up. He hadn’t realized that, hadn’t realized how often Peggy’s only input wound up being an obfuscating ‘one day’. 

The day when she finally nutted up and said that she’d changed her mind, that she didn’t want an omega mate in their marriage, didn’t want babies, was the day Steve finally uttered the word that’d been sitting on the back of his tongue for months: “Divorce.”

He still wants to have that intimacy with an omega: bonding them, sharing their heats, getting them pregnant and watching them grow, seeing his child in their arms. He thinks of Bucky in that role, imagines how the boy would take to it, what their first time would be like, if he’d instinctually know to go ass up in the bed or if he’d need to fight it a little, have his alpha toss him around and hold him down before he could accept a knot. If he’d get quiet right before coming, or shriek and thrash and dissolve into agonized tears.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, letting his hand slide over the top of his thigh and into the crease of his groin. He palms himself there, gripping his dick and giving a few short tugs from over the material of his slacks. He looks down and stares at the hard line his boner makes, imagining Bucky being here and seeing it, putting his hand there, how much smaller it’d be than Steve’s, how much less experienced. God, Steve wants to guide him through that, teach him how to touch a man, watch the nervousness and arousal play out on his face as he learns how to please an alpha for the first time. 

“Fuck, Honey,” he breathes, thinking about the little noises Bucky would make, the little protests and growls, and the slick that would drip down his thighs and betray him. Steve wonders how the kid touches himself, thinks back to that first day in his office, when he’d asked him how he liked to make himself come. Bucky hadn’t gotten around to answering before he’d lost control of his body, wetting up his underwear in submissive release and going a fascinated shade of red once Steve cooed at him over it. 

He’s never had a student release like that before. Not that easily. And he’s just so fucking pretty, even his anger is pretty. Steve grits his teeth at how he can feel his self restraint slipping. He thinks of Harlen’s email: find him a mate, anyone will do. Well if anyone will do, then why the fuck shouldn’t he put himself in the running?

Bucky is low hanging fruit, so fucking ripe for the picking, and Steve just knows he could get him to bend so beautifully with only a little bit of tender care. He could have him happy and content in no time, releasing at the barest show of dominance, just like before. He can still hear that warbling, humiliated whimper that came right after Bucky wet for him, the way his big, confused eyes had looked to Steve for help … 

“Goddammit.” He hastily undoes his belt and fly. He shoves his pants and underwear down to free his dick, wrapping a hand around himself and squeezing tightly at the base. His knot is already dark and aching, halfway to being erect after less than a minute of touching himself. He wrings his fist up under the head, forcing the skin over the tip and jacking off with it, guts coiling tighter at the tiny, wet sounds it makes. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He takes his hand off, not wanting to come too fast. He slumps back in the desk chair for a moment, panting, and remembers two things at almost the exact same second: He needs to check the surveillance in Bucky’s room, and he’s got a pocket masturbator in his desk drawer. Well, fuck.

He all but lunges for the drawer, yanking it open and cursing when he sees it. He grabs the toy and holds it to the tip of his cock, moving his hips to push the head through in tiny, teasing little pulses. Oh god, it feels amazing. He pulls it off and reaches for his laptop, opening the school’s surveillance mainframe and navigating to the dormitory views. He clicks on the camera for Bucky’s bedroom and toggles the night vision to on. At first it doesn’t look like much is happening, but then he catches the slight movement of Bucky’s body beneath the blanket … and he moans all over again.

“You little fuck,” he breathes, grabbing the masturbator to slide it all the way over his dick. “Ughn.”

Bucky’s touching himself from underneath the blankets. He’s lying in the same position that Steve left him in, only now his eyes are clenched shut tight and he’s panting open-mouthed into the pillow, his one shoulder angled in such a way as to suggest that he’s got his hand reached behind him. His arm moves in tiny, barely-there pulses. Steve realizes that, unless Bucky’s got the longest fingers known to mankind, he’s using a toy on himself back there. 

“Nnh.” He squeezes the silicon sleeve over his cock, dragging it up and down in time with the motions of Bucky’s shoulder, imagining that it’s Bucky he’s feeling around his cock, imagining that Bucky’s feeling him.  “Naughty boy,” he grunts through a grin. He knew Bucky would be jerking off once left alone, but this is even better. Steve regrets not watching the feed from the moment he left, as he’d love to know just what the toy looks like, and where Bucky was hiding it. Somewhere in his luggage, obviously. New students are always searched when they arrive, but clearly the boy managed to get something past bag check. Steve almost feels admiration for the sneaky little shit. 

He pushes the unmute button and listens to the audio. At first it’s just the quiet rustling of fabric on fabric, the stirring of Bucky’s body against the sheets as he pleasures himself, but then a tiny, breathy moan breaks through, and then another. Steve’s hips flex into his stroking hand. “Oh, Honey.”

Bucky’s face is pinched and he’s biting his lip—probably trying to keep quiet. The notion makes Steve smirk. Omegas are very vocal in their sexual pleasure, prone to keening and squealing and making all sorts of warbling, debased noises when they’re feeling good. It must be the most exquisite torture for Bucky to try and stay silent like this as he fucks himself on whatever toy he’s managed to sneak in. Steve watches it with a tightening belly and aching balls, twisting the rubber sleeve over himself again and again, bumping down hard against his knot on every stroke. “Fffuck.”

