#(instead of drawing old men non stop)

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

[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

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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~

-

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.

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[ax3022-ancutadantepelgrom]

Inspiration For the Project

So my friends saw this film at the Manchester animation festival 2022, I, unfortunately, could not make it. However, they kindly shared the trailer with me since when explaining my project it reminded them of this film. I would say we have very similar ideas about using wood however it is much different to mine. As I have an emphasis on the environment. I like the aesthetic of wood being carved in a stop-motion manner it makes it feel organic rather than 2D, and it draws the audience into the environment as though you could touch it. I would like to try and engage a similar effect in world-building however, my desire is to have a burnt aesthetic instead.

I do wish I had the opportunity to go as I was not able to stream this at home.

I would say I, of course, have to include William Kentridge as an inspiration for my work since he is using a non-traditional form of medium to make animation with charcoals. He is a South African artist, now 67 years old with several exhibitions in several museums around the world, recently he had one in London that I was unable to attend. He works within many mediums with a political, science, literature and history ground within them. In 2016 he created a centre in his home town called Less Good Idea to create a space for experimentation and creativity whilst holding workshops, public performances and mentorship. He is also a recipient of honorary doctorates.

He is an inspiration because I found enjoyment from using charcoals through him and his expressive medium. And try to replicate this has been fun through my experiments. Its artwork intrigues me about how it can make art move and further express an emotion. It has a gritty sense of realism and humanity which I also desire to express within my work.

Jodie Mack

English born (1983, Uk London) American woman, experimental film maker and animator. Attending the Florida university for the MFA in film, video, and new media at the school of art institute of chicago and teaches at Dartmouth College.

I choose her for my research because of her in-depth abstract experimental animated films. I love to play and push boundaries and so does she.

Most importantly her creative chaos comes from her exploration of pattern, place and life. I will say however I was not able to recreate a similar experiment. However, it has helped frame what experimental can be.

Hayao Miyazaki & Studio Ghibli

Created from three men, Hayao Miyazaki, Isao Takahata, Toshio Suzuki. ( there was a fourth guy Yasuyoshi Tokuma, executive producer owning the parent organisation to studio ghibli. but he has passed away, and it was only recently that Isao passed. He wasn’t very prominently seen, but a close friend to Hayao)

The studio was founded June 15th 1985, tokyo, by themselves. Including there music composer Joe Hisaishi.

They’ve created so many films, even Hayao’s son was involved directing a few movies. (And i have watched nearly all of them apart from the ones in the museum that are stricted). The one movire that signified to the western world and Disney was Spirited away, winning an Academy Award for best Animated Feature at the 75th Academy awards. Making it the first of its kind as a foreign film. Surpassing Titianic worldwide grossing.

In 2016 it was voted the fourth best film of the 21st century picked by 177 film critics around the world. It has continued to recieve appraise.

The Studios Net income is 1.426 billon yen (2011) and has around 150 employees.

Hayao has truly been the centre of the operation and has masterful talent. Not to say that Isao is his equivalent but suited to different audiences that have made his movies stay hidden from mainstream television in the west. Hayao just won’t retire because it’s his reason to live, to show the small joys in life. His pacifist views are the core of his work dealing with this through each film from Nausicaa to Howls Moving Castle and his new upcoming film Boru the caterpillar. He reflects on what he learns and the struggle of being in the very medium that is a part of most of the problems he dislikes capitalism, pollution and war.

His films also touch on some of the positive nature of humans as well and in this way, he gives vigour to us imperfect beings. Yet leaving it up to us, introducing positive things that his characters do such as cleaning and cooking etc.

He is an inspiration since he started me on this journey towards animation, as well as giving me the courage to show what I believe and nothing less. People may not like your work however you will find your way. As well as to use yourself within your work, as that's what sets you apart. His activism is what he can do, and that's something I believe should be the core of any topic such as this. Further his way of being empathic to the environment as though it was a character is something I wish to bring into my work.

[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

[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.”

[white-poppie]

Dearest Detested

Character: Gojo Satorux G! n reader Source: Anime- JJK Genre: Enemies to Lovers Warnings: toxicity, knives, swords, death, gore, slight suggestiveness Writer: @white-poppie

Song recommendation: Fairytale by Alexander Rybak

You whimpered at the feeling of the stranger's fingers trailing down your throat.

"Stop moving your highness, you wouldn't want to wake everyone up, would you?" he breathed mischievously.

"Y..you" you stuttered.

"Go ahead, use your words," he chuckled.

"You fool! Remove that knife from my throat this instance!"

"Can't, I need to kill you, letting you live is too risky for me," he sighed.

"Besides," he leaned close to your ear, "even if you call someone for help, you would get in trouble for sneaking out of your quarters."

"Naive," you smiled, placing your dagger on his stomach.

"Oho~, never knew birds born in cages know how to hunt."

"Who are you and tell me who sent you this instance, trust me I would get in trouble of course, but I won't be the one getting beheaded tomorrow morning."

"Enticing, spoiled kid spewing threats in the face of danger, even though..." he looked down at the knife that was at his stomach, "your hands are shaking in fear."

You pressed your knife further onto his chiselled torso, drawing a satisfying hiss from him as his white poet shirt stained with the colour of wine.

"My hand might be shaking, but my aim is not," you whispered.

"Who's there?" A guard shouted.

You mumbled a string of profanities, looking around frantically to hide.

"I shall be going now, you remember the name: Gojo Satoru, the cause of your inevitable doom." With that, he jumped out of the tower window. He threw you a salute and ran off

You sneered at him, Gojo Satoru, a name you will remember indeed.

"Your highness! There has been an attempt the murder the crown heir!" a minister presented in the court. His voice did nothing, but increase your growing headache.

"Is this true?" your father asked, looking directly at you.

"I am afraid, the rumours are true," you replied as the courtiers mumbled and gasped.

"And why were you out of your chambers at such a late hour?"

"I had heard a noise, for my own safety I followed the intruder."

"Why didn't you inform the guards?"

"He had sneaked through the secluded area of the towers, I am not sure how he got the access."

"Weren't guards guarding the entry of the secluded areas?"

A courtier meekly spoke, "the guards were knocked out by some kind of tranquillizer, the medic identified it to be a non-native herb."

"It would be safe to assume we have a mole among the courtiers," you quoted looking directly at Getou, your cousin, a man you had been suspecting for a bit too long. His father was supposed to be the one to be crowned, instead of your father. From childhood itself he had made his intentions clear, he wanted to win the crown; by hook or by crook.

He looked back at you bowing in respect, but the malice that was hidden behind was visible to you through his feeble facade.

"I agree, any suspicious activity must be reported immediately and the security of the crown heir's quarter must be increased!" the king commanded.

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!" you thought fondly.

"The king has fallen! The king has fallen! The sun of the empire shall not rise again!" Were the chants that woke you from your slumber. Cries of agony and mourning made your heart drop.

"What is the commotion about?" you inquired.

"Your highness, his majesty has fallen to an eternal slumber! The cause seems to be poisoning"

"Get the chefs this instant!" you bellowed.

The chefs were fetched and you stared at the quivering figures of the pathetic men.

"How did this happen?" you asked.

"Your grace, we had prepared his majesty's favourite dish, the ingredients were the same. The food had been tested before serving to the emperor."

"May I see the utensils?" asked Getou. He was handed the finished bowl of food.

"Get the old dog near the stables," he said.

The old dog had been brought, his eyes had some infection that made one of them turn oddly white. He was going to die in a maximum of 4 months.

Getou ran his finger on the clean side of the bowl, presenting it in front of the dog who hesitantly licked it.

Every when waited for the results, the poor canine had gotten sluggish. He went to a corner and dosed off. The sides of his mouth had a bloody froth on them

Getou walked close to him, touching his belly that had turned cold.

"The food wasn't poisoned, but the bowl was smeared with it."

Later that day you were called by the council of ministers. You fidgeted nervously as they looked at the two candidates for the throne: you and Suguru.

"As the Prime minister and as an important member of the royal council, we usually would have directly appointed Y/N L/N as the head of the state, however," he looked straight at Getou, "due to a disparity between the council; we are having a ballot. Whoever, among the royal blood, gets more signatures shall be appointed as the monarch."

You should have known with the look in his eyes, the way he smirked. his moves were calculated like that of a jaguar, eyes never leaving yours like a hawk, as if challenging, 'come on, dear cousin, do what you have to, yet watch me win.'

Your ears rang in desperation. It was your throne! Your crown! Your crowd and your destiny!

"This is unfair, by the laws of the bloodline I should be the next ruler," you protested.

"The code of conduct of the empire clearly states that if the previous ruler dies before appointing an heir to thrown; it is up to the council to decide the fate."

You pursed your lips and watched in silence, how everything was slipping from your grasp. You had trained for this day for years, yet all you could do was stand silently, and watch a mockery being made out of you.

The votes were placed, the two golden urns with pieces of parchment. One was filled to the rim, and the other was shallow. They didn't even need to announce.

"The referendum is over, Getou Suguru is the new ruler of the state. Quarter by the moon, when the sun of the empire rises, the crowning of the new king will remark the beginning of a new era!"

You fixed your silk clothing, looking longingly at the mirror. You felt the exact opposite of what Narcissus must have felt. Drowning in hollows you braced yourself for what would have been yours.

Walking down the familiar halls into the throne room. Taking your place on the sideline, you saw Suguru walk in a lavish dress. His fur coat draped across the room.

As soon as his arrival was announced, the psalms began.

In the end, he was sitting on the ground, with a sword atop his head.

"Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of your state and of your Possessions and other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs?"

"I solemnly promise so to do."

"Will, you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?"

"I will."

The priest removed the sword from his head, he got up and the man placed the crown on his head, picking it up from the velvet cushions in which it lay.

"The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep. So help me God."

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the king! Long live the Empire!"

He sat on his throne proudly, hands resting on his knees. If it weren't for your reputation; you would have broken down, then and there.

"As a custom, my lord, you must make your first judgement."

He sighed and spoke, "For strengthening the territories of the kingdom, I propose forward the matrimonial alliance between the heir of our closest allies and a member of the royal family of our kingdom. A union between, Gojo Satoru: The heir of the royal Gojo Family and Y/N L/N the descendant of the former king."

Jujutsu Kaisen (呪術廻戦)

A/n: HAHA I REALLY FOOLED YALL WITH THE READMORE 📸 CAUGHT IN 4K

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Special Members of the council: @denkis111, @jazzylove, @kristaline2dmensimp, @lordmypantsaresocool