#(instead of drawing old men non stop)

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shout out to me and three other people that care for this

[ghostf1ux]

Shock Therapy

Day 12: Shaking

Word Count: 3.8k

TW/CWs: Electrocution, non-con touching/biting/kissing (referenced, not shown), medical inaccuracies (probably)

Part 1 (here) || Part 2

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Jason groaned as his body was tossed unceremoniously onto damp concrete floors. His teeth sank further into the gag that had been shoved haphazardly into his mouth, muffling a string of curses aimed at his captors. Some of them only laugh at his attempt to take stock of his surroundings despite the blindfold and his lack of usable fingers to pry it off.

Not for lack of trying.

Okay, so, assessment of the situation. There are at least four guys in the room with him, heavily muscled but potentially not heavily armed. Pistols, most likely, if he had to judge just by the amount of noises they made while moving him. Metal shackles around his wrists with a chain attached and sharp little pronged spikes on the inside to keep him from struggling too much, he can already feel the welts and scratches made by them, and soon he thinks they'll start drawing blood. Blindfold means they don't want him seeing them, which means they can be tracked. Gag is because Jason managed to bite a chunk of flesh out of someone that resulted in his face getting a nice, warm spray that made something inside him sing. His thoughts and movements are still a little fuzzy and weighted, courtesy of whatever drug they used to knock him out with. Him waking up sooner than expected is what prompted his ability to start running his mouth, so to speak. 

As fall as injuries go, he mentally catalogues general scattered bruising from the rest of his patrol and the uncaring moving of his body throughout the kidnapping process, as well as a broken left foot and ankle from his attempts to actually fight back. Because of this, they decided his feet didn't need to be tied together once he was thrown in here.

It's almost insulting, but with the current situation, he can't actually find it in himself to be insulted.

The metal shackles cuffed way too tight around his wrists are tugged upwards by a connected chain, a snarl of protest blocked by the gag. Instead, he throws his good leg out in the direction of whoever had decided it was safe to stand above him, relishing in the sharp crack and shriek of pain following it.

“Oh you little bitch!” One of the men roars before there's an angry shuffling of footsteps and–

Jason curls back in on himself instinctively as the blunt object slams down on his midsection, biting down hard on the gag to prevent any noises from coming out. He won't give them the satisfaction. Not from the first hit to his ribs, or the second to his uninjured leg, or the third to his shoulder.

He sneers up at them as best he can from behind the gag, grinning. If that's all these chumps have, he'll be fine. They're not even using a crowbar, they're using a boring old baseball bat. Not even creative.

“Boss isn't gonna be here for a bit,” one of them proposes to the others, the sound of dragging wood across the cement following it, along with a couple slaps against what Jason would wager is a leather-gloved hand. “He said we had to get him here in one piece, but he never said we couldn't have some fun of our own while we waited.”

Jason can almost hear the evil grins spreading across their faces, and decides that curling up further is probably the best course of action right now. 

That doesn't stop him from tensing, bracing at the approaching, circling footsteps.

He grits his teeth at every blunt blow of a weapon, not letting out a sound even when he can feel his bones grinding and splintering under each hit. His eyes squeeze shut in some attempt to block out the pain, because even if he's experienced far worse than this, at least it's not a crowbar and at least there's none of the trademarked insane, maniacal laughter from the fucking clown.

He can survive this, if this is all they've got.

He can survive this.

Jason flinches violently into a curl impossibly tighter when one of them lightly kicks his shattered foot.

He can survive this. He just needs the Bats to figure out his location. Either that, or find an opportunity to escape. 

The latter is looking like more of a distant idea than actual possibility with every bat or kick to his battered body.

Then, with the creaking of a door, the mounting pain stops, along with the mantra Jason had been reciting mentally. Shoes click against the floor, but not like heels, not sharp enough, like dress shoes. He's intimately familiar with that sound due to Bruce. Weight tells him it's a person lighter than the ones circled around him. The shuffling of fabric is familiar enough of a sound to not be anything but expensive.

“I presume you've had your fun?” An accented voice asks, clipped with… disappointment, maybe? Jason furrows his brow at the question, jaw grinding against the gag.

“Uh– yes boss,” one of the nameless men answers quickly. There's a click of a tongue.

“Jacket, shirt, shoes, gag. I want them gone. Dispose of them along with the rest of his gear,” the accented man orders. “I want to hear him sing.” 

So this is the boss. Something about him sounds vaguely familiar, but Jason can't put his finger on it. He doesn't have the time to figure it out before his limbs are being yanked around and the remainder of his gear, the only thing keeping him even relatively safe, is cut off and discarded like trash.

That shit's expensive, damn it.

The gag is removed before his shoes are, and something tells Jason that was on purpose because it takes everything in him not to scream when they roughly jostle his broken foot in an attempt to get his boots off. They succeed eventually, but not without Jason jerking away at the slightest movement and biting his cheek and tongue so hard they bleed. It's only the paper-thin thread of self restraint that stops anything but a groan from being audible.

By the time they're finally done, Jason's teeth are watering uncomfortably, but he swallows down the bile that threatens to spill at his pain. His vision is white and blurry, even with the blindfold.

I can survive this. I've had far worse.

He's panting and cold-sweating profusely when those shoes click to a stop next to him and the man crouches down, grabbing Jason's jaw and tilting his face with an appraising hum. Sparks dance across his skin, making him prickle uncomfortably and he tries to yank himself out of the contact, only for the fingers to dig further into his skin in a bruising grip. The tingling under his skin sends an almost-pleasant warmth through his body, if it weren't for the fact that it rubs his nerves the wrong way. Something niggles the back of his mind, but his thoughts are too hazy to get a solid grasp of what it is.

“You're just as stubborn as they say, Hood,” the man praises. Something dark settles in his gut. “It'll make it all that much more fun to break you down, and build you back up. Doesn't that sound fun to you?”

Jason spits a glob of blood and saliva at the man. “Fuck you,” he snarls, finally tearing himself out of the man's grasp. It's then he notices how fucking cold it is in the room. He shivers, failing to suppress the wince at the way it aggravates his grinding bones.

The man just chuckles lowly, rising to stand up. A moment later the shackles around his wrists are being tugged up up up– dragging Jason up with it. The most he allows to escape is stuttered breaths and a few short, silent gasps when weight is put on his bad leg. It hurts like a motherfucker, but Jason doesn't let him know as much, instead grinning a bloody grin down at him once the machine lifting him settles. Because even with how he's hanging from his wrists and standing on his foot (the other one he keeps lifted gingerly away from the ground in some meaningless effort to keep it from hurting further), he can tell he still has a height and weight advantage on whoever the fuck this guy is.

Of course, that advantage is lost due to his restraints and general state his body is in.

“Mm, what a pretty bird you are,” the man croons, trailing a finger across Jason's jaw. With the position he's in, with his head trapped between his arms, he can't do much, but he takes the opportunity to lurch forward with snapping teeth.

Fangs clack shut over empty air, a disappointment to Jason. Seemingly unconcerned, the finger traces over the artery along his neck, and then the whole hand closes over his throat. The other rests over his sternum, that same fleeting warmth emanating from the touch.

“Or perhaps ‘mutt’ would be a title better suited for you.” He squeezes, nails gouging into the sensitive thinner skin of his throat and Jason can feel warm blood streaming down his frame, he can the way his breath becomes blocked, and it's strange because Jason knows from firsthand experience that choking someone one handed is a lot hard than you think it is but he's clearly got the strength to do it and the warm tingling under his skin where the hand is touching him is getting hotter and sharper and–

A scream is trapped between his jaws as his body convulses and then locks, his legs jolting out from under him at the sudden shock of fiery electricity coursing through his muscles. His nerves are alight and his throat is constricting, his lungs have stuttered and are struggling to try to get oxygen to the rest of him. Muscle spasms send his pain receptors into overdrive, and it's too much, he can't fucking do anything except feel pain, he can't breathe, I can't breathe–

It disappears. Jason forces himself to heave in a breath even with how his ribs protest to it. His head hangs briefly while he regains his bearings, slowly getting his uninjured foot back under him so all his weight isn't on his shoulders and wrists. Each subtle shift makes him wince, and he fully flinches with each shiver that wracks his body. The new layer of freezing sweat and streams of blood only serve to make the cold worse, and he fucking hates how he can see what this guy is trying to do to him.

“You handled that well, mutt,” that accented voice praises after about thirty seconds of letting Jason recover. It comes from behind him now, but he doesn't bother turning his head to pay any obvious attention to it. That is, until there are hands on his waist that radiate that tingling warmth, stopping the shivers from agitating his injuries further. He growls, low in his throat, far more animalistically than any human has any right to sound. Thumbs trace the lines between Jason's muscles and across the scars littering his body without a care in the world.

He snarls venomously. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

“I'm sure you'll be begging for them soon enough,” an easy reply murmurs, and Jason can hear the nasty fucking grin in his voice as they grip harder, enough to bruise, to bleed, and it's just enough warning for him to brace himself for the next wave of–

He can't help the guttural shriek that rips itself from his mouth, legs spasming before his body drops sharply onto his wrists. His throat constricts, gurgled screams still trying to escape him. The hands, the fingers, the nails stay embedded in his skin as they drag– scratch– gouge lines up towards his ribs, around his front, right over his diaphragm and if he could even get a hint of a breath before he definitely can't now– not with the way his ribs creak, the way his muscles contract, the way his back tries to arch and bend and twist away from the cause of his pain, the way his body practically locks in a never-ending existence of drowning in the constant agony–

The warmth is swept away by a near-blinding chill that wracks his body with shivers so bad he nearly doubles over again just as he had regained his footing, but only just. Tears spring freely from his eyes at the next bout of shaking, a sob trapped in his throat and it hurts, everything fucking hurts–

“Say the magic word, and this'll go away,” the man's voice lilts and when the fuck did he get so far away? When did he end up in front of Jason, drumming his fingers against a shitty metal chair? When did he start hearing the soft clinking of metal against metal, a chain being fiddled with?

When was there a quiet, dangerous buzzing from somewhere vaguely above him?

He doesn't have the time to get his thoughts together enough to prepare himself for the rolling wave of stabbing, burning pain so hot it's cold starting in his wrists and spreading down his shoulders, enveloping his chest, through his thrashing legs and curled toes– he can't– he needs to move, to get away, but all he can do is jerk involuntarily and hear something crack and something tear and something break–

And then it stops, and Jason practically goes limp, his breaths coming in heaving, panting, wet gasps that make his ribs grind in protest but he needs oxygen, he needs air and it's right there, it's surrounding him, he's practically downing in it but it doesn't matter because he still can't breathe.

“We have all the time in the world, yknow,” that voice mentions. “I'd be dismayed if this is how we spent it.”

Jason tries to make his mouth and throat work the way he wants them to, tell the guy he can fuck right off because he is nowhere even close to the line that marks when he starts begging for anything, especially something that would just hurt him more in the end. But all that comes out is a wet, raspy growl in dissent. Something wet and painfully cold trickles down his arms.

“Your choice, mutt.”

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It's…how long is it? It could've been twenty minutes or two hours when the first whimper escapes him. He's almost constantly shivering now, when he's not being overwhelmed with crackling pain that rips through his insides and makes spots dance across his extremely limited vision.

The shocks are frequent and long, each one feels like hours even if Jason logically knows they can't be more than fifteen minutes at the longest.

Unfortunately, logic isn't something he has access to right now.

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It's an even shorter amount of time when his thoughts finally finish drifting away and all that's left is pain and hurt and cold and he whines– he fucking whines when the man who's been circling him like a shark– so close but never touching, his warmth just barely out of reach– pulls away. He can't stop it, he can't even try. Not when he's been hanging here for hours that feel like days, not when there hasn't been a single sound aside from his own sobs and keens and rivers of blood cascading down his body drip drip dripping onto the floor into an ever growing puddle and that fucking asshole's perfectly poised honeyed words slipping in his ear in the times between vague awareness and overwhelming agony.

So when his head is lifted just enough for a warm hand to pet through his sweat-soaked hair he lets it, just this once. He lets the other rest on the small of his back, digging into his skin until he bleeds and it's okay because then that warmth, that tingling bounce of mini shocks travels under his skin and eases through the rest of his body and somehow he manages to slump even further. He slumps into the man holding him here, expensive silk and some shitty floral scent taking over his senses and for a moment– for a moment it's just so nice. He can just forget, for a moment, but only for a moment. For a moment, forget about the excruciating pain of his bones cracking under his skin, forget about the cold, the blood, the–

His mouth flies open in a silent scream when that sparkling warmth flares into a blazing inferno and it has his burning, aching muscles spasming to life when they just want to rest, he just wants to rest–

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I'm so tired… please, anyone–

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I– I can't– it's too much, it's too fucking much–

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“Look at you, mutt, already breaking so well for me,” that voice purrs along the shell of Jason's ear, running his hand gently, softly, delicately up and down Jason's side, over burned in handmarks, smeared blood, and distinctly cracked ribs that make every labored breath rattle through his chest. His heartbeat is fast and erratic in his ears, nearly as loud as the persistent ringing that's accompanied him for so long.

How long has it been now?

Something in his gut twists at the blank space filling the answer to that question.

Too long, maybe. A while. Does– Does anyone know I'm here? Are they even looking for me?

They're whispers of feelings rather than full thoughts. His mind, fractured in some attempt to maintain some sanity for later once he's out– if I get out– 

That honeyed voice, too sweet to do anything but set muffled alarm bells off in Jason's fog-clouded mind, coos against his raw, torn skin, right against his pulse where blood seeps steadily out from a past wound there. “Just divine. You'll be the perfect little pet mutt for me, won't you?”

A broken little whimper falls from limp lips as teeth tear the gouges on his neck open further, another cascade of blood rolling down Jason's chest. The man's grip on his hips turns hotter, brighter, bruising, and it's low, too far down, enough to send some layers of his fog away giving way to panic and fear and no that's not right I don't–

And then it's all washed away in layers upon layers upon layers upon fucking layers–

There's a crash Jason's body instinctively flinches at, even with his spasming body protesting and fighting against him at every turn. There's voices, multiple voices, and they're so loud, it hurts, he just wants to stop hurting, and suddenly his head it yanked back by his hair and a stuttered, broken cry escapes him but he can't even begin to be quiet, to understand what's happening, so he tries to close his mouth, maybe, but blood and saliva is dripping out of the corners regardless and he can't move, he can't think, he can't even fucking scream when the pain gets worse and somewhere, distantly, he feels like maybe he wants to die again. That would be better. Same way, too. The crowbar would be better than this everlasting torment that comes with every unwanted, gut twisting touch and caress and kiss and bite–

And maybe he'd prefer that horrible laughter instead of the sugar-dipped tooth-ache inducing litany of low words and promised peace if he just bends a little, just cracks a little, just breaks a little–

“–ood? Hood!” A voice fades in over the ringing, tinged with something akin to… worry? Or panic? Hm. They sound familiar. “Fuck, Nightwing, hold him– Wing! Hold him up, I need to get the shackles off.”

The first warmth leaves and Jason doesn't hold back a despaired keen, weakly trying to search for it despite the fact that he's long since lost the strength to even twitch his head in any direction.

Someone makes a wounded noise, footsteps rushing to shuffle towards him. Jason flinches when arms wrap around him, holding him to their chest. His breaths were already raspy, fluttering little things, but the additional pressure on his ribs makes him choke on a wet cough he doesn't have the fucking air for and it hurts so god damn bad, he just wants to not hurt anymore, please–

“Shh, shh, I've got you, we've got you, little wing, it's okay, you're gonna be okay, you're safe now,” a new man whispers into his hair, voice hushed and strained with something Jason can't really identify, but he sounds familiar, so familiar, and the name rattles around in his head like he should know who it refers to–

“Little wing, it's time to go!”

“Cmon little wing, I'll catch you if you fall, I've done this before!”

A flash of blue, and a blinding smile to light up a room. The familiar scent of a particular laundry detergent, the man's favorite cologne, and kevlar.

“Take it, Jason. You've earned it. I'm passing on the mantle of Robin to you, little wing.”

Jason tucks his face in the crook of Dick's neck, trying not to be overcome with sobs. A gloved hand runs smoothly over the back of Jason's head, through his short hair and threading through his curls, smoothing the fringe off his forehead. Dark words are muttered somewhere behind him, swears, threats, plans, who's–?

His first wrist is unlocked and gently lowered to his side, but that doesn't stop the sharp, cut off gasp that escapes him, or how he goes entirely, bonelessly limp in Dick's arms.

It forces him to use both hands to support his weight, but it doesn't matter because he's here. They came for him. That's all he needs.

The next wrist slips loose from its shackle just as it's unlocked, sharp stabs of pain barreling through his arm straight to his chest and he flinches, jerks, spasms for just a moment before his quiet, panting breaths are the only movement his body makes. He's moved, and then laid down on someone's lap, head cushioned on both sides by bent legs.

“Hey, hey, open your eyes, Jay. Come on, stay with me here,” the voice from before is pleading now, voice higher in both pitch and volume. Jason furrows– or tries to furrow– his brow in confusion, because didn't he…?

With effort– too much fucking effort, he's so tired, he's exhausted, he just wants to go home– he manages to peer blearily up through tear-clumped lashes at the vague forms above him.

The first one, closer to him, domino lenses blown wide with worry is Dick. The stark blue against toned skin gives him away immediately. He smiles down at Jason, and it's a strained, worried thing but it's there nonetheless.

Off to Jason's other side is a red and black form, glancing at him with more properly disguised worry between wrapping something around his wrists. He seems to soften when Jason meets his gaze though, nodding to himself. Or maybe to Jason. Then turns back to his work.

Jason's eyes drift shut again, head lolling listlessly to the side, pressing closer to Dick. He briefly feels him tense, and maybe he starts panicking, but Jason just can't bring himself to care. He's with his brothers. They'll get him out. They have him. They came for him.

[theloveliestembrace]

Let it happen. | CL

Charles Leclerc/Reader

f1 masterlist

crossposted to ao3

Summary: The five times you meet Charles Leclerc. (The four times it doesn’t work out, the one time it might,)

Warnings: Non-explicit (but definitely inappropriate) teacher-student relationship

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Reincarnation au

W/C: 2.7k

-

A/N: What’s good people, I’m back again. This fic was very cinematic in my head (it still is), so I hope the writing captures that. Enjoy~

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The first time you meet Charles Leclerc, he’s a barista at the coffeehouse down the road from your interning job. It’s a brief stint in the industry as you wait for a university acceptance letter, so you don’t expect to stay for long. 

He’s sweet, beaming at you from over the counter nearly everyday, remembering your order before you’ve even asked for his name. 

“Charles,” he says, sweetly accented, “my name is Charles Leclerc.” 

That day, the flowing script of your name on the takeaway cup is accompanied with a ‘have dinner with me?’ and a smiley face. You picture him, eyebrows scrunched and eyes squinted in concentration, trying to write neatly on the curved surface, and smile. 

As it turns out, Charles Leclerc is also waiting for a university acceptance letter, to a prestigious place in the United Kingdom for the study of Liberal Arts. He laughs awkwardly as he confesses, “My English is not so good yet, so I am worried they won’t find me so elegant.” 

You bat it off as nonsense, pulling him in for a chaste kiss, whispering sincerely against his lips. “They’ll be foolish not to accept you, cheri.”

He’s a sweet relief from the bustle of your internship, where you’re surrounded by presumptuous old men and women who expect their coffee orders and bottles of perrier on their desk before eight. Your work in the fashion industry is not as glamorous a job as made out in the novels. The twelve centimeter heels you’re forced into daily pinch at your toes, and all your coworkers are size-zero hyenas, vying for a position. It takes all your energy to keep up. 

Just the sight of him, though, waving cheerily in the morning as you run in for coffee pickup, hands in his pockets as he waits for you to get off work, the soft kisses when he walks you home. It’s easy to get lost in this, lost in him , fingers slotted between yours and a glass of wine shared between interlocked fingers.  It’s a romance out of a metropolitan chick flick, something about finding love in the middle of modern day bustle, finding quiet in the loud city. 

Everything falls apart when you get your acceptance letter. You haven’t talked about the inexorability of the end, not really. Sometimes Charles will bring it up half-heartedly, and so will you, but the inertia to dealing with your very real future is too great, and you both end up kissing on Charles’ sofa instead of facing the truth. 

It culminates in one big fight, your fingernails pressed to draw blood, Charles bracing himself against the wall to prevent himself from losing his temper. 

And it goes like every other fight in the movies, things like i was always going to go anyway and why don’t you just fucking go then, if you have nothing to stay for , and don’t hold me back just because you don’t have the certainty of getting into your course, Charles spinning around and saying i already got in, i’m hesitating because of you and the pressure in your chest growing so large it’s all you can do to stop your tears from running. 

The movies lied to you. This is the part where Charles apologises and you hug and make up and you stay for each other. That’s the love story. 

Instead, you say, go then, if staying for me burdens you so . And he goes, your apartment door slamming behind him. 

You spend days wallowing in self-pity, avoiding the coffeehouse, running through the motions, thinking about the last ten months of your life, and make the decision when your hand reaches for a coffee cup that isn’t there. 

You’ll stay, for Charles, because you love him, even if it isn’t like the movies. Because it isn’t like the movies, and you’ll love him even when the post-credits have rolled. 

It is this that makes you run to the coffeehouse the next morning, forgoing an umbrella in your haste, soaking your blouse straight through. You yank the door open, waiting for the head of curls at the counter to look up so you can beg for a chance. Just one.

Instead, the older lady who owns the place, looks up and smiles sadly at you. “I’m sorry, kid. He flew off to the UK yesterday, he said you never called.” 

And again, this doesn’t happen in the movies. The main character doesn’t step back out into the rain alone, heels soaked against the pavement, nor do they spend the next week waiting for the love of their life to call. 

You hit reply on the acceptance email, and change your number to a local one when you land in America. 

Somewhere on another continent, a call doesn’t get connected.

-

On the sixteenth of October, the people of Monaco are blessed with an announcement. A prince is born, the news reports. 

Charles, they named him. Charles Leclerc. 

In another ward down the hallway, another woman gives birth to a girl. The royal family hasn’t realised it yet, but down the hallway, is their future pr manager. 

Your first day on the job is fraught with just about every roadblock you could face. 

At four in the morning, one of your neighbour’s ridiculous scented candles tips over and sets enough things on fire to trip the fire alarm. Management ushers every single person in the vicinity out of the apartment building, where you stand shivering in your bathrobe. 

A few hours later, your coffee machine breaks down before your espresso even finishes running. 

Then, five minutes after you leave the apartment to catch your Uber, your heel breaks, so you’re forced to change your shoes and foot the late arrival fee on your car. 

When you finally find the meeting room fifteen minutes after you were supposed to reach, you're very much on the verge of tears. 

You’re met with a frowning Charles Leclerc, whose expression instantly evaporates into fondness when he recognises who’s at the door. He stands to bring you into a hug, as if you’d been friends since you were children. (You had been, of course, but you didn’t forget that he was a literal prince. Hugs are not commonplace.)

It’s an odd feeling, standing in front of the boy you’d known from birth, tasked with covering up his scandals and manufacturing relationships to keep him in the public eye.

It’s even odder to fall in love with him all over again, especially while you’re both poring over staged Instagram posts of him and Monaco’s richest bachelorettes. But Charles is so— good, easy to fall in love with, like those princes from storybooks. He laughs at exactly the right moments, cracks jokes that have you gasping for breath, charms you so thoroughly it’s almost embarrassing. 

It falls into place like poetry, too many moments without supervision, secret smiles over the table, quiet mornings in the palace, hidden in his room. You pick up the closeness of your youth near flawlessly. Falling in love has never been this easy. 

(It’ll never be this easy again.)

The end comes knocking in the form of his mother. Marriage. You almost choke on the enormity of it, caught in the noose of your own stupidity. Because that is your job, isn’t it? The prince is almost thirty, you are almost thirty, and this has always been the final point, of your job, of his scripted relationships. 

You don’t even fight, which is kind of the worst part. A choice is presented to Charles, and he chooses.

It’s a special kind of cruelty, to stay. To sit with the photographers and videographers and event crew and wedding planner, poring over fabrics and angles, as if it’s your fucking honour to plan what’s set to be the greatest union in Monaco for the next decade. 

You were wrong. The worst part is standing at the fringes, in your blue dress, watching the love of your life slide a ring onto another finger and speak the vows that were meant for youyouyou . The worst part is knowing the photos will be beautiful, because you planned them yourself. 

The worst part is knowing there is no universe where he chooses you.  

-

Your new French Literature professor is… really fucking hot. You’re not just saying this because he’s a decade older than you, or because he’s at least three decades younger than the guy who used to teach the class. He’s just, objectively of course, a really attractive man. 

The way his accent rolls off his tongue when he says “Charles, my name is Charles Leclerc.” definitely doesn’t help. In your periphery, you see the girl seated next to you furiously typing on her phone, with caps and exclamation marks and sweating emojis. You can’t even blame her. 

And it’s almost criminally obvious, the way he looks at you, eyes darting to your open polo, the way he lingers on the syllables of your name when he calls on you to answer in class. 

It’s subtle enough to not warrant any accusations of misconduct, but not subtle enough to avoid the envious stares of the girls (and boys) in your class. You’re unbothered, of course, given that he hasn’t actually made a move, but also the fact that he wears his wedding ring all the time.

And if you start wearing tighter shirts and shorter skirts to class, just to see his breath hitch when you uncross your legs just so, well that’s nobody’s business but your own. 

It’s almost cliche, the way your little game unfolds. You make sure to book the latest possible consultation slots with him, in a cute ensemble and flawless makeup, toting a copy of Les Miserables as if you’re actually struggling with the material. 

It’s fun, to rile him up, watch his tongue slide against his lower lip as he looks at you from across the desk. You don’t typically make a habit of seducing professors, especially the married ones, but you figure it’ll probably make a great story for your grandkids, or something. He holds out much longer than you thought, so much so that the illusion of needing aid in your best subject starts to grate on you. Still, the sight of his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves, or the line of his throat when he sips water during lectures keeps you hooked. 

When he finally bends you over his desk, you’re almost disappointed that the game has ended. The imprint of his wedding ring stays on your waist for days. Your friend tuts nervously when you return back late, murmurs something about morals and regretting your decisions and something else you tune out. 

Un brin de folie egaye la vie, right? Some madness will brighten your life. You continue ignoring her.

It’s only after months of your routine that you can form the all-important question, perched on his lap in his (locked) office, “Why cheat on your wife?” And the room is instantly suffused with silence. You expect him to tell you to get out or something of the sort, but instead he hums thoughtfully, shifting you further onto his thighs. 

He’s silent for a few seconds, running fingers through your hair, “Why do we do anything?” You snort at the obvious deflection, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“On n’aime que ce qu’on possède pas tout entier. Proust says we love only what we do not have entirely.” You giggle a little at that, “you love me because you cannot have me?” He sighs against your cheek, “something like that, yes.”

In the end, it ends much cleaner than affairs like this tend to. You graduate top of the class, watch Charles and his beautiful wife at the ceremony, and laugh a little meanly at how oblivious her smile is. How he watches you, still, as you give the valedictorian speech, the smirk on his face as you thank your professors with false fervour. 

And then, one last time for the road, in the handicap bathroom where the bustle of the hall isn’t quite muted, breaths mingling hot in the stale air. A kiss, almost chaste, and you leave. 

Your grandkids howl with laughter at the story, nearly seventy years down the road. You smile, think about green eyes and rolled up sleeves. Another life, maybe. 

-

You’re still not used to the wag lifestyle. It’s one thing to be recognised in Monaco, another to be Il Predestinato’s girlfriend. It’s almost obscene, the red that greets you down every hallway, the way you bite your tongue and watch the team fuck him over every weekend. The way the crowds chant his name; Charles, they scream, Charles Leclerc. 

It’s not like you haven’t earned a place in the paddock. You’ve done the work, the pr activities, the carefully curated soft launches, the jet lag, the helmet kisses and the careful, careful styling. You’ll always be silent and pretty, always smiling and skinny and happy for him, existing to prove something. 

The point is, it isn’t that you don’t love Charles anymore. It isn’t that he’s neglectful and distant (he is), or that you’re unhappy with the constant scrutiny and ever changing time zones (you are). You can swallow these things, breathe deep and let it settle. 

Mangia questa minestra o saltar questa finestra; eat the soup or jump out of the window. Accept things for what they are, don’t hurt over things that cannot be changed. 

And it really does feel like nothing will ever change, watching the man you love turn into a beating husk, consumed with his want. A championship, a victory, draped in enough red to drown you both, a hundred years of history. Nothing will change, you will always be the girlfriend, the girl in-the-pictures. You can feel the shadow of Charles’ name as heavily as he feels Ferrari’s. That will never change.    

The championship is a hollow victory, when it comes. You and Charles have devolved across the year into a state of a perpetual tense silence, intercut only with the curl of his fingers around your waist when the cameras come flashing, and drawn out, passive aggressive conversations.

You begin to fly out less and less, blame it on the job you pretend to hate for Charles’ sake. Slowly, you learn to be on your own, find your way around loneliness, spaces within yourself previously occupied with your boyfriend. You toss about the idea of him cheating on you while you miss his races, and find the thought less impossible and less painful each time. 

By the time you see him again in Abu Dhabi, the Monacan flag wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pointed to the sky, you only feel affection for the man you would’ve given everything up for a year ago. The knowledge squeezes painfully in your chest. 

You reach for him in the cooldown room, wince at how unfamiliar his hands are to you now, look him in the eyes, “It’s been over for a long time, hasn’t it, cheri?” Tears rise unbidden within you when he nods, eyes wet. You clasp his hands tighter, relish the feeling of his fingers against yours one more time, “I want you to remember the best parts of us,” you sniffle lightly, attempt a smile, “not the end. I want you to remember that I am always proud of you.”

The room is quiet. He leans against your shoulder, for a moment you are both twenty-one again, guileless. The enormity of what you are losing has settled in your bones. 

The soup is unassuming on the table. You choose the free fall from the window. 

-

The new doctor is cute, in a puppyish sort of way. Charles watches the way you interact with all your new coworkers, smiling and shaking hands, the way you laugh at a joke Max just made. 

You come up in front of him, and falter, tilting your head like a startled animal. “Have we met?” The deja vu hits him so hard his head spins, shaking his head at your question anyway. 

He kisses your outstretched hand, soft under his lips, revels briefly in your furious blushing. His mother likes to tell him; doctors only date other doctors. He intends to test the theory.

“My name is Charles,” he says, “Charles Leclerc.”

[minniethemoocherda]

Just A Friend To You

A/N: Thank you so much to @pkmndaisuki for agreeing to be my beta reader for this fic! I never would have spotted any of my spelling mistakes otherwise lol! Please go check out their amazing X-men art! I hope you guys enjoy the fic! I know I don't post that frequently but I am trying my best to help keep this ship afloat! Xxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

From across the diner, Morph watched as Jubilee and Roberto inched ever closer to one another, neither of them quite yet taking to leap to touch.

Ah, the perils of young love, Morph thought. Although it wasn't as if the perils of love stopped once you became an adult. Something that they knew all too well as they turned their attention to the man sitting opposite them.

When Logan had learnt that the two teens were going on a date, he had demanded that he chaperone them. After many protests, Jubilee had agreed, on the condition that Morph also came along to make sure Logan didn't stab anyone, namely Roberto.

Which was how Morph came to find themselves that Saturday afternoon, watching a date, whilst on a not-date with the man they were in love with.

Most times when they and Logan were hanging out they would be roughhousing, or watching TV, or playing basketball. But here there was nothing to do but just enjoy each other's company. It was nice.

Morph wore their usual human form but with dark jeans and a pink crop top that they may or may not have borrowed from Gambit's wardrobe.

Wolverine was reluctantly wearing a buttoned shirt, because Jubilee had demanded that if he insisted on stalking them then he should at least look presentable. Morph was pretty sure that Logan had stolen his shirt too, probably from Scott, especially given that it was at least three sizes too small for him. He'd had to roll up the sleeves to hide how short they were and left the two buttons undone as it wasn't wide enough to fit across the expanse of his chest. Not that Morph was complaining about the view.

Nor were they complaining about the sweet potato fries that came with their burger.

"You should try one of these," Morph told him as they dipped one of those said sweet potato fries in ketchup.

The next second, Logan leant over the table and bit the one that Morph had been holding between their fingers. Which under different circumstances could have been romantic, but instead reminded Morph of when their old family dog would steal scraps of food from the table.

"I didn't mean that one you animal!" Morph cried, throwing a fry at his face.

But Logan bit that one too, catching it in his mouth, which then spread into a wide grin. With the ketchup dripping from his teeth onto his white shirt, he really did look like an animal.

In retaliation, Morph stole one of his onion rings which Logan protested with a "Hey!" But didn't otherwise complain.

Of course, that was when Roberto finally got the courage to make a move and draped his arm over Jubilee's shoulder.

Morph heard the familiar snikt of Logan drawing his claws from under the table.

"Calm down Wolvie." Morph said, reaching under the table to wrap their hand around his wrist. "I doubt he's gonna try to jump her in the middle of a diner. And even if he did, Jubilee can handle herself."

"She sure can." Logan said, his snarl turning into a proud smirk as he put his claws away.

Now, Logan might say that he didn't like kids, but Morph had seen how he interacted with them.

He always gave into Jubilee's demands to go shopping, or play video games with her, no matter how much he said he wouldn't. And when the teenager needed a non-judgmental shoulder to cry on, he was always there.

Morph knew Logan didn't want kids of his own, and in their line of work they couldn't really blame him. But still, they couldn't help but think it was a shame. He really would make a good father.

It was just one of the many reasons why they loved him.

Suddenly the waitress appeared next to their table and Morph realised that they were still holding Logan's wrist. They quickly retreated it back.

Thankfully, the waitress appeared not to notice, too busy trying to balance an overstuffed bowl of ice cream, sauce and sprinkles in her hand that she placed on their table.

"We didn't order that, lady," Logan told her.

"I know. The girl over there did," the waitress replied, pointing over to Jubilee where a similar looking desert was placed upon her table. When Jubilee caught them looking her way, she waved a cheeky grin and Robert just looked confused.

By the time Morph looked back, the waitress was gone and Logan was digging a scoop out of the ice cream.

"What?" Logan shrugged, shoving the spoonful into his mouth. "I ain't gonna waste free food."

Melted ice cream dripped down Wolverine's chin adding to the collection of stains on that poor shirt, and Morph took a scoop themselves to try to distract themselves from that train of thought.

They had to admit that the dessert was pretty good, not too creamy yet not too solid with a perfect balance of ice cream and toppings.

Logan must have thought so too because as he licked his spoon he let out a low rumbling moan. Morph knew that in this form, they had to have been blushing at pink as their t-shirt. Not even Logan dipping one of the left over fries in to it could lessen their blush, so they did their best to hide it by ducking behind the large bowl as they ate the remainder of the monster of a dessert.

But try as they might, Morph couldn't distract themselves from the thoughts in their head. Logan had to know how this looked right? The pair of them, sharing a dessert. Morph swore they had already seen some of the other diner patrons giving them funny looks. Maybe Logan didn't care? Or maybe he wasn't as hyper-aware about appearances as Morph was?

At least their internal breakdown didn't last for too long, thanks to Logan's never ending appetite.

Morph glanced over at Jubilee's table to see that they had finished too.

Now all that was left was to pay the bill.

"I'll get it." Logan said, grabbing some bills from his trouser pockets. "I'm the one who dragged you into comin' with me."

"Wow, a burger, some frees and a free dessert. You really know how to treat a girl." Morph teased, as if the idea of Logan ever treating them to a real date would be a complete joke.

"Fine." Logan snorted, handing the money over to the waitress. "Next time I'll persuade that Roberto kid to take Jubilee some place fancier."

Next time? Morph felt their stomach somersault.

"Well, if you insist on taking me somewhere fancier then we will have to get you a new shirt," they said, pointing to where a third button had now snapped free. They tried to hide the fact that they felt left like they were about to puke up their own gloop.

"Why? You not likin' the view?" Logan said through a smug smirk.

"I like not getting kicked of restaurants more."

"So you do like it," Logan stated, that smirk turning predatory.

Wait, was Logan actually flirting with them? No, of course not. That could not be happening. This was just their usual banter. Right? Morph must have gotten so caught up in how the pair looked that their brain must have tricked itself into believing that Logan was flirting with them. Yes, that's what must have happened.

Of course that was when Jubilee decided to interrupt.

"I thought I told you to wear something decent!" She cried, grabbing Logan's leather jacket from where it was draped over the back of his chair and throwing it over the exposed expanse of his chest.

"I wore a shirt didn't I?" Logan protested, shrugging the jacket on properly. "Besides, Morph said they liked it."

Jubilee turned her accusatory glare towards them.

"Okay first of all, I never said that. Also I was the one who told Logan that shredding his only shirt wouldn't get him out if wearing one in the future so this-" Morph waved their hands in Logan's general direction. "Is not my fault."

Jubilee stared up at the ceiling but she was unable to stay annoyed for too long as Roberto placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and when her gaze once again found his and a smile once again graced her face.

"Whatever. Me and Roberto were going to go to arcade if you two insist on stalking us."

Morph glanced towards Logan and was surprised too see him shaking his head.

"Nah, you kids go ahead. We got our own plans."

Jubilee looked between them, a suspicious smile on her face that had Morph's stomach churning. But for once she chose to keep her mouth shut simply waving them both goodbye.

"You kids have fun!" Morph called after them.

"But not too much fun." Logan grinned making Roberto's brown skin pale as the teens headed for the door.

Despite their teasing, Morph truly was happy for Jubilee. Robert was a good kid. They were good for each other. Roberto helped to keep her grounded whilst she showed him the light around them.

Morph watched as Roberto reached out his hand and Jubilee didn't hesitate to take it in her own. Morph knew that it wasn't easy for the pair of them easier. As an Afro-Brazilian and Asian-American couple, they too drew their own fair share of less than happy looks. But the two teens ignored the stares, only having eyes for each other.

"Not that I'm complaining about getting out of babysitting duty," Morph said getting up from the table. "But I wasn't aware that we had any plans."

"We're going bowlin'." Logan stated, getting up himself, when he suddenly refused to meet their eyes. "If you want. 'Cus we still haven't been since- I mean we ain't been in a while."

Morph chose to believe that Logan's uncharacteristic fluster was because he had reminded them of how they still hadn't gotten the chance to go bowling together since they'd been freed of Sinister's control, and not the fact that he'd accidently made it sound like he was asking them out on a date.

"I'd love too." Morph quickly covered up the sincerity with a joke. "As long as you promise not to act all stabby when I beat you."

Logan snorted.

"As long as you promise not to act all bratty when I win."

"No promises."

As the two of them left, Morph couldn't help but glance down at Logan's hand as it swayed between them. They hoped that one day, they would have the courage to take his hand too.

[teriwrites]

Behind Closed Doors: 'A Secret Engagement'

My Live Reactions to Reading Through My 2014 Novel

Buckle up, this chapter is FOURTEEN THOUSAND WORDS LONG!

It's springtime in the city, and Cedric spends most of his unemployed life acting like he's still employed (meeting with all of his old coworkers and companions)

Remember how Delroy walked in on Santos and Eleri secretly convening in a room at one point? Right, so they're ENGAGED. Secretly, even! Time to roll credits for this chapter

Governors are already trying to reinstate Boyd's role and it's literally been like a handful of months since he got fired in the first place

Delroy 'barely sees non-humans due to the general oppression of any species tied to magic' vs. Fayina 'hanging out with a werewolf and fighting off vampires left and right'

This chapter is proof that I've always loved a little infodumping about worldbuilding lol, we've covered the mailing system, and we're onto religion - just wait until we reach Lady Ghislaine's actual story. The woman loves to yap, what can I say?

Eleri needs more friends - asking Delroy to review your sketches of the dress you want to sew for your wedding is a little sad, girly

Omg Cedric fired Eleri

"I have warned the staff time and time again that I do not have the income to afford to keep all of you." okay bro but like you're hosting a hugely important dinner tonight, maybe now's not the time to fire your one maid... also, where tf is all your money going?? you're like one of the richest men in the country??

I mean at least you're no longer in his debt, girly

Broooo Delroy stop showing sympathy for the rich asshole you work for, he clearly doesn't give a shit about his employees

"I'm sure he's afraid that you'll forget about him as well. The two of you will be fine." How could he promise that, though? He knew very little about the hearts of young men and women. Never once had he considered marriage, nor did he think he ever would. (a return of my best attempt at calling this boy out as ace)

Why is it implied that people wouldn't be supportive of Eleri and Santos' relationship?? Is this a racism thing?? For some reason, I had it in my head that Eleri was actually a faun, but nothing in the story itself has alluded to that, so either I simply forgot to mention the whole 'lower-half of a goat' situation or else I decided to toss in racism???? for some reason???? specifically for this one interracial couple?????

Somehow Delroy and Santos alone managed to draw up a feast for the dinner party Cedric is hosting, and immediately commit faux pas by bowing to Cedric (lowest ranking member of said party) instead of the Prime Minister

The Prime Minister somehow manages to be an even bigger dickhead than Cedric Boyd!! Not that he's a worse man, but he's definitely worse at hiding it

Lady Ghislaine is heeeeere, star of the show even when she's a secondary character

Wait this might be The Scene

The Prime Minister's wife has a cold, surely a sign that women must be the weaker of the sexes!!!!! Something he says with his full chest in front of the foreign, female diplomat

Of course, something must always go wrong at a dinner party: Santos and Delroy didn't prepare enough drinks! Santos still has work to do on preparing the cider, and they might not have enough wine!!

Don't ask me what meal goes with both cider and wine, but they were like the two alcoholic drinks I actually knew anything about at the ripe old age of 16

'Useless noble class, Delroy thought bitterly to himself. What do they do but sit upon thrones of wealth and watch the rest of us suffer?' *cough cough*

'The Prime Minister had appeared to make an inappropriate comment about women once more, for Delroy could see Lady Ghislaine holding in a retort. Neil Oscar leaned his elbow on the table to look down its length and smirked. "What's the matter, my Lady? Are you tired of always being at the foot of the table?" (I literally just went 'oh shiiiit' out loud)

HERE IT IS

"You surely cannot believe that women are equal?" "I think," Lady Ghislaine interrupted dryly. "That you forgot to whom you are speaking. As an elven women proficient in half a dozen languages, ambassador currently to Ardeai and previously to both Kasira and Garth at separate times, holder of the Iron Heart for services in battle, educated in one of Kasira's greatest universities and knowledgeable in numerous subjects no longer taught there such as astronomy and biology, once a member of my King's personal court, and having earned the title of 'Lady' in numerous countries before my 25th birthday - and not because my father was a noble, for he was a measly trader - I believe that I have a reason for thinking women are as capable as a man. Unless you would like to hear my longer list of achievements?" The Prime Minister gave her no response, and a tense silence fell over the crowd of people sitting around the table.' (YEEEEEEEEEEAH)

Okay that^ section is a little bit dramatic, I'll admit, but when I decided to toss Lady Ghislaine into a worldbuilding project, I wanted to find a way to include some of that speech into her new backstory. So a lot of the achievements that she lists here are actually events or somehow included in my 2022 WIP, 'The Lies in the Legend'. We'll see a lot more of that later :)

At least the fatphobia in this one is acknowledged as a social construct brought into being by the whims of those in power............. so, yk, baby steps

Delroy's such a shit cook, and honestly, what a mood

Teri, you don't need to recount events that occurred literally earlier in this draft, the reader will remember it lol

Or they won't, but then it'll just seem like a weird addition

Implied that rumors abound about Lady Ghislaine's relationship with Cedric, which I hate so much that I'll be ignoring that from now until eternity lol

Maybe my grammar still wasn't perfect, but one thing about me is that I'm gonna be using the proper verbiage when something 'piques' someone's attention

Delroy, why would you even know this diplomat's kingdom's national flower?

(The answer is that it was one I invented in an old worldbuilding project, and i had to show it off)

Boy from the plains and the plateaus still struggles with stairs, bless his heart

Delroy's writing a memoir. What a tool.

Lady Ghislaine's memoir, though! That's something worth reading ;)

And that's lights out!

Ending Thoughts:

I think I can promise that I'll stop being a little Lady Ghislaine fangirl after this. We have two chapters left (well, one and then whatever I wrote of the following), and if she makes any appearances, they'll likely be few and far between. Anyways! Back to the Actual story! Despite this chapter being Long As Fuck, it also falls pretty neatly into what I've been calling the 'mediocre midsection' of this series. Basically, a lot of unnecessary and relatively uninteresting details for every action being made throughout a scene. It's a positive sign, a step in a good direction, as I learned how to string scenes together and was playing around with exactly what needs to be included, but it leaves less room for commentary, and generally makes the reading less exciting. Progress doesn't always guarantee something interesting, and that's okay!

[carf-writes]

Batman Timeline (Personal Canon)

Beginning of Batman

Bruce returns to Gotham at the age of 25 to much media fanfare. He decides he is ready to finally enact his plan. Meanwhile, Lieutenant James Gordon is transferred to the GCPD after becoming persona non-grata in his home town of Chicago. He moves with his wife, Barbara Gordon, and she later gives birth to their son, James Junior.

In his first outing, Bruce encounters Selina Kyle and nearly dies. When a bat flies through his window, he comes up with the idea of Batman as a symbol which will make him more powerful than a simple man. Selina is later inspired to become Catwoman and focuses her heists on Carmine Falcone. Batman and Jim Gordon oust the corrupt police commissioner and become allies. (Batman: Year One)

Bruce reconnects with his old friend, Harvey Dent, now an assistant district attorney. Bruce attends his wedding to his wife, Gilda, and endorses him for district attorney.

The Red Hood gang carries out a series of violent robberies. When Batman confronts them at the Ace Chemical Plant, Red Hood One, the ringleader, falls into a vat of chemicals and doesn’t resurface.

Batman battles Hugo Strange who is now experimenting with turning people into deformed giant mutants. (Batman & the Monster Men)

A vampire cult forms in Gotham and is foiled by Batman. (Batman and the Mad Monk)

The Joker makes his first appearance with Batman realizing he was Red Hood One who fell into the chemicals but not what his real name was. Joker is declared legally insane and sent to a high security hospital. (The Man Who Laughs)

Batman, Jim Gordon, and the newly elected Harvey Dent make a pact to take down Carmine Falcone’s criminal empire at any cost. (The Long Halloween)

Falcone reaches out to Bruce and claiming that their fathers were friends, asks Bruce to help him invest in Gotham Bank which Bruce is on the board of trustees for aka allow Falcone’s organization to launder money through the bank. Bruce refuses.

Selina, now reinvented as a socialite, revolves in the Falcones’ circles and begins dating Bruce.

On Halloween night, Carmine Falcone’s nephew is killed in his home, setting off a series of murders which occur on a holiday each month. (The Long Halloween)

Initially the targets are those close to Falcone but after his son, Alberto, is killed on New Years Eve they change direction and target those working for Sal Maroni. A war escalates between the two rivals over who is responsible. Both sides and the police begin to suspect Harvey Dent. Bruce refuses to believe it.

Falcone hires Poison Ivy to seduce Bruce Wayne so he can launder money through Gotham Bank, unintentionally taking Batman out of the equation. Selina figures it out and rescues him as Catwoman inadvertently revealing her identity to Bruce. He decides to do nothing about it for now.

Maroni agrees to testify against Falcone but he is really laying a trap for Harvey who he splashes in the face with acid in the courtroom as revenge for his father’s murder. Harvey is rushed to the hospital but escapes into the sewers. When Batman tries to go after him, he is attacked by Solomon Grundy instead. 

On Labor Day, Batman and Jim move Sal Maroni in order to draw out the killer. Maroni is killed by Alberto Falcone who is revealed to have faked his death. He claims to have been the Holiday Killer all along, motivated by a desire to prove to his father he is qualified to take over the family business.

On Halloween, Harvey Dent resurfaces and kills both Carmine Falcone and his corrupt assistant who enabled his attack. He announces himself as Two-Face and that there are two Holiday Killers before he is arrested and taken away.

Bruce wonders what he might have meant by this as he dispairs that he was just about to tell Harvey about his identity as Batman.

It is revealed to the audience that Gilda Dent was actually the original Holiday Killer but stopped after New Years when she believed Harvey had taken up the mission for her. Actually it was Alberto who saw an opportunity in the murders. Gilda destroys the evidence and leaves town.

Bruce falls into a depressive episode after failing to solve the mystery and losing the faith that he had in Harvey Dent as a beacon of hope for the city. His relationship with Selina suffers for it.

Part 2 of ?

Part 1 Here

Next Part Here

[samueldays]

The widespread human barrenness of otherwise-prosperous countries is one of the weirdest things about this age to me.

Via Gapminder - the color coding is Europe yellow, Asia+Oceania pink, Africa blue, Americas green. Caveats about data sources, blah blah, I note that the correlation holds even if you take out the African data points.

Between 32k and 64k there's two pink dots which superficially look like cause for optimism, and I want to note what outlier countries they both are:

The sheer amount of non-policy circumstances surrounding both these countries makes it unlikely that one can draw policy lessons from either one.

Part of what makes this whole phenomenon so weird to me is the degree to which it resists explanation by common approaches.

Hypothetical Leftist: "GDP per capita is a shit measure, the rich are hoarding all the money and everyone else is too poor to afford raising children, we should redistribute more and have more parental leave!"

But this is wrong, because the poorest half of Americans are having more babies than the richest half, while Norway has four times the parental leave of America but a lower TFR.

Hypothetical Rightist: "The West is undergoing moral decay, women are slutting it up on OnlyFans and men are watching porn instead of getting married, muh based [insert reactionary country here]!"

But that is also wrong, because based reactionary country such as Russia has a TFR of only 1.51, and that wealthy pink dot with the lowest fertility in the whole chart is not exactly West, it's South Korea at TFR 0.87 -- and falling. With caveats about different ways of estimating TFR, other reports have SK dropping another 0.06 from 2022 to 2023 AD.

It isn't physiological, the rich countries have great medical treatments for that. It isn't personal, there have always been lots of individuals who didn't reproduce. It isn't economic, child subsidies and tax breaks and various monetary incentives have been tried with minimal effect.

This feels to me like a poorly-explained and under-appreciated mystery. It's apparently something social and/or structural. Nobody seems to have a good idea of how to stop it or why it happens.

The fact that it happens is undisputed, The Demographic Transition is well known, but that's just a label and the attempts at explaining its causes seem oddly lacking. I can look up a specialist paper studying the Causes and Consequences of the demographic transition and it's one line of causes ("decreasing mortality") and four pages of consequences, I look up a common public explanation and Wikipedia suggests everything but the kitchen sink:

 birth rates fall due to various fertility factors such as access to contraception, increases in wages, urbanization, a reduction in subsistence agriculture, an increase in the status and education of women, a reduction in the value of children's work, an increase in parental investment in the education of children and other social changes.

This does not sound like an explanation of causes to me, it sounds like speculatively listing stuff that happened at the time.

And as with the hypothetical partisans above, there's a mostly-counterexample: Japan.

I'd ignore the pre-1860 data because it looks to be two estimates and a connective line. Still, Japan had "various fertility factors such as access to contraception, increases in wages, urbanization", etc. in 1900, and fertility stayed high, until after losing WW2 when TFR collapsed in short order.

Short, not immediate, because 1947 has higher TFR than 1946. One might suspect that the new American-written Constitution of Japan coming into effect in 1947 had something to do with it.

Perhaps I should spell out the assumption that the fertility crisis is a problem.

It is a threat of cultures and nations ceasing to exist if they can't reproduce, it is a threat of economies collapsing for lack of specialist labor and specialist products, it is a threat of pensions being unfunded and old people starving and freezing to death because their retirement plan was based on certain assumptions about the population pyramid. "I can move to another country" isn't reliable in the long term if the other country either has the same problem and will cease to exist as such or if the other country isn't accepting of you and your mindset, "We'll import immigrants" is both politically contentious and of dubious effectiveness because if the migrants do assimilate then they'll also have low fertility and if they don't assimilate then you lose your culture anyway, the place you live is now a colony.

For South Korea in particular, the bleeding edge of the fertility crisis, at this rate the Korean peninsula will be reunited by means of "North Korea walks over unmanned border" - if South Korea manages to level off TFR at 0.87 and not fall any further (already falling, see above), its population will drop by 80% by the end of the century.

If you're reading this on Tumblr, imagine 80% of the media you like not existing, because the people who would have made it were never born. You get two of your top 10 shows (not the best two), and then delete 80% of the good fanfiction about those as well. The rest is slush pile and reruns.

With tongue firmly in cheek: Maybe our future is bimbos - people who really love sex (specifically PIV sex) and are too dumb to use contraception and have too little self-control to keep their legs closed, because that's what evolution will select for.

The problem will, in a sense, eventually resolve itself. The future belongs to those who show up, bimbos or someone else, whoever manages to keep a high birthrate and a high food supply. But it's hard to say who that will be, or what complications there will be on the way towards a blind evolutionary resolution.

Technophiles like to imagine exowombs or cloning will soon be good enough for mass production and replace "birthrate" with humans-production-rate, but I don't see that happening any time soon because progress is slow (Dolly was 30 years ago and still hasn't gotten widespread adoption even for sheep), and I don't see that happening any time later either because the technophiles are most subject to South Koreafication and there will be none of them left to run the cloning tanks.

Across from them we have various Africanists who like to point to countries like Nigeria with its TFR of 5, but that's going to run into food supply problems because Nigeria already imports a hundred million dollars' worth of food from the US every year, and another hundred million dollars' worth of food from Germany, and over a billion dollars in all. In addition to growing the food there's the difficulty of running international logistics from Germany (TFR 1.58) which in the long run might not have the people to operate all that. High-tech mechanized agriculture concentrates the stress on the smartest and best-educated section of the population to make and fix the machines, and that's the section with the lowest fertility!

Things are weird and they're going to get weirder.

[charlesandmartine]

Friday 11th October 2024

Today we caught the 173 bus for a big day out in the city. We tried to get there as early as possible because we wanted to catch a free tour in the Art Gallery of NSW. There are now two such galleries side by side. There is a new one opened just a couple of years ago specialising in modern art, but today we were not looking for a laugh, we wanted the more serious stuff that is available in the old original building. The tour we opted for was art from the 20th century. A nice lady showed us a selection of paintings and sculptures which tried to draw comparisons between the direction artists of the period 1900 to 1920s were taking in impressionism and even cubism, artists such as Grace Cossington Smith, Ben Nicholson, Eliot Gruner and Roy de Maistre. OK, I hadn't heard of them either but it was all jolly interesting. And she was able to show how this was an important turning point in the recognition of indigenous paintings to be viewed as works of art instead of objects to be placed in a museum.

On leaving the gallery, we made our way across Pioneer Garden and passing the statue commemorating Captain Arthur Phillip RN. Yesterday we walked along the front at Manly and were reminded of the visit Captain Arthur Phillip RN, first Governor of NSW made in 1790 to Manly. He landed close to where the wharf is and said to his men, come and meet the natives, they are really quite friendly. Just as he said these immortal words the aborigine in the front row chucked a spear at Captain Phillip's shoulder! Well obviously he laughed about it later, but was non too pleased at the time. Still they placed a little bronze plaque to mark the spot and here was a very much larger edifice, more befitting the man and his achievements and clearly without the spear anywhere to be seen.

Next port of call was to be the Opera House where we booked tickets for the Drama Theatre to see Julia, a play about Julia Gillard, the 27th Prime Minister who served from 2010 till 2013. Of British birth, from memory they hounded her out of office. This will be an interesting play and is on Monday.

If you get your timings right the food hall, near Wynyard where the bus goes from, has last minute deals on meals left over just before they close. We managed to secure two of the same, a chicken and a beef, before we jumped on a 171X bus home. Now this is the first time we have ever needed to catch a bus to the 'Heights' and we were just a little concerned in case we should miss our stop. Knowing that we needed to alight close to the Lawn Bowling Cub, Martine enquired of the driver if we were getting close. Now this is not the first time Martine has made a similar request, and on each occasion the respondee has jumped to the erroneous conclusion that we must be a couple of frustrated would be bowlers and are assuming our intention is to partake in a game or two. This I know is going to land us in trouble at some stage.

Now safely back without getting involved in a tournament the SB is on the table and we are reflecting on a very enjoyable day.

[papas-milferia]

So like, no need to post this if you don't wanna lol, it's been a bit since you talked about it but I only saw now

But Bea is so funny to me cuz. Yeah she's the Roy Mpreg comic person which like, honestly just that by itself wouldn't even be that bad, like maybe I wouldn't have her blocked if that's what she was

Hell I ended up doing stuff of similar caliber (except I didn't post it in a place where people can find it against their will <<33)

But. The fact that she ignores the teen status of so many characters is so infuriating and creepy

And as I heard about the way she harassed people and just like, making people uncomfortable in general and like

Idk, maybe if she wanted to have a better status in the fandom, she should stop liking softcore porn of papa louie minors on twitter and like, if she has that little social awareness or social capabilities, then like. Idk, check in w people if they're feeling comfortable w what she's saying, instead of like... Whatever she was doing, like- it's SO easy checking in w people and not liking softcore minor stuff on twitter, I am doing it so well!! So does many damn people in this forsaken fandom are able to do it

At least it doesn't feel like a loss to me in a way cuz I always thought her art looked kinda gross and also just like. The moment I saw her confession thingy of Roy where she basically headcanons him to be sexually harassed by old men, or just men in general, Idk, my memory isn't the best

Tho I do wanna add I don't like her art style because of the absolute non diversity of it, like she draws like 3 different shapes, bimbo boobs, femboy and slightly less femboy w abs and that's kinda boring as hell honestly, and the body types she draws like, they don't even look that good to me, each time I remember how she draws Peggy it makes me so sad and just like, damn, she deserves better

Sorry for the essay, just wanted to express my thoughts to someone cool who like, handles this stuff similarly to me

i'm glad you think i'm cool in handling this lol. tbh i just take shots at bea unprompted bc she makes it so easy (she's a fujoshi, the jokes write themselves), and she harassed me, my friends and my ex in the past so i feel i kinda deserve it.

anyway yeah she's just. weird. i actually had a long discussion about this with someone in dms recently, but everything she says leads into another question or topic SHE wants to talk about and she doesnt seem to really have the social awareness to understand when ppl are uncomfortable or want to talk about something else. her art is bad, which isnt a crime. it's just funny. the colours make my eyes bleed and everyone has an hourglass figure and massive bulges. she made a drawing tutorial on how to draw roy Her Way, which again is fine, it's just hilarious to me because she just keeps saying ''draw roy as a skinny twink with thick thighs and make him an uwu dork!!!''. i wont post the tutorial bc that feels mean and she can draw any character any way she wants.

i rag on her a lot for being the roy mpreg person but here's the kicker right. i LIKE mpreg. i will admit it, i have looked at mpreg art myself because i enjoy that typa stuff from time to time. but it's bad mpreg. idk who her audience is, but it isn't freaks like me i'll tell ya that.

[xxpxychoxocialxx]

6/21

today was a really really good day

i woke up really late but that’s because i forgot my meds last night. but i got ready and i forgot something so i even turned around and got it as soon as i remembered. then i went thrifting & found some good shit & ended up just walking 5-6 blocks to first another store, then an antique store, then stopped and got some lunch & had some drawing time. finished my lunch!!!!! with 2 glasses of water instead of soda (dehydrated). walked back to my car and i used my Brumate SO MY DRINK WAS STILL COLD in the 100°+ sun!!! ran some errands and my phone almost died so i put it on airplane mode for a while. went to the POOL!!!! tanned for a while and worked more on my art. went home and took and SHOWER AND SHAVED MY LEGS AND ARMS and got all hot & sexy & gorgeous & went roller skating with my boyfriend and his mom. i got very overwhelmed and it offset my balance WAYYYY too much that i was very overstimulated. got a snack!! then we went window shopping & came home & painted for a while.

steps: 6024/6000 ✅

screen time: 3 hours 22 minutes

affirmations:

🌸i am so beautiful

i am so beautiful; the blooming red roses and full sunflowers whisper my name in the wind, asking for our beautiful presence to be intertwined.

🌸i am so sexy

i am so sexy; men, women, and non binary people all alike stare in admiration at my sexy body. my thick, full legs, my curvy hips, fat ass, strong arms, and knowledge brain. i don’t wear a bra, because i was blessed with small boobs, so men stop dead in their tracks, staring at my perky nipples, as i relish in comfort.

🌸i am so creative

i am so creative; i am well known for my art around my community. i’m always practicing sketches of objects in front of me, looking up new creativity exercises, and present beautiful art to anybody who asks. and believe you me, everybody around my community is so what to ask about my newest work in progress, and stare in amazement, before running off to tell their friends that my art is the most beautiful they have ever seen.

🌸i am so kind

i am so kind; i am very generous, always lending a helping hand, making accommodations, and understanding different perspectives. the universe knows me as one of the kindest people in existence.

🌸i am so active

i am so active; they call me a ‘busy body’, admiring the ways i’m always walking around on foot, finding new mobility exercises to strengthen my muscles. i am very invested in mobility exercises and preparing my body the best i can for old age. that means eating healthy (proteins, fats, carbs, sugars, fiber), hydration, AND mobility.

[sachafaible]

Brooklyn Heights

Super short Stucky fanfic made from today's Faible prompt- you can keep reading it here on Faible!

Bucky Barnes stood at the window of his Brooklyn Heights apartment, his metal arm gleaming in the soft morning light. The bustling street below was a far cry from the battlefields he once knew, yet the transition to civilian life remained a daily struggle. He sighed, running his flesh hand through his long, dark hair.

"You're up early," Steve's voice came from behind him, still thick with sleep. Bucky turned to face his old friend, now aged but still carrying himself with the same quiet strength.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted. "Keep thinking about... everything." Steve nodded, understanding etched in the lines of his face.

"Want to talk about it?"

Bucky shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Nah, I'll save that for the therapist. Thought I might go for a run instead."

"Mind if I join you?" Steve asked, already moving towards his running shoes.

As they jogged through the tree-lined streets, Bucky found himself hyper-aware of every glance, every whisper. He couldn't shake the feeling that everyone knew who he was, what he'd done.

"You know," Steve panted beside him, "Mrs. Goldstein from 4B asked if we'd help with the community garden this weekend."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "And you said...?"

"I said we'd think about it," Steve replied with a grin. "Might be good for us, Buck. Get our hands dirty in a different way."

As they rounded the corner, a commotion caught their attention. A group of teenagers were arguing loudly, tensions visibly rising. Bucky tensed, old instincts kicking in.

"Easy," Steve murmured, placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "We're not here to fight anymore, remember?" Bucky nodded, forcing himself to relax.

But Bucky's muscles tensed, his body instinctively preparing for action. The teenagers' voices grew louder, their gestures more aggressive. He took a step forward, but Steve's hand on his arm held him back.

"Wait, Buck," Steve said softly, his eyes understanding but firm. "Let's approach this differently."

Bucky hesitated, conflict evident in his furrowed brow. He looked at Steve, then back at the teenagers. Slowly, he nodded, feeling the adrenaline ebb away. Together, they walked towards the group. As they approached, Steve cleared his throat, drawing the teens' attention.

"Everything alright here, folks?" he asked, his voice calm and non-threatening. The teenagers fell silent, eyeing the two men warily. Bucky, following Steve's lead, forced a small smile. "Seems like you're having a disagreement. Maybe we can help?"

One of the teens, a lanky boy with a Yankees cap, spoke up.

"It's nothing, just... Jake here thinks he can ditch us for his new friends."

Jake, a shorter boy with glasses, retorted, "I told you, I'm not ditching anyone! I just want to join the robotics club!"

Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like a misunderstanding. You know, back in our day, we learned that true friendship means supporting each other's interests."

Bucky, surprised by his own words, added, "Yeah, and sometimes those interests change. Doesn't mean you're not still friends."

The teenagers looked at each other, the tension visibly dissipating.

Jake spoke up, "I... I didn't mean to make you guys feel left out. Maybe you could come see what the club's about?"

As the group began to talk more calmly, Bucky felt a wave of relief wash over him. He glanced at Steve, who was smiling proudly. In that moment, Bucky felt a surge of affection for his friend. Steve's steady presence, his ability to defuse situations without violence – it was everything Bucky aspired to be. As they walked away, leaving the teenagers to their now-friendly discussion, Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve's.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "For stopping me from... you know." Steve's smile widened.

"That's what I'm here for, Buck. We're in this together, remember?"

Bucky nodded, a warmth spreading through his chest. As they continued their run, he felt lighter, more at peace. Maybe, just maybe, they could find their place in this world after all.

Faible prompt of the day!

I am guilty of being a stucky shipper

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Someplace Called Bamberg

Author’s Note: Wrote this based on the @wincestwednesdays July Wincest Fest. The prompt for the first week was: americana / american gothic / parallels

This ended up completely gen, but I'm happy with it.

Words: 2909

Just a little fic about Sam and Dean at a seedy, rundown carnival in 1999.

Read it on AO3

--Saturday, July 3rd, 1999--

It had been raining for most of the past week as they’d worked their way through Georgia and up into South Carolina. When they’d checked into the Relax Inn in someplace called Bamberg just after 3pm, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle that lasted another two hours before the clouds had finally been wrung dry, which meant the sun had come back out.

Somehow, in that way that only seemed to happen in the deep south, rather than offer any lasting relief to the sweltering summer temps, the rain only made it feel hotter. As soon as it stopped coming down, it would steam right back up off the pavement and make the air feel like a wet, wool blanket, hot and suffocating. Even now, with the sun finally setting, and the ground already looking dry and parched, there was no sign of relief. Not that it seemed to be stopping anyone but Sam from enjoying themselves. He felt like he’d been sweating non-stop for days and he was tired of the neverending dampness.

An hour ago, Dean had driven them to a carnival that had sprung up on the outskirts of town in the parking lot of a long vacant car dealership. The garish lights, whirring rides, and blaring music trying vainly to hide how rundown everything was. But everywhere Sam looked, all he saw was chipped and peeling paint, burned out or missing light bulbs, dirty splotches of old chewing gum, and carnies that looked like they hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years.

Dean, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life ogling the various groups of scantily clad girls that seemed to be everywhere. And, as far as Sam could tell, the girls were having just as much fun ogling him back. 

Still painfully pretty, a descriptor that Sam typically reserved for when he really wanted to piss his brother off, Dean had filled out over the last couple of years, and the combination of broad shoulders, muscular arms, big, green eyes and his annoyingly perfect face, seemed to draw a lot of favorable attention his way. Although Sam still occasionally wondered how and why their dad ever thought it was a good idea to let Dean loose on the world, he figured it must’ve only been because dad had never noticed how many of the appreciative glances Dean drew in came from men. Of course, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that Dean’d noticed either.

“Dude.” Sam said with a level of disdain only a sibling could pack into a single word. The line they were waiting in moved and they both stepped forward.

“What?” 

“One word… Jailbait.”

Dean scoffed and kept smiling at a particularly well-endowed blonde who definitely didn’t seem to mind his attention. “Isn’t that two words?”

“No, it’s one word. You’re 20, Dean, and she’s probably younger than me. You are officially a creeper.”

“Aw, come on, Sammy, I’m just looking. Besides, no way she’s under 16.”

“Still, ew. Besides, we’re supposed to be looking for a monster, not stalking schoolgirls.”

“Oh my god! Maybe you should lighten up and try smiling at some pretty girls instead of scowling at me? And maybe, if you’re lucky and get some action, it would improve your goddamn mood.”

Sam glared at his brother but managed to keep his voice low. “Getting some action,” he made air quotes with one hand, “is not going to improve my mood, if it means we weren’t paying attention and someone gets killed because of it. Aren’t you the one who’s always lecturing me about how important hunting is? Get that big head of yours in the game and stop thinking with your little one.”

“First of all…” Dean leered at him, “nothing little about it. And second, whatever is killing these people, if it’s even in this town, is not at this carnival.” 

“Oh yeah? And you know that how?”

“Because dad sent me here… with you.” Dean moved forward as the line advanced again. 

Sam fumed for a second before stepping up next to him.

“We’re next, what do you want?” 

“I don’t care.”

Dean glanced at Sam and shook his head before shifting his focus past him for a second. He looked between whatever had caught his attention and his brother as if connecting dots, then leaned in close to Sam and nudged his arm. When Sam looked up, Dean nodded for him to turn and look. “All I’m saying…” a pretty brunette with long braids and bright blue eyes smiled at Sam before looking away shyly, “...is that life is short, and often brutal, so when it gives you hot chicks… carpe noctum.”

Dean stepped up to the window in the food truck and smiled at the woman inside. “Hi! Two funnel cakes and two lemonades please.”

--

A few minutes later, Sam was sitting, perched on a stretch of temporary metal railing, picking halfheartedly at his funnel cake, while Dean leaned next to him, powdered sugar dusted around his mouth as he obscenely licked his fingers clean.

“Dude.” Sam said, laced with disgust this time. “How do you even get any girls at all? You’re so gross.”

Dean shrugged and wiped his hand off on his jeans. “It’s like Cindy Crawford’s mole.” He tapped a finger against the side of his mouth. “Without some sort of flaw, I’d be too perfect. This way I’m less intimidating, approachable, you know?”

“Having the table manners of a rabid toddler is not the same as a beauty mark, Dean.” 

Seriously, he thought, how were they even related? Dean was practically lounging against the railing, his elbows out to either side, one hand holding his drink while the other quietly tapped the opening riff from Kashmir, which had been the song playing in the car when they’d gotten to the carnival. He had one leg bent, heel of his boot hooked over the bottom rail, white tee shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, the cord of the amulet Sam’d given him just visible around the back of his neck before disappearing under his shirt. He looked a bit like a 50’s greaser, minus the leather jacket.

A couple of older girls, who may have actually been 18 this time, giggled at Dean as they walked by. 

“Ladies.” he said as he flashed them a smile. The giggling bubbled up into actual laughter as they hurried past and Dean’s smile faltered the tiniest bit.

“You’ve still got powdered sugar all over your mouth.” Sam said before taking a sip of his lemonade.

Dean pulled the front of his tee shirt up and wiped his mouth with it before turning towards Sam who nodded that he’d gotten it clean enough. Dean eyed the remains of Sam’s funnel cake. Sam held it out towards him. 

“Go for it.”

Dean smiled as he took the paper plate and quickly devoured the rest of the sugary, greasy treat.

--

At full dark, a fireworks show started up while the national anthem played all scratchy and discordant over the carnival speakers. Scattered exclamations of oohs and ahhs followed every colorful burst. 

“Remember that field we set on fire a few years ago with that box of fireworks?” Dean quietly laughed. Sam didn’t say anything, but he remembered and he smiled. 

There were times, when his brother wasn’t gross or annoying, that felt like anchors in his life. Not in the sense that they weighed him down, not usually, but more like they grounded and connected him to something stable, something permanent in a life of non-stop motion. Precious little in Sam’s life was stable. He could count on one hand the things he could really rely on. The first was always Dean.

“Come on, Pipsqueak, I wanna ride some rides before we call it for the night.” And he sauntered off without a backwards glance.

Sam fell into step next to him, easy as breathing. “I’m almost as tall as you.” 

“Yeah, well, almost only counts in horseshoes and handgrenades.” Dean threw an arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulled him into a sudden headlock as they walked.

“Dude! Ugh! Get off of me!”

“What, you’re getting so tall, Sammy… make me.”

“Dean,” his voice cracking embarrassingly and sounding a lot less threatening and way more little brother than he’d wanted. But Dean just barked out a laugh and planted a loud kiss to the top of Sam’s head before releasing him.

--

As they waited in the line for the Scrambler, the ride at least stirring the air up into a breeze as it zipped around and around, Dean sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, there’s nothing more dangerous here than a bunch of rigged games.”

“How can you be so sure though? Dad couldn’t be at both carnivals and he said he didn’t know which one was more likely to be targeted, right? And he trusts you,” the implication hung in the air, “so how do you know that no one here is in danger?”

Dean frowned for the first time that night, “I don’t know, just my gut, I guess. My spidey-senses ain’t tingling. Everything here just feels so…” he opened and closed his hand a couple of times, as if trying to grab the feeling out of the air, before shrugging it off with a disappointed sigh, “...banal.”

Sam looked around, studying faces, clocking body language and hand movements, took a deep breath in and opened up his senses, not even sure what he was searching for, just trying to take in as much information about his surroundings as he could. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Turning back towards Dean, Sam caught a second of his brother looking at him, pensieve, chewing on the side of his lip, before the ride attendant unhooked the chain and started ushering the waiting line onto the ride. Dean’s eyes lit up with a smile as he slammed his shoulder into Sam, pushing past him to get on the ride.

“Ow, jerk.”

--

It was getting late and the crowds were really starting to dwindle. Nothing worthy of noting in their dad’s journal had or was likely to happen, but if they went back earlier than John expected them, they’d be subjected to a grueling cross examination. It was easier to just do their due diligence and stick it out to the end, plus even Sam had to admit that they were having fun. 

“I gotta piss.” Dean veered to the right towards a row of porta-potties tucked in behind the game booths. Sam followed him away from the main thoroughfare but then drifted to the left where there was a cluster of cheap tables and plastic chairs, presumably for patrons to sit and eat at, or maybe the carnival workers took their breaks here, but there was only one other person there now and they seemed to be asleep. He sat down quietly, as far from them as he could while still being able to see them. Laying curled half over the table, their head on one arm, hair falling across their face, in the dim lighting, Sam couldn’t tell much of anything about the person, just that their hair was longish and in need of a good wash, and their clothes were almost theatrically tattered, like they’d been cast to play the role of a homeless person in a movie.

“It’s rude to stare.” they said in a surprisingly deep, smooth voice. 

Sam looked around, Dean still hadn’t returned, and no one else was nearby. When he glanced back, the man had rolled his head up so his chin was resting on the back on one hand, dark eyes twinkling from under the lank hair.

“I wasn’t…” Sam started until the stranger raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorry.” he said instead and then added, “I’m just waiting for my brother. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The man took a long slow breath and sat up, stretching his long arms and rolling his shoulders. He nodded once. “It’s been a long day, but I think I’ve got one more reading in me. You interested?” 

There was a worn deck of cards on the table in front of him.

Sam shook his head. “My brother’ll be out in a second and all I’ve got is…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins that he quickly added up then said with a small laugh, “Um, seventeen cents. So, I’ll pass, but thanks.”

“Well, well, well. Luck is on your side, young man, because that’s precisely how much the last reading of the day costs.” He scooped up the cards and began shuffling them. “Come on, everyone wants to know their future. It’ll just take a minute.”

Every warning that his dad had ever given him whispered across his mind. They were hunting something that was killing people, and John seemed certain that it was somehow picking its victims at seedy, rundown, traveling carnivals. But there was something about the moment that struck Sam as safe, so he stood up and moved to take a seat across the table from the raggedy fortune teller, although he did make sure to stay out of reach of the man’s long arms and was fully prepared to bolt if needed. As soon as he put the dime, nickel, and two pennies down on the table, the man set his deck of cards in front of Sam.

“Cut the deck.”

Sam looked at it, glanced over his shoulder, half expecting Dean to be right there to slap his hand and chew him out for being so stupid. But they were still alone and the heavy humid air made him feel like the world was holding him in its mouth, breathlessly waiting. 

Fuck it, he thought, and reached out and quickly split the deck into two piles.

The man placed what had been the bottom half of the deck on top and started dealing out cards.

“This is you.” he said with the first card laid down, it was the 3 of Swords. 

The man paused, looking at it, and then picked it back up. Picking at it with his fingernail, it turned out to be two cards stuck together. He separated them and set them back down, still overlapping, but so both could be seen. The other was the Page of Wands. “Huh.”

He looked at Sam and his eyes flicked past him for a second, before he focused back on the deck and turned the next card, laying it to one side of the first two.

“This is your past.” It was Justice.

He flipped another card and laid it on the other side. It was the 6 of Swords. “This is your future.”

He flipped one last card and laid it sideways across the middle two. “This is the complication.”

It was The Devil.

The man breathed out a long sigh.

“What does it mean?” Sam asked.

“It means you’ve got a long, hard road ahead of you, kid.” A lot of his act had dropped away so suddenly that Sam actually found himself taking him seriously for the first time. “Shit. Okay, so yeah.”

He sat forward. “You are going to go through a lot of really bad shit, harder and more unfair than what you’ve already been through. Life is going to do everything it can to get you to give in, give up, let go. It’s going to use your own feelings of unworthiness against you. Don’t buy into that crap. Don’t give up. Don’t stop fighting, no matter what. You do not want to know what will happen if you fail.”

At this he touched the two cards in the middle and spread them a little further apart. “The good news is that if you keep going, you will get through it, and… you won’t have to go through it alone.”

Sam heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching. The man looked up and past Sam. 

“Sam?” Dean said, a cautionary warning and question all at once.

The fortune teller looked at Sam, there was a lot he was leaving unspoken, Sam could see it in the man’s eyes. But he smiled and then shrugged and collected his cards. “You’ve got someone watching your back.”

The man stood up, he was taller than Dean, but lanky and long, so he seemed to unfold from his chair. Cards and coins disappeared into his pockets. He nodded at them both and walked back towards the lights of carnival, whistling what sounded a lot like the opening riff of Kashmir.

“The hell was that? Seriously, Sam? I left you alone for like two minutes.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, Dean, I’m fine. The guy offered.”

“Oh my god! Do we really need to have the ‘don’t take offers from creepy guys at creepy carnivals’ talk? Because I honestly thought you were smarter than that.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not a helpless little kid. It was fine.”

Dean’s brow knit together as he looked Sam over and then looked back the way the guy had gone. “Whatever. Come on, it’s late enough. Time to get outta here.”

He reached out and tugged at the shoulder of Sam’s tee shirt, pulling him along after him, keeping him close.

“So, what’d he tell you? Anything interesting in your future?”

“Nah, same stuff as always.”

[comeandreadawhile]

Clone Social Media : Hobbies

The phenomenon starts with the intention to show the civilians of the Republic the men behind the armor, as well as an encouragement for the men to do the things they enjoy when they have the time to in lieu of sitting around cleaning weapons for a third time that day.

Scratch that—the phenomenon starts with High General Kenobi, on a rare day of leave, teaching his Marshal Commander how to bake. Said Commander’s men were happy to taste test the flurry of experimental confections that pervaded their leave days in the following months. News spread fast of Marshal Commander Cody having a knack for baking, and so followed the spread of troopers attempting to make their own treats and/or branching off into other things the civilians called “hobbies” whenever what they could get their hands on afforded them.

The phenomenon kicked off when Padawan Commander Tano began a social media account with the intention of using it as a public diary, her first post was a picture taken of some of the 501st—with permission, her caption says—as they went about retouching paint scuffed in their most recent battle. The men are relaxed, some with paint smeared on their hands and cheeks and seemingly reacting to some joke or story told outside the threshold of the camera, and it’s an almost startling difference from the image of rigid lines of men, faceless in their full kits of white plastoid, that the civilians are used to. Tano’s second post is a video clip of one Captain Rex, with one General Skywalker sitting on his back counting reps, doing push-ups; the video was captioned “Another day in the G.A.R., restless in hyperspace.”

The digital diary continues from there, videos and pictures of specific locations posted only after reaching a safe distance to do so, never sharing anything mission critical—past, current, or hypothetical future. Eventually she shows the men under her how to make their own accounts, and other Jedi and their own troops follow suit. The 212th then takes it upon themselves to post pictures of the little cakes their Marshal Commander has gotten so proficient at making, and, when General Kenobi creates a joint account titled “command_212”, convince Cody to post pictures of things he bakes before they are distributed—even in the process of baking, if the fancy strikes him.

So Marshal Commander Cody shares pictures of his experiments, of recipes he finds that turned out well, of recipes that didn’t because of some error or other that he’s determined to give another go, with the occasional cryptid picture of General Kenobi taking his tea in the barrack’s kitchen. As time goes on those pictures shift to Obi-Wan covered in flour, or a shot taken from several feet away of Cody sneaking batter captioned “caught red-handed in the red velvet”.

As Marshal Commander of the 212th has taken to baking to relieve stress, the Commander of the 104th has turned to needlecraft and yarnwork.

The 104th retaliate the populatrity of the 212th’s command account with the domesticity of their own, despite the vaguely threatening possibilities of knitting and sewing needles. Boost and Sinker run the majority of the account, although all OG members of the 104th have access to it; they post pictures of the things Wolffe makes them, of General Plo covered in the lengths of scarves he’s received, of Comet in the ever-growing swath the gifted blankets with the current tally in the caption (his toes were off the floor by blanket burrito 6). The holonet at large loves Plo almost as much as his men, and once a week they post him saying some piece of sage wisdom—or utter nonsense, as the mood strikes—as the war goes on. After months of asking for a face reveal and requests for the patterns people are sure Wolffe uses, they make the most Force-forsaken tutorial videos as an all-in-one series.

“HOLY **** HE’S CASTING ON 12 TO START—“ “WHAT A MAD MAN!”

“So when you get to this row here you’re going to knit 3, purl 3–“ “TRANSCENDENT!” “—yes, thank you, and then keep doing that until you reach the end of the row...”

“Oh, OH MAN HE’S GONNA DO IT!” “HE’S GONNA CHANGE COLORS!” “Holy **** man he’s gonNA YOOOOOOOOOO!”

Cody is then issued a challenge by the holonet to learn to knit. He learns to crochet. Because Obi-Wan knows how to crochet. The holonet loves video snippets of them progressing on projects together. They also love the videos Ahsoka posts of Cody attempting to teach Rex, and praise the absolutely completely unrelated hat she later posts a picture of; it covers her Montrals with enough room for a few years’ growth. Anakin gets yarn stuck in his mechanical hand because he forgot to put his glove on before attempting to craft.

The real throwdown happens when the account for the Coruscant Guard posts videos of Fox aggressively tatting while venting about the lack of funding for proper security and surveillance tech.

Each posts sees a comical increase in the surfaces covered in lace doilies and runners, as well as a new topic for Fox’s venting.

A picture of an pillow embroidered with “Kriff the Seppies” is briefly posted to the 104th’s account before being taken down and replaced with a censor bar. Rumors begin to circulate when Senator Chuchi posts a picture wearing a gifted lace shawl; Senator Amidala comments on her confusion being resolved as to why Riyo kept bringing little baskets of crochet thread with her before a senate meetings.

A competition for ship nose art starts up, many votes going to the 501st, and the holonet’s heart once again melting at “Plo’s Bros”. Personal art begins popping up soon after. Fives starts posting spray paint tutorials, Rex and Hardcase become popular for clean graphic art. Bly gets his hands on metallic paint and the crowds go wild. Kix has taken his clean haircut game to the next level.

And then Colt and Shaak Ti make an account to post art the Littles make, most of them representations of their older brothers with wishes of safety and good luck, and of the only Jedi they’ve ever known, sometimes creatures they studied in their preparation for worlds outside of Kamino. Of batches passing their final tests with a congratulatory post.

Suggestions and instructions are sent out for clones who want to take and sell commissions, allowing them to finally make some money; most Jedi are more than happy to help make sure the finished work mails out properly to the buyers.

Ships of the non-nose art kind surface on the holonet. It’s generally agreed upon that command_212 is run by husbands, and Aayla is the protector of the 327th and Bly’s heart, even if she’s a clumsy menace around his artwork (caf spilled over a drying watercolor can be interesting or terrible depending on the circumstance). No one can agree whether Skywalker is married to his captain or Senator Amidala, but everyone agrees that Ahsoka is their baby. The holonet declares Plo to have Big Dad Energy. Shaak Ti’s Big Mom Energy is a friendly rival. The Jedi council has made no official statement denying or denouncing these attachments.

Public interest begins to shift from producing more soldiers to making sure the ones the Republic has stay alive, when the realization hits that within a couple of years the children posting art and losing teeth would probably be losing blood and brothers on some far away planet. Of making sure the men are eating well instead of just surviving. Well certain account-holders don’t post for a while, grieving a loss, posting again to reassure their followers they’re alright, the public questions what’s being done to keep the men emotionally and mentally well outside of the hobbies the public knows them for. “Born to handle any stress” is very much the wrong answer.

Pressure is put on the Chancellor to let the Separatists sucede, no one quite sure anymore why allowing them to would be harmful when at worst new trade agreements would need to be brokered; if they want to leave so badly, let them. And let the men have their hobbies.

(Sad thoughts ahead)

Sometimes commissioners never receive their orders, simply a refund with a letter from that clone’s Jedi after the latest battle ends. Any money they’d made would be split however their closest brothers decide.

The channel that always posts pranks and spray paint tutorials makes a post saying they’d be away to look after their sick little brother. It’s the last post they make.

The Coruscant Guard’s account stops posting a few nights later.

After Order 66 goes out, a new account goes up posting any pictures and cute videos of Aayla. Reposting old ones that the public is sure they’d seen somewhere before, posting new ones of funny faces and ridiculous videos of silly dances. The last one is the only one captioned, “she wasn’t a traitor.”

The account is deleted the same night, and the one of the 327th’s adventures never posts again.

Wolfpack_104 does not post, but is still there.

Command_212 is deleted almost immediately the night of the order.

Years go by, almost sixteen, and only after Vader already knows she’s alive does Ahsoka post again. It’s a picture of her, and Rex and Wolffe onboard the Ghost in hyperspace captioned “Was never a traitor. Always the little sister even if I’m four years older. In case you’re wondering, Rex still draws and Wolffe still knits when we can nab the string and flimsi.”

[todaysdocument]

“The wearing of long hair by the male[s] is not in keeping with the advancement they are making, or will soon be expected to make, in civilization. . . . a non-compliance with this order may be made a reason for discharge or for withholding rations and supplies.” 1/11/1902

File Unit: Book 1B, 8/24/1901 - 1/12/1903

Series: Letters to the Superintendent from the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, 1900 - 1914

Record Group 75: Records of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, 1793 - 1999

Transcription:

Department of the Interior

Office of Indian Affairs

Washington, January 11, 1902.

The Superintendent,

Round Valley, California,

Sir: -

This Office desires to call your attention to a few customs among the Indians, which, it is believed, should be modified or discontinued.

The wearing of long hair by the male population of your agency is not in keeping with the advancement they are making, or will soon be expected to make, in civilization. The wearing of short hair by the males will be a great step in advance and will certainly hasten their progress towards civilization. The returned male student far too frequently goes back to the reservation and falls into the old custom of letting his hair grow long. He also paints profusely and adopts all the old habits and customs which his education in our industrial schools has tried to eradicate. The fault does not lie so much with the schools as with the conditions found on the reservation. These conditions are often due to the policy of the Government toward the Indian and are often perpetuated by the Superintendent's not caring to take the initiative in fastening any new policy on his administration of the affairs of the

[page 2]

Round Valley.

2.

agency.

On many of the reservations the Indians of both sexes paint, claiming that it keeps the skin warm in winter and cool in summer; but instead, this paint melts when the Indian perspires and runs down into his eyes. The use of this paint leads to many diseases of the eyes among those Indians who paint. Persons who have given considerable thought and investigation to the subject are satisfied that this custom causes the majority of the cases of blindness among the Indians of the United States.

You are therefore directed to induce your male Indians to cut their hair, and both sexes to stop painting. With some of the Indians this will be an easy matter, with others, it will require considerable tact and perseverance on the part of yourself and your employes [sic] to successfully carry out these instructions. With your Indian employes [sic] and those Indians who draw rations and supplies it should be an easy matter, as a non-compliance with this order may be made a reason for discharge or for withholding rations and supplies. Many may be induced to comply with the order voluntarily, especially the returned students. The returned students who do not comply voluntarily should be dealt with summarily. Employment, supplies, etc., should be withdrawn until they do comply and if they become obstreperous about the matter a short confinement in the guard-house at hard labor, with shorn hair, should furnish a cure. Certainly all the younger men should wear short hair and it is believed that by tact, perseverance, firmness, and with-

[page 3]

Round Valley.

3.

drawal of supplies the Agent can induce _all_ to comply with this order.

The wearing of citizens clothing, instead of the Indian costume and blanket, should be encouraged. Indian dances and so-called Indian feasts should be prohibited. In many cases these dances and feasts are simply subterfuges to cover degrading acts and to disguise immoral purposes. You are directed to use your best efforts in the suppression of these evils.

On or before June 30, 1902, you will report to this Office the progress you have made in carrying out the above orders and instructions.

Very respectfully,

W. S. Jones

Commissioner.

WL. (S)

[raekahwritings]

BNHA Gods AU - Thanatos - Shindou Yo

GODS AU! - What kind of shitty god are you?

Pairing: Shindou You x Reader

Rating: Explicit, NSFW, Minors, DO NOT ENTER.

Warning: NSFW, Mentions of non-consent, slight blood/gore/murder,slight yandere.

Word Count: 2016

Authors Note: This was written in one night, I really wanted to make it in time for this collaboration despite everything going on right now. I hope you all can forgive me since this wasn’t proof read but hopefully you all can enjoy the Gods!AU Shindou!

GODS!AU Collaboration: Please check out the collab here from @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten​

The age of gods was long over. They no longer walked this earth. No one worshipped them; they became the words of fiction and stories.

Let the gods guide you.

Live your life well and the gods may reward you.

Do not turn away from the path of good, lest the gods punish you.

Where were the gods when you needed them? When your mother had dressed you up as a pretty doll, when you smiled and jumped in the excitement of a new dress, and when she had shown you to a portly older gentleman. He took you, none-too-gently, and placed a bag of coins into your mother’s palm. She had left brusquely, curtly, and took care not to look you in the eyes.

How long had it been since then? Your childhood had gone by in the mess of yelling, screams, and scullery work. When you were old enough? You now lay on the floor with your clothing strewn apart, dried tears on your face and a voice hoarse from screaming.

This was a life where no gods deigned to visit—this was a place of vileness, sordidness, and loathsome men. You were nothing more than a commodity to them—they had no qualms about leaving you on this dirty floor.

God, you had prayed so many times. Save me.

You’d been delivered to them, lent like broken toy until they called the brothel master to fetch you.

You had been defiled too many times to believe that any God would help you now.

Where were you? What had they consecrated this time? They had laughed and they had jeered while you had cringed at the blasphemy they spewed. They had taken their belts to mark you, left you bleeding, and then poured acridly old liquid, “—better hope this fucking holy water works.”

“They would laugh at this.” You blinked away the tears, blinked to see the dormant idolatry of Thanatos nearby. You scrabbled at the ground, trying to find a perch to lay your hands on so you could get up. You winced at seeing the dried blood and spilt fluids. If there was a moment for Thanatos to judge you, this would be now.  

But would he?

Gods had come and gone, with nary a care. You tried to stand, tried to ignore the mess they had made, and you glared at the idolatry. “You didn’t stop this.” You pointed to the empty room – “You’re supposed to be some merciless, hateful god of death.” You scoffed, knowing it was pathetic. Here you were, reaching a level of desperation to talk to some useless piece of stone and an empty room like it would answer you. But all the resentment, anger, and bitterness spewed out – here and now— you hissing, “You’re a fucking piece of shit god.”

And yet.

“If my life was enough of a price, would you come here and now? Or am I too dirty for someone like you? You want a precious little girl, an innocent naïve little sheep?” You furiously took the idol, glaring before slamming it as hard as you could to the floor. Take that, you fucker.

You watched the idol shatter into pieces, the useless stone rolling away. You should fear your own blasphemy and yet… satisfaction had you feeling smug.

“My, my, that doesn’t seem very nice.”

Holy fuck. You whipped around—the room was empty. When had someone come in? You nearly screamed at the mysterious voice, your arms reaching out to blindly shove at the culprit while you stumbled backwards.

A masculine hand caught your arm, tsking at you and he emerged from the shadows with a disappointed look. You nearly fell backwards but his iron clasp had you standing upright.

“Who are you?” Shock and fear colored your tone, the smugness was fleeting as you look to the door, a door that hadn’t budged since the scraggle of men had left earlier. How did he get in? You looked at him, swallowing nervously, your gaze flitting up and down to make out this stranger in the darkness.

“You called me and yet, you still ask me?” He stepped further into the firelight… You looked up at this dizzyingly tall man, you could make out the messy, dark locks framing his chiseled face. But more so, you found yourself staring into eyes the color of pure jade. He was far too handsome, his features bold and brooding, the stubble on his face giving him a heathenish look. He was broad and lean, the muscles of his arms and chest visible through his disheveled shirt.

Someone who made you stop breathing.

“No.” You breathed— “You’re lying.” You called no one, he was here to take you back to the brothel, you tried to wrench your hand pathetically away. He couldn’t fool you, no matter how handsome he was.

“Calm down.” He pulled you into his chest, you were the one falling forward as he stopped your mewling struggles. You heard those words countless times; it had always preceded the acrid smell of chloroform…

“I don’t want to go back.” You choked out, letting your wrists fall slack. “I don’t want this.”

His voice lilted up, questioning. “Go back where?” You could almost believe the sincerity in his voice, the confusion, the perplexity of the situation. But people loved playing with you, toying with you in these games— men liked playing with women as if it were a game of cat and mouse. You curled your fingers into your palms, once again trying to suppress any kindle of hope—because you inevitably always were sold back.

Meanwhile, Thanatos, the god you had summoned with your blood, piety, and holy water—looked heavenwards in frustration. “Girl, speak your name.” He commanded—you answered obediently.

How? You didn’t mean to answer him.

“I am Thanatos. Now speak plainly. I’ve heard your desperate cry for help, for vengeance.” He leaned back against the stone table, tugging you into his lap. “Now can we dispense with the formalities? I’d much rather you call me Shindou instead.” You found yourself caged in—your chest against his bare one as he gestured for you to look up. “You summoned  me. And while I normally ignore mortals…” He let his hand fall loosely to your back—you stiffened, squirming—as his calloused fingers brushed against the filth on your skin, the torn scraps of fabric that hid nothing from his gaze.

“I was personally interested in this offering of yours.” You stilled. There had been no one in the room with you to hear your vitriol words—but this was the temple of Thanatos. Could it be?  “Oh. You don’t believe me?” You looked doubtful. Well he couldn’t blame you. His lips curved, expecting this reaction. He waved a hand in the air, letting the firelights flicker to black and purple flames, letting it dance across the room hauntingly for you. You watched transfixed. “But parlor tricks? A dime a dozen.” He said dismissively. He tapped the table, a prompt for the shadows around you to contort menacingly and snaking up your legs.

You jumped more into his arms, away from the strangely prying and invasive shadows as it crawled disturbingly high up your body.

“Girl, they’re simply an extension of me.” You could hear the humor in his tone, see the shadows snake away as he chuckled at your close contact with him. “But I suppose I can be nice for a bit.” He let the darkness recede and the orange firelight to flicker back.

“Now that’s settled, may I discuss your price?” You… took a moment to blink, to really focus on him. Something about him, the closer you were, was making your senses hazy. He seemed to realize, crooning gently to you. “Oh baby, I know gods are supposed to be tempting to mortals and all that but where’s the little spitfire that threw a little tantrum at me? I quite enjoyed it.”

The haze dissipated a bit. You… had thrown down the idolatry, you had committed blasphemy in the actual face of a god. You wanted to die, the shame overwhelming you. Thanatos—no, Shindou simply laughed though—“Baby, don’t think of me as one of the pious assholes. I don’t need you to prostrate yourself to me and those hopeless,” he waved at the ostentatious ornaments adorning the room, “piece of shit, ugly crap of me. I’m a lot more handsome in person, don’t you think?” You couldn’t disagree.

This kind of man—God, you corrected yourself—exuded charisma, aura, sexuality that vibrated with your own being. Like you were made for him, your body melted against his light touch.

“Demon got your tongue? I can fix that.” Shindou cradled the side of your face, leaning in to press a kiss. You gasped, giving him an opportunity for his tongue invade your mouth—ravishing and giving you no air to breathe. He reached down to anchor your hips against his, drawing you more into his lap and letting his hardness press into your dampened, slickened ache between your thighs.

But you were dirty and filthy. You pushed him, and he let you, you knew his strength far outstripped yours. “I can’t.” You shook your head. “You must’ve seen what happened…” It wasn’t just one disgusting man, it was many who had left you sticky and ruined with their fluids on your unwilling body.

Even now.

“Seriously? Shindou sighed. He tutted at you like a child—which as a mortal, you must’ve been. “I came all this way out for your offering, for this delectable and luscious body and you dare to impugn me with your sense of shame?” He cocked his head. “Like I didn’t know? All those men…” He parted your legs, let the sticky fluid drip. “All those men, and they didn’t break your spirit. You come to me, fiery and burning with revenge, and I answered your call. What could be more attractive than this?” Albeit… Shindou did frown. “I don’t care for those worms to mark what’s mine. I guess they all have to die, wont they?”

Your eyes widened… your words caught. You wanted to protest—the mocking feeling of horror should’ve come at the thought of such senseless murder and death…. But you could only feel the sense of relish, of pure desire to see the blood of your captors. You bit your lips, futilely trying to hide your anticipation and eagerness.

“Ah, that’s my girl. I knew you and I would get along.” Shindou pulled down the rags of your dress,  watched your nubile body pull close to his and you shivered—his hardness grinded against you—a god like this wanted you. You could hardly believe it. You whimpered as he bit down your throat, bit at the junction of your shoulders while you bled. He licked the bloody trail down your ample breasts, swirling his hot tongue around the hardened peaks and making you arch in muted pleasure.

“Oh no, you can’t stay quiet.” He let the shadowy tendrils return, let it wrap around your throat and craning your neck backwards. His hands traced over your slickened breasts, pinching, pulling, vibrating as you screamed in pleasure and pain. “Sounds quite nice.” He mused, condescendingly. His hands eventually travelled to your taut thighs, teasing the inside of them, and drawing them further apart.  His fingers brushed against the dirty cum—he didn’t care for it but he supposed he’d just have to fuck you enough so you’d be dripping with his own cum—all the more reason to cleanse this lustful, vengeful darling of a human.

He had waited for someone like you. Other gods deigned to have their innocent little virgins on their sacrificial alter.

He wanted a tainted, corrupted human whose lust rivalled their desire for revenge—a human he could turn into his little fuck toy of a god, one who would stand by his side as he ruled over mayhem, murder, and death. Preferably, begging for his cock and drunk on cum – not a bad start, he mused. Not a bad start.

[impactmintsfresh]

Do I have to spank you two? - Ch 1

Masterlist - Summary : Soulmates Steve and Bucky are a pair of brats looking for a third, and they have their eyes set on Tony

Warnings : Light Daddy kink

When Howard Stark had seen his six year old son's soulmark he had been angry. Angry that two of the greatest men he knew were somehow destined for his fuck up of a son. He had taken his emotions out of the boy and later blamed the bruises on a lab experiment. It would take years for his anger to turn to pity for the boy but by that point he had found other reasons to hate him. He knew the kid was smarter than him. That Jarvis, Peggy, even his own wife loved the kid more than him. He had been trying to find Captain America for years, but he stopped when he realised that even he was destined to love his son more than the man who made him.

Tony would be 12 when he realised why he would never be enough for his father. They were moving again and Tony found some old boxes from the war, he was smiling at old photos and drawings of the Howlies when he saw it. His soulmark on Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. He wanted to ask his dad to tell him all the stories about his soulmates, wanted to hear about Steve before the serum, the pranks that he knew Bucky got up to. But he quickly realised why his dad made him cover his mark. His dad didn't think he was good enough, but Tony knew he was. That they would love him. He went back to boarding school and tried his best to be a good student, to do everything he could to make his soulmates proud of him. It wasn't until he told his best friend that he had to face the truth his brain was trying to protect him from. "But they are dead."

Tony had surprised everyone, after that incident with Stane he had started therapy. He stopped drinking and partying mostly, worked hard in the R&D department after passing CEO to Pepper Potts, and even slept on a semi-regular basis. He wasn't perfect and as Iron Man he time was even more divided but he was getting there.

When they had thawed out one half of his soul he had expected himself to start to spiral downwards, but everything was moving so fast with the battle he barely had time to even process it. He moved Steve (and the rest of the team) into the tower afterwards and promised himself he would tell Steve. Except he didn't. And a few years later when they found Bucky he couldn't. Bucky had been much more himself these past years and Tony couldn't come between the love of a century. So instead Tony looked after them, he looked after the whole team of course with new weapons and anything else they needed but Steve and Bucky were different. Jarvis had more programs and protocols for those two than the ones he had for Tony and the Tower combined. They couldn't even sneeze without Jarvis silently scanning them for any symptoms of all the known illness he was programmed with.

He didn't know how else to express his love for the two men, he couldn't tell them but he could do this.

Back before the war, when Steve was too sick to do anything but get in fights and Bucky was working to feed them both, they often dreamed about having someone to look after them. It wasn't the thing they were supposed to want of course, men were supposed to be the ones to provide, but they didn't care. They would eat their watery broth in their cold apartment and dream joke about someone dressing them both up in expensive clothes and taking them dancing to show them off. They might be soulmates but they had always longed for a third. Relationships with non-soulmates were rare but they existed. Bucky one night made a joke about being kept like a pair of exotic animals for some eccentric old man, and while Steve wasn't too keen on the idea of being kept in a cage he was all too happy with the idea of putting on a show with Bucky for someone.

Steve hadn't even thought about those conversations for months after waking up in the future. But when Tony offered him a place to stay he couldn't help but blush. He wished Bucky was here to tease him about Tony buying him clothes and making sure Steve looked after himself even during his worst times.

When Bucky had been found and joined him at the Tower, they both fell back into old routines. Except this time when they were hiding under the covers giggling about an older man calling them little pet names he had a face. And a name.

-----

Bucky had been living in the Tower full time for a year when things started to change. He'd been awake for about 27 hours now and he knew exactly what he was doing. Bucky and Clint were sat on the sofa watching some documentary and eating the cupcakes Thor made before heading off world. Clint was talking about his new weapons with his mouth full when Jarvis interrupted them.

"James, sir would like me to remind you that you have been awake for almost 28 hours and should go to sleep." It had taken months to convince the AI to call him anything other than Sargent. He hadn't asked Tony to change it though, Steve had made that mistake. Steve would blush and protest but Buck knew how much he loved the random pet names Tony came up with for him.

Clint gave him a look and wiggled his eyebrows. "Past your bedtime Barns? Daddy gonna come up here and put you to bed?"

Bucky tried not to react to that, but internally he was hoping that he did. So much so that if Clint hadn't reacted as well he would have thought he hallucinated Tony's voice.

"Yes."

Bucky's head whipped around so fast, he tried not to be disappointed when he realised that the voice came from the speakers. He wasn't pouting but he did pull he knees up to his chest and mumble that Tony can fuck off he wasn't a kid.

Clint left him then, not wanting to get between Tony and Bucky right now. Those three might like to think they are subtle but the rest of the team were well aware that Tony considers the two super soldiers his boys and that America's greatest love story is a pair of brats with a daddy kink a mile wide.

"James, sir has asked if he needs to come up there and drag you to bed himself. He also asked if the little kid wants to be tucked in?" James blushed at Jarvis telling Tony about his pouting.

It was taking a lot for Bucky not to tell the AI that yes actually Tony should come here and take him to bed, and then yes he would also like to be tucked in with Steve both cuddling around Tony. But he knew that Tony would probably freak out. Just because he and Steve have an overactive imagination doesn't mean the billionaire wants to be in a relationship with them.

The ding of the elevator had Bucky jumping to his feet. Nat gave him a funny look as she walked out and into the kitchen area. His face was still a little pale but he relaxed when he saw her.

"James?" It was always a wonder how Tony had programmed a sassy AI.

"I'm fine Jar." No one has ever accused James Bucky Barns of having any common sense. "Tell Daddy that I am off to bed."

He could hear Nat laughing as he walked towards the elevator.

A few floors below, Tony was choking on his coffee. Dum-E was whirling around beeping trying to see what the problem was, while mopping up the coffee that had come out of Tony's nose.

When Bucky entered his and Steve's bedroom he found the other man sat against the headboard sketching. Bucky threw himself onto the bed laying face down and grumbling against the sheets about Tony being a fucking tease and not knowing it.

Steve was able to make out most of what was being said and just laughed at his soulmate. "Isn't this what we wanted though Buck?" Steve and Bucky were used to being hounded to eat and sleep enough by the AI. He was also the biggest snitch if they tried to ignore medical advise after missions. Jarvis ordered for them anything they asked for or even implied they might need. Like the one time Steve had broken a paintbrush one morning only for a full set of the same brand to arrive that afternoon.

The team had expected the two boys who grew up in the depression to freak out over the price of things and refuse to take any of Tony's gifts. But they had a ruff idea of Tony's relationship with money from Howard. He had more than he could possibly spend in a dozen life times and using it to take care of people was how he showed his emotions.

"I might not have a perfect recollection of those times Stevie but I'm pretty sure those fantasies of what we wanted involved a lot of sex and a hell of a lot more attention! When was the last time you even saw Tony." It was a little unfair, Tony had been busy with SI things and it wasn't like he was theirs to make demands off anyway.

Suddenly Bucky sat up and grabbed Steve's face pulling it inches away from his own. Steve just raised his eyebrows a little shocked.

"Stevie my love, I have a plan." Steve suddenly remembered all the terrible ways Bucky's plans ended. From being spanked by his ma, to having to help Bucky clean goat shit from Shrui's lab in Wakanda.