In the frame, Bucky’s voice catches on a single, high pitched noise as he comes, his body going rigid under the sheets and his hips pulsing harder than before. He whimpers and turns his face further into the pillow to muffle it, but Steve is already right there too, jerking himself hard and fast with the sleeve until he shouts and starts to shoot. His knot blows inside of the rubber, which isn’t as good as the real thing, but still feels fucking amazing. He keeps his dick fully buried and squeezes the toy hard over his knot, milking himself until his hand cramps and he lets go. The toy pops off his cock and falls to the floor, and Steve goes boneless in his chair as he shivers through the long wave of his orgasm. 

When it’s finally over and he looks back at the computer screen, it’s to see Bucky carefully rearranging himself under the blankets. Whatever it was that he’d used to fuck himself, he seems to be keeping it hidden between the mattress and the room’s wall. Steve plays idly with his knot while he waits for it to go down, deciding that the kid gloves need to come off now. It’s time Bucky learned just what it means to be taken in hand by an Alpha. And with the development of the online porn and Harlan’s request, there’s no longer need or time to play things slow and easy.

Tomorrow, Steve’ll finally do what he should’ve done from the get-go, what he’s been wanting to do ever since Bucky trounced into his office with a bad attitude and false bravado. From here on out, he’s going to take proper care of that boy. Starting tomorrow, he’s going to handle Bucky’s education himself. And if things progress from there? Well, Harlan said anyone will do.

Story Masterlist

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[dawnofh]

141 dealing with a rookie who ‘accidentally’ committed insubordination against their Sergeant [Headcannon]

Price

Just run for you life, leave the military, change your name and live in Antarctica.

This man has zero tolerance when it comes to insubordination. Will knock on your door softly and ask you to meet him in his office.

“I’d like to ask about today’s field mission. The one your Sergeant was in charge of.”

Starts off calm, too calm, creepily calm. All the while he has this smile on his face. This calm smile.

Asks you for a very detailed explanation and can stop you at any time to ask, “So what did you do?”

He’ll take a breather, inhaling sharply. Maybe lighting a cigar to calm down before he slams his hand on his desk.

The yelling will begin while Price fights the urge to smack the shit out of you.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Private. Did you or did you not go against direct orders?” “Sir, please-“ “I ASKED A QUESTION. I EXPECT AN ANSWER.”

Might have to fight back tears and an trembling lip if you’re a crier. You better not cry.

He’ll do that parent thing. “Can you tell what the orders were? Okay….So why did you go against them? … Well, what have we learnt today, Private? …Yes that’s very good and what will you do next time this happens?….Excellent.”

Might come off as condescending if he’s really pissed.

If it’s your first offence he’ll let you off with a light slap on the wrist by making you write lines ‘I will never disobey my superiors again’ type of energy and expect to write a 1000 worded apology note to your Sergeant.

If it’s your second offence, be prepared for physical labour. You’re on clean up duty for 5 months.

There is no third offence. Never.

Price’s anger only lasts 2 weeks, he forgives and forgets. Will treat you normally how he would any other day. Just never let it happen again.

“If this occurs once more then I will break your goddamn teeth so you won’t have a fucking cheek with your superiors anymore. Do I make myself clear, Muppet?” “Crystal clear, Sir.”

Ghost

*Stare intensifies*

Will lean on the wall during practice, watch you until you notice him, points to you and then uses his thumb to point at the door, “Outside. Now.”

You probably got snitched on by your superior, they could’ve snitched to anyone but thanks to your dumb luck they snitched on you to Ghost. Fucking tattletale.

Asked for your explanation first, he usually takes the sides of the rookies first. He knows that higher ups can take advantage of the newbies and lower rankings.

You really try to leave out details, “And then the car exploded.” “How did it explode?” “I’m not sure, Sir, but it exploded somehow. It could’ve been the Russians…?” “Private, your mission was in Japan. There were no Russians.”

You may or may not have said a couple of other things to your Sergeant before and after the mission…and yesterday…and a second ago before you were training.

You try to play innocent and pretend this is your first offence because truth be told you where petrified of Ghost and the skull mask didn’t make things better for you.

Depending on Ghost’s mood he might just be understanding and say he use to behave the same when he was a rookie, “Wait, you also punched your Sergeant in the face?” “You punched your Sergeant in the face?”

Will reprimand you, not as bad as Price will but enough to make sure this never happens again.

If he yelled at you, you may or may not cry. Don’t cry in front of Ghost either. He doesn’t like crying children, especially crying rookies. Might actually give you something to cry about.

He’ll make sure your Sergeant keeps tabs on your behaviour and if you so much as act up in the slightest, you’re getting snitched on again.

Ghost puts you in your place by doing that parent finger pointing thing every time he catches you lacking.

“You’re on thin ice with me.”

Soap

“Did you really say that to him?“ “Yes, Sir.” “It’s okay I would’ve done it too.”

100% supportive, he’s number 1 when it comes to insubordination.

Is playful with his scolding, practically puts on a show to make whoever you insulted feel better, “I’ll make you wash the windows of the jet with a spatula. Now behave, okay? Go touch some grass.”

Like Ghost, he takes the sides of the rookies and lower ranks first. He’s had his fair share of abuse of power when he was young.

Commits insubordination against Ghost religiously.

If your insubordination got others hurt he’ll be tough on you. But other than that he honestly doesn’t care.

He sees a lot of himself in you.

If he does yell at you you’d stare at him blankly, “Speak English, Soap.”

If it’s insubordination to him he’ll be salty about it. Asks Ghost to deal with you.

Soap wouldn’t mind getting back at your Sergeant if the offence was justified, both of you would scheme about it. In the end you both simply douse the Sergeant in syrup and leaves.

“We make a pretty good team. Let’s do this more often.”

Gaz

Let’s it slide. He’s committed a shit load of insubordination offences against Price and somehow gets away with it.

Probably gets into trouble because he didn’t correct your behaviour.

“Alright, Solider. There’s a time and place for everything…now is not the time nor place.” He speaks to you like an older brother would.

Is actually calm when he speaks and remains calm until the very end unlike Price. Very good at deescalating situations and talking people down.

Has to now convince your Sergeant not to murder you in cold blood.

“I’m going to need you to explain what happened with you and your Sergeant last week.” “Wouldn’t you like to know, Weather boy.”

You might just make him throw hands.

Don’t worry though, he’ll make the next two weeks hell for you and if that doesn’t solve your attitude problem then expect to repeat the entire training process to become an SAS solider again.

Gaz will respectfully put you back into place.

“You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. I hope this will be a lesson to you, Rook.”

[freemilkshakesposts]

Say It

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT‼️‼️(NSFW)

⚠️Warning ⚠️: Sexual content, toxic relationship and heavy power dynamic if you squint.

This is my first time writing something like this so... :3

Summary: Where do you stand with your superior, Captain Levi? Is it love, is it hatred, or is it simply you relish the attention from your squad leader?

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

"I love you'… such difficult words for you to utter, or perhaps words you couldn't bring yourself to say," I whispered.

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

"Miss (L/N)", he said, breaking the silence. "Excellent job organising these reports."

His praise always leaves me flustered, my stomach swirling, my cheeks burning, and my heart yearning for him.

Fuck him and his words.

"I appreciate the praise, Sir", I responded, my voice tinged with a bitter longing for validation that never seems to come. Each compliment feels like a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, momentarily soothing yet ultimately failing to fill the void. You never say the words 'I love you'.

"Looks like someone is in shitty mood today", he drawled playfully, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he continued to inspect the files in hand.

I rolled my eyes. "Anyone would feel the same if they had to endure such an unbearable squad leader."

He clicked his tongue, the sound reverberating in the cramped confines of our shared space. "Is that so, cadet?", he scoffed, "I think you and I both know that those feelings are untrue, correct?"

All movement froze within me, his words intensifying the already uncomfortable tension in the claustrophobic atmosphere.

"Ah, I see the issue now", he remarked, tossing aside the reports he had been studying. "It's been a while, hasn't it, cadet?" His voice dripped with suggestion.

But hadn't you insisted to put an end to this relationship? No, not a relationship, but merely our fleeting act of sex.

"Oh, are we embracing silence now, cadet?" His laughter carried a tone of authority. "Perhaps it's wise to maintain it then."

Pause. Maybe this is what I desire. Perhaps I want you once more. But maybe - you're deceitful. You're despicable. You're a…

"Sir," I finally exclaimed, my voice heavy with both offense and disappointment, striving to maintain composure. Keep your cool. He simply seeks to fuck you. "Your words solely lacks the professionalism one would expect in such a setting. It is truly disheartening to witness." My gaze bore into him, but my reproachful words only echoed the irony of our relationship - where professionalism is a distant memory, overshadowed by the fleeting moments of pleasure he provides, always leaving me with a bitter after taste of longing and regret.

He scoffed, his eyes smouldering with desire as he finally rose from his desk, each deliberate step toward me oozing with anticipation. Here we go again. Fuck, why did he have to be so irresistibly attractive?

As he drew nearer, I felt an overwhelming force pulling me towards him, ensnared by the magnetic allure of his presence. Oh God his scent. It was utterly intoxicating, a captivating blend of tea leaves and lavender soap. How could I possibly resist?

"Fuck!"

In a swift motion, he closed the distance between us, positioning himself closer, his leg sliding between mine, setting ablaze a fiery heat that surged through my veins. His touch, so tender and deliberate, sent ripples of sensation through me, his knee grazing against my clothed clit with a teasing precision, tracing slow, deep circles. My breath hitched in my throat, each exhale a soft beg for more, as the throbbing ache between my legs intensified, my hips eagerly yielding to his tortuous act, craving the fulfilment that only his touch could offer.

"Shit…." I sighed, my voice a breathy plea.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against my skin, eliciting such pleasure which danced through me as he whispered into my ear. His warm breath teased, his nose caressing my neck, forcing out such erotic music - all for him. With each circle he traced on my clothed bud, the sensation intensified, driving me wild with pleasure, aching for more and more of his intoxicating touch - I hate myself.

"Captain…" I moaned, my voice barely a whisper, laden with need and longing, aching for his commanding touch to take me to my release.

His fingers, so delicate and thin - oh, but ever so powerful in there way of constructing such a dirty performance; with two fingers delving deeper and deeper with each rhythmic motion, penetrating the barrier of clothing as I willingly surrendered to this act, lost in the throes of his erotic performance. That's an award winning show for me - every single time.

Damn my lack of restraint.

"Do you still crave that 'professionalism', darling?" He teased, his words laced with a hint of mischief, as he purposefully slowed his seductive movements, prolonging the delicious tension between us. With hunger, he captured my lips with a fierce urgency. His kiss so tender, so raw. I couldn't help but groan softly as his tongue flicked under my teeth, delving into the depths of my mouth, exploring this forbidden territory reserved only for him.

"You tease-" My words dissolved into a gasp as the man skilfully pivoted my body towards the door, his touch firm and commanding, holding me in place with an unyielding grip.

"That wasn't quite the response I was looking for, Name," he whispered, his voice husky. His fingers began slowly trailing a seductive path, returning to my throbbing pussy, pinching tiny parts of its skin, as his fingers travelled to its destination: the very opening of my desires. With deliberate pressure, his thumb teased that eager spot, drawing a deep and longing moan from me. "Try again."

I struggled to speak, my lips parting with a silent plea as the weight of unspoken desire pressed upon me. Words hovered on the edge of my tongue, but restraint held them captive, knowing that surrendering to the intoxicating confession of "no" would only deepen the erotic dance of our twisted 'relationship'. Yet, silence was not enough for him. With a primal urgency, he seized a handful of my hair, wrenching my head back to meet his gaze. In those smouldering grey eyes, I saw a hunger so raw, so feral, it ignited a fire within me, melting away all pretence until all that remained was my need to cum.

He has a remarkable talent for awakening such desire….such love for him.

Love. What a laughable notion.

This relationship is nothing but a desperate retreat from reality, a refuge from the chaos outside. Being soldiers in the Survey Corps, we grasp onto every fleeting moment of happiness, desperately clinging to any semblance of peace. Our connection is the only stable ground we know, an unyielding craving that consumes us, never fading, never relenting because everyday we are haunted by the idea of our own death, that we ache for a shred of humanity, a silver of love to cling to.

Love.

Before every mission, you would yearn, yearn for something - probably an outlet to fuck your anger, your frustration. Your love? And I indulged you every time, because I have always believed - and still do - that you were my sanctuary, a garden of roses to wander, to revel in: I love you. Your melodies enchant me: Darling. Sweetheart. My beloved. They resonate like beautiful sonnets. Yet, when your song ends, I anticipate. Awaiting another crescendo, another moment of euphoria - the bliss I wait for in your whispered words, "I love you."

The tingling pleasure began to subside, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. As the movements that had been performed on my core faltered and came to a halt, a sense of confusion washed over me.

"Name," he whispered, his concern drowning out his once eager desires.

"Levi," I murmured urgently, my body yearning for release, desperate for anything to quench the fiery ache between my thighs. Every passing moment without him stretched into an eternity of longing, my core throbbing with emptiness, begging for his touch to soothe the void within me.

With you, I find my solace, my refuge, my home. My love.

"I should leave, cadet." His voice trembled with regret as he hastily put space between us, anything to escape the weight of his mistake.

"I—" Please, don't go. Stay a little longer. Let's linger in the rose garden a while more.

But the door slammed shut, echoing his departure, I cursed under my breath. Damn it all. Now, all that remained was the dampness pooling between my thighs, a reminder of my own desire. Filthy. I should not have allowed myself to feel anything for you, knowing it was all just a twisted game we played, isn't it, Captain Levi? Because for you, those three words "I love you" carry no weight, but for me, they bear the heavy burden of my heart's longing.

[camelspit]

PICK THE WOMAN THAT YOU WANT ELIMINATED!!

Tinker by @thefoxysnake

Umber by @chronically-ill-psionipath

Master Cadence by @tw-5

Note! Definition of a sexywoman:

According to the sexywomanpedia, a sexywoman is "a character who shows the 'lanky suitman villain' tropes, is popular with wlw, and/or is highly divisive." Some factors to consider are morality (or lack thereof), overall mysteriousness, and strength (physical or abilitywise.)

Propaganda:

Tinker:

"she's trans! she's autistic! she's a mad scientist! she's everything you could possibly want in a woman!!!!!" @gay-otlc

"shes a mad genius she built a mad science castle she invented steampunk literally why would you not love her" @necromycologist

Umber:

"Shes an evil hot powerful shade that got killed in the book she got introduced in what more could you want" @thefoxysnake

"Umber (Redacted) is one of the women in the series that isn’t JUST psychological manipulator! She also fought! She broke bones (if I remembered correctly) and messes with everyone’s minds without even revealing her true name! She has a boyfriend! A BOYFRIEND. TRIX. She went through something ‘the incident’ (mentioned in the latest book) and joined the Neverseen! She got Trix, her Pookie to be in the Neverseen as well 🥺. You can tell she was also a good lover how Trix was so sad over her death. KEEP IN MIND SHE DIED BEING CRUSHED, so for those who likes angst; there you go. She died in her mission. She was Tam’s mentor and an EXCELLENT fighter if I do say so myself. Who wouldn’t vote Umber? A girlboss with a sweet boyfriend and has murderous tendencies? 😔🎉 Vote for Umber PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLSPLSPLSPLS 😭😭" @chronically-ill-psionipath

Master Cadence:

"she’s a linguist. she’s a woman in stem. she’s tired of everyone’s bullshit. she’s fruity as hell. her house is cool as fuck (a howls moving castle style boat-thing made of metal that she built herself because she didn’t want to live in the elven cities???? come on). she’s a MASTER. what more could you want." @let-them-sing-of-others

"she’s an academic. shes smarter than u. she hates on the council and she’s RIGHT. she hates sophie actually you know what she has a hater complex but in a hot way. i love her yr honour." @necromycologist

"she spent YEARS researching on ogres and their culture. idk about you, but i would try keeping her in my good graces because she KNOWS ABOUT DEADLY POISON. WHY ARE PEOPLE NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS. I WOULD SHIT MYSELF IF I CAME ACROSS HER IN REAL LIFE EVEN IF IT WAS IN A GROCERY STORE ON A RANDOM TUESDAY AND SHE WAS BUYING OREOS. FOR ALL WE KNOW, SHE COULD HAVE LOADS OF THAT IN HER HOUSE/ON HER PERSON!!" @corruption-exe

"ok not to be a lesbian or horny on main (<- ace) but HOLY SHIT i want her to step on me. this lady has intensified my sexuality crisis" (anonymous)

[temnurus]

More Wangxian Faves: Post-Canon & Canon Divergent

This list was made to honor the request in the notes on my WWX recs post from @100percentserenity for some more fics featuring Wei Ying set in canon or canon divergent fics. Now, not all of these are strictly from his POV, but they all feature him at his quick-witted, charming, & hopelessly oblivious best. Canon divergent can be a pretty wide category, so do keep that in mind if you see a rec & think, "This isn't very canonical.." Haha. There are two repeats from my first Wangxian rec list, but they fit the ask & are both excellent & worth mentioning twice! Now, in no particular order, may I recommend:

Far Away You Are by cqlorphan (E, 17,358)

Thoughts: I absolutely loved the idea of the esteemed Hanguan-jun being this not-so-secret purveyor of comfort hugs & heartache advice. Wei Ying’s shock upon finding this out was so funny I couldn’t help but laugh, & my amusement only intensified when he made the scary Yiling Laozu face while asking who broke Lan Zhan’s heart, only to be told it was him who’d done so. I wanted to hug all the Juniors myself. They’re all so very precious. This was a lovely story where very little hurt in the end, & sometimes that’s just nice after the gut punch that canon gives us.

my age has never made me wise by idrilka (E, 63,439)

Thoughts: I absolutely loved this. It was pretty CQL (The Untamed) compliant & told the post-canon story of Wei Ying wandering alone as a rogue cultivator after the events of the show. Of course he was pining after his zhiji the entire time, so when he heard gossip that the Chief Cultivator might be married by summer's end it nearly undid him. The angst was excruciating, but One Brain Cell WWX Strikes Again fics somehow always manage to be fun at the same time. I've read several post-canon, wandering Wei Ying stories, & this one was particularly good.

Not What We May Be by brooklinegirl (E, 29,222)

Thoughts: I love Wei Ying’s cleverness in this. He’s his usual irreverent, chaotic, charming self, & I never get tired of how wonderfully his mind works. The odd phenomenon occurring in the town he’s staying in was an interesting mystery to solve, & I had to laugh when Lan Zhan arrived with the usual Lan Juniors ensemble in tow. Watching them all work together to figure out how to fix the issue while also dealing with the healthy side helping of oblivious Wei Ying & searing sexual tension between him & Lan Zhan was a fun treat.

All Caught Up by brooklinegirl (E, 36,934)

Thoughts: Wei Ying proposing to Lan Zhan to get him out of an arranged marriage he didn’t want is so something he’d do. There is no character more quintessentially chaotic good than Wei Ying. You can’t change my mind. The practice kissing was a lovely regular feature from this author, & my particular favorite thing in this fic was Nie Huaisang’s cameo as their pseudo wedding planner with his classic meddling while insisting he’s useless shenanigans. This was super cute. I liked it a lot.

love, in fire and blood by cicer (E, 360,042)

Thoughts: This was an example of a cool MDZS-specific trope I hadn't seen before, & in it Wei Ying, the infamous Yiling Patriarch, was a cultivator who had achieved immortality (aka, he's OP as fuck but in a fun way). The great sects enlisted his help to win the Sunshot Campaign, & what did he demand in return? Lan Zhan's hand in marriage, of course! It was a fantastic slow burn in which poor Lan Zhan suffered the mortifying ordeal of falling in love with his own husband. An amazing & complex plot, chock-full of angsty goodness.

Birthday Party by waffles_4_breakfast (E, 100,123)

Thoughts: I loved the idea that Wei Ying would actually get to attend Jin Ling's one month celebration, but I was, of course, still concerned about the continued danger he'd be in. This fic nicely showcased Wei Ying's sharp wit, charm, & ever-present sass. I also loved his dramatics when it came to his interactions with Lan Zhan (and in general, of course, haha), but their sweetness together was ultimately my favorite thing about them. The continued threat to Wei Ying's life & all the plotting surrounding it was interesting, but the best things about this fic were the characters & their bonds with each other.

Fentao-laoshi's Guide to Cut-Sleeve Pleasures by occultings (E, 31,775)

Thoughts: This was set during the Cloud Recesses Study Arc, & it was so, so good. The sexual tension between them was just simmering the entire time, & the idea of them “practicing for marriage” on each other was fucking hilarious. Their banter was top notch, & I absolutely loved Lan Zhan’s nearly overwhelming desperation for Wei Ying, not to mention Wei Ying’s bullshit getting him in over his head (as usual, but this time in a fun way, haha). The feelings were actually very sweet, too. I enjoyed this a lot.

wide enough and wild by impossibletruths (E, 64,120)

Thoughts: I love the tag “Noping Out Of Society With Your Boyfriend And Your 50 Wen Refugees: The Novel”. It made me laugh before I’d even started the fic. While this was set during the time period in which Wei Ying frees the Wen refugees, they didn’t end up in Yiling this time. I won’t get too specific, but they still ended up rebuilding their own little settlement & farming to survive, basically. Lan Zhan found them & decided to stay. The slow burn was so good, & I loved the pining in particular. I cried a couple of times in this. It really was just that good.

your problem as a mountain. by cupofwater (E, 30,989)

Thoughts: It was so cute to see the difference between Wei Ying’s & Nie Huaisang’s fantasies, & Wei Ying’s turning out to be more vanilla & romantic in nature absolutely cracked me up. I nearly hurt myself laughing when Nie Mingjue sent Lan Zhan some of the letters by mistake, & I was delighted by Lan Zhan’s reaction. I won’t spoil it, but the smut was lovely & despite the misunderstanding our boys definitely both got their happy ending, haha.

The Vermilion Ribbon by Unforth (E, 233,368)

Thoughts: This sat on my Marked For Later list on AO3 for the longest time, & I really did myself a disservice by not reading it sooner. It was absolutely fantastic. The world-building, pacing, & intricate plot were all brilliantly done, & Wei Ying being in the Wen clan was nothing like I imagined it was going to be in this. Instead of his core family being the Jiangs, we get Wen Qing in Jiang Yanli’s role & Wen Ning in Jiang Cheng’s. Now I’ll warn you that this got super heavy in some places, so mind those tags & take care of yourselves. Nothing was graphic enough that I had to stop reading, but it didn’t shy away from the serious subject matter it covered either. The whole fic was a real emotional roller coaster, & I can’t recommend it highly enough.

[languagelearningcorner]

Language Update

Cantonese

Had my first Cantonese lesson on italki today! I am at A0 for Cantonese but I think I felt pretty good about the first lesson. My tutor was a little bit disorganized at first but eventually found their rhythm and I felt like I learned a lot. They were super cognizant of my reasons for learning Cantonese and gave me excellent, relevant examples. They also provided me with excellent resources. After just this one session, I am starting to get the hang of basic sentence structure for declaratives and interrogatives. They let me know my tones are pretty accurate which is great because I feel like I am a little tone-deaf and it's a big concern of mine. I'm hoping tutoring will give me more structure and intensify my studying.

Cantonese pronunciation (tones and phonemes): https://www.polyu.edu.hk/cbs/pronunciation/cantonese/intro

Cantonese top 100 verbs: https://www.cantoneseclass101.com/blog/2020/08/25/cantonese-verbs/

Persian

These last few weeks have been a little bit slow. Still doing the On/Off method. It is working to alleviate the stress of feeling like I'm not doing enough. I'm inconsistently going through the motions, but don't feel like I'm absorbing or progressing. I do feel that some things come a little bit more naturally to me like reading and thinking in Persian.

French

Currently reading Les Impatientes by Djaili Amadou Amal after being tempted to join a francophone reading book club in my area. I missed their meeting in May and this is the book from that meeting. Jury's still out on whether I will join the bookclub because of my rampant imposter syndrome and self-diagnosed performance/cultural anxiety as a first generation francophone in a non-francophone country.

I still keep up with writing in French by dedicating at least one entry per day in my journal.

Spanish

I live and breathe this language every day, but am trying to increase my reading (still, *sigh*). Like French, I dedicate at least 1 day for writing.

Portuguese

I stopped studying Portuguese to make room for Cantonese, but am highly delusional and have been thinking of sneaking in some Portuguese to my already scattered and inconsistent routine.

Overall, though, my progress has been super super slow/stagnant. I really have not been focused or consistent with any of my languages (other than obligatory Spanish). These last few weeks have been blunder after blunder and very stressful. Even just today, I had a dreaded phone call with some parents at work today. I had to stand my ground and not let them bully me into giving into their *demands*. I already have given so much because I notice how much they are concerned and, clinically, I also notice the concern (albeit, not as intensely as they do from a clinical POV). I tried my best to explain and answer questions but after a while just ended up getting sucked into a vicious circle of a conversation about test scores with them who were hearing me but absolutely not fucking listening, I sort of got curt, interrupted them, and repeated my point kind of cruelly. And our mediator had to step in lol.

But, even with the stress in my professional life, I find a way to squeeze in even just a crumb of language learning in my day. If I wait for everything to blow over, I would be waiting forever. This is teaching me to let go of perfectionism and letting things happen as they happen.

[astrum-aetherium]

henry being meannnnn like calling you a needy brat

yes. he would simply excel at degrading, being mean to you. he was made for it. the words, the glares, the unyielding gestures — he would know all the perfect ways to make you feel diminished and as though he was offering you a big, great favor by catering to you. it would be wicked.

i can specifically imagine it intensifying when you're posing a distraction to his work, trying to divert his attention and initiate or whatnot. it's common knowledge how seriously immersed he gets in his studies, considering his constant longing for maximized academic achievement and such. plus, his work would simply be a greater priority. it wouldn't have anything to do with you, it's just the way he is. therefore, your trying to steer him off course would irritate him, irk him — he would get much meaner than usual, especially if his day hadn't gone well (and, as we know, it rarely ever does).

you could be standing by him as he works at his desk, your hand merely dallying along his shoulder blades for some kind of physical contact. by now, you will have implied your desire a few times — too many for your liking, in fact, as it would paint you as quite desperate. and yet, he will have dismissed you each and every time. as a result, you'd simply resort to begging, "henry, please."

he would draw breath briskly and sharply as though he'd been punched in the gut, annoyed with you beyond belief. "you're being very bothersome."

"i need you," you'd disregard his malice, a storm whipping within you — you would seriously need him so badly that you wouldn't care about the striking, crude remarks.

"which has been made obvious," he'd grumble flatly. after shooting you and your pleading eyes a cool gaze, he'd continue, "i'm getting work done, which i am sure you can see." his hand would sweep over his textbooks in a demonstrative gesture, then, and you'd merely sigh, "please."

something about your tone would do him in. the breathlessness of it, the utter desperation. he would feel completely submitted to, longed for. and, somewhere deep within, it would please him. he would only be willing to assent due to the complete and utter knowledge that you would cede all control to him was he to do anything. therefore, with an exasperated scoff, he would rise from his seat, immediately towering over you — in one swift pull, he would rid you of your bottoms and your underwear, soon planting you upon the very same desk he had been working at.

he'd accompany his actions with words, sharp and venomous as a snake's bite. "you're a desperate, pathetic little brat. what is it you want me to give you, then?"

it would progress to him being knuckle-deep inside you, you sprawled out on the desk for him and propping yourself up with your arm, crying out and fluttering around his fingers as he'd work you, roughly and steadily. due to being so skilled, he would numerously take you right to the brink of ecstasy and then cease all action again, thereby robbing you of your orgasm a few times too many. this, of course, would upset you greatly — "henry, fuck. please."

"wasn't your needy self just pleading with me to be touched? your daring is beyond me," he'd respond. by the time his fingers withdraw from you, you still will not have come — he will have edged you relentlessly, which is why, upon being entered and consequently stimulated by him, you'd come in a matter of sheer minutes. he will have been perfectly aware that you would, and would keep going nevertheless — not that you'd tell him to, as you'd feast on the pulsating smolder of overstimulation — swinging into you roughly, evening out his anger.

having recovered from your passed orgasm, you'd tearily request for him to go faster, which would merely irk him more — he would even resort to swearing. "fucking brat," he'd spit, all breathy wrath and resentment, "do you even fathom how needy of a brat you're being right now? take it, silently." his harshness, despite eliciting a mellow sting, would thrill you greatly. and only because of that, you'd comply.

[roseverdict]

do you suppose your rage will be removed as well

That-! …is an excellent question. Either my rage is removed or it doubles back and intensifies like whatever logic they had going on with the grandpa in spy kids 3D. I think I will report back once everything is said and done if 1) despite everything me getting top surgery actually happens and 2) i actually fucking member

[celestialpearls]

➱ in love with the music(ian)

➱ Lee Jihoon x reader

➱ Fluff, implied fubu relationship (or lack thereof lol), a suggestive joke from jihoon

➱ 885 words

➱ Fate seems to be determined as she continues to keep you and Jihoon in each other’s orbit. So here you are, heart rattling in its cage as you come to a realisation. 

➱ A/N: This is a scene from a fic that I’ll probs never finish rip. Happy Valentines/Carat day to you all! 💖💙

  Jihoon finishes a note cleanly, which earns applause and some loud whistles that came mainly from your table. He flashes a smile and that is met with Seungkwan and Mingyu’s collective screams of “Jihoooon, we’re your biggest fans!” 

The musician waves and bows at the audience, his grin confident and bright as he walks off from the small stage. People naturally gather around him and you know that it is because of his brilliant performance and the charisma he exudes. 

Seokmin nudges you and wiggles his eyebrows, “so, did Jihoon’s velvety voice make your heart do an acrobatic routine?” 

He adds when Mingyu’s eyes widen, “your words, not mine.” 

Your table cackles as they ignore your glares, slumping in your seat as you cross your arms. 

“Fuck you,” and their giggles intensify but you can’t deny the obvious answer to Seokmin’s question. 

That yes, his voice causes your heart to perform an acrobatic routine perfectly. The conversation shifts and you tune them out, eyes set on Jihoon. He was speaking to people who seemed like students from his department, fingers brushing his hair away as he laughed at something they said. There is this palpable ache in your heart lately whenever you are around him and you are unsure as to how you should handle it. 

Whether it is the soft pink lighting of the restaurant or you are wearing rose-tinted glasses, Jihoon glows beautifully and your heart quickens its run. It halts, stumbles when he looks around and his grin when he sees you knocks the wind out of you. You tilt your head towards the direction of the restaurant’s exit and he gives you a small nod. 

You excuse yourself from your friends and Seungkwan furrows his eyebrows, “you good?” 

You assure him, “I’m fine. It just feels a bit stuffy so I’m gonna step out for a bit.” 

“Text one of us if you wanna go,” Mingyu says and you smile at them before walking off. 

You see Jihoon wave to the people he was talking to as you go out. Seconds later, the small bell above the door jingles and the rose tint behind your gaze brightens. His eyes shine under the dandelion yellow of the streetlights and you are mesmerised. 

“So. Did you like it?” He fiddles with his earlobe and you raise an eyebrow. 

“Fishing?”

He rolls his eyes but his smile is still there, “no, idiot. I value your opinion.” 

You are taken aback. Jihoon receives numerous praises from people about his performances and compositions. He was deemed as a promising performer by everyone in his department. His social media following was steadily growing and he is always booked for gigs. 

Yet here he is, interested in your input about his performance. You smile, “excellent. When have I ever not liked your craft?”

He’s beautiful. His ears and cheeks are tinged pink, the shine in his eyes evident. He beams and you dare to hope that his voice is as breathless as yours, “oh...thank you.” 

But his bashfulness disappears as quickly as an arrow reaches its desired target. His smugness radiates strongly as he steps forward and pulls you to him by the waist. His hand is warm on your hips and your hand is splayed on his chest. 

“Do I get a reward?” 

You grin, before properly responding by pressing your lips to his. Kissing him with need. Always with need; it seems like you can never get enough of the talented musician. He matches your fervour before slowing down eventually as he gently pulls your lower lip, his hands come down to squeeze your ass. The both of you pull away, breaths mingling on each other’s lips. 

“Mm, be patient,” you kiss his lips one more time. 

He kisses your nose and causes your stomach to clench in want. But it’s a want that is different from whenever you are usually around Jihoon. He answers, “that’s my strength.” 

You laugh the strange feeling away as you grab his wrist. “Yeah, yeah Mr. Most Patient. Now, let’s go back in because my friends haven’t stopped talking about you.” 

He pushes the door open and scoffs playfully, “I’d have hoped you’d be the one that would talk nonstop about me. Do I not satisfy you in bed that much, angel?”

Your cheeks heat up as you pinch his side, “Jihoon!” 

Later on, as laughter and great company encompass you, you put a name to the unusual feeling you have that has been present recently, especially tonight. The name starts to form when you see how easily Jihoon blends in with your friends. He matches their energy and entertains their antics, eyes curving prettily to resemble crescent moons. Then, the cackle that has slight similarity to a witch as he lightly slaps Seokmin’s arm has you stupidly endeared. 

And finally, the name of that emotion comes to you. The realisation has your ears ringing and once it settles, it is as quick as a shooting star. It happens when Seungkwan exaggerates his celebrity impersonation, Mingyu and Jihoon linking their hands as they bow their bodies in laughter. The music major looks up at you then, his smile bright as he squeezes your thigh and places his arm around your chair. 

The feeling is love. You are in love. 

[thessalian]

Thess vs Valid Critique

For all I am still hugely excited about having Silent Hill 2 (and frustrated beyond all reason at some of the bullshit going on around it, which I will go into momentarily), I'm a little less mopey and a little more accepting, if grudgingly, of my various limits. I pushed too hard the last few weeks and I need an actual rest, so today was largely about putting together some homemade instant hot chocolate mix (because 'tis the season for the warm drinks to come out) and playing Wildermyth.

Part of those limits is the bloody flu vaccine. My left arm still hurts, mostly around the injection site, and while I'm feeling a bit better after way more sleep than I suppose most people tend to need, I'm still a little wrecked. I mean, don't get me wrong - if the vaccine hits me this hard, it's just as well to get it because a bad case of flu would probably be a nightmare. Just ... you know. Same old "everything bad is intensified and I hate it" complaint. So after measuring and sifting and cleaning various powders off my countertops, a game with relatively simple gameplay and still a reasonable amount of story was pretty much just the thing.

As to Silent Hill 2, obviously I still want to keep playing it, and I will, once I feel a little better. I don't know how long that'll take, but it will still be there. I think part of my grumpiness about it is wanting to in some way stick it to some of the aforementioned bullshit surrounding it. The neckbeards are one thing - even if "vandalising the entire Wikipedia page with false review scores and incel rants" just makes me roll my eyes so hard they're in danger of falling out of my head. Like, they're pretty clearly taking a leaf out of the current Republican Party handbook - if the facts don't match up with their beliefs? Lie your ass off. They're just getting louder and angrier lately because of how obvious it is becoming that they are no longer the majority, and honestly never were. While corporations are never going to be anybody's friends, they do at least acknowledge that half of the people doing the bitching about how "woke" gaming has become either had no intention of buying the game in the first place or will buy it regardless of how "woke" it is, and thus actually being inclusive will get them more money in the long run. The neckbeards tried a certain amount of lying with statistics in the form of, "Look at this huge percentage of people who don't really care about that DEI shit!" but the wording they're using makes it pretty clear that that huge percentage of people may not be desperate for it, but certainly aren't against it either - not the way the neckbeard assholes are. Most of us can put up with a game that doesn't go out of its way to be inclusive because we've been doing so for decades - we're used to the eye candy and the carbon-copy YAGWD protagonist, anyway. The thing is, most of us also understand that it's not "shoehorning in minorities where they don't belong" because ... y'know, people who aren't Yet Another Grizzled White Dude do actually exist, and seeing them shouldn't be the end of the fucking world.

Then there's the Guardian review. Now, I mostly trust the Guardian on reviews ... but I admit that a lot of those are for lesser-known indie titles. Whoever wrote the review for the Silent Hill 2 remake seemed to have been going out of his way to look at nothing more but the surface level of the game. Honestly, it's not that the reviewer didn't like the game that bothered me; it's that the review itself was apparently just an excuse to shit on a game from a great height and get paid for it. My old Theatre Studies teacher would have looked over his review and not only given it a failing grade, but read it out to the entire class as an example of what not to do. It was fairly clear that as someone who had heard all the hype but was "too young to play it at the time", that he had very different expectations of what "an excellent video game" looks like. If he'd talked at all about his expectations instead of "I don't care about Angela; I've got enough to do looking for my two-dimensional maybe-dead wife and for some reason doing busywork like gluing together records", or if he'd explained why he felt those elements didn't work, I'd respect it, even if I didn't agree. But for fuck's sake, if you're going to critique something, critique it; don't just lob a few insults at it and call it a day. Especially not when you're getting paid for it. You want to just insult a game you didn't like? That's your right, but go do it on Steam or Metacritic like everyone else.

I mean, is it wrong that the main reason I get upset about this type of behaviour isn't out of protectiveness of a game / book / franchise / even person I admire and more out of wanting a better debate partner than this? Like, I will hear you out all day if you give me some kind of explanation; I will be grateful for the new perspective, even if I don't agree, and then we can at least have a discussion about how our respective viewpoints affect our enjoyment of the ... whatever it is we're discussing. But just insulting it leaves no room for discussion--

Whiiiiiiiich is why they do it. It's harder to challenge a definitive but subjective-as-fuck statement. They don't want a debate; they want to be right. Well, fine. I like being right too. But things you like aren't things to be 'right' or 'wrong' about, and if I'm going to feel obliged to justify my enjoyment of something, I want a decent debate with a rational human being, not a kid on the playground using offensive language as an everything-proof shield against an opinion that wouldn't even really hurt them if they were as firm in their opinion as they make themselves out to be but which they can't even listen to for some reason.

Gods, some people's egos are weird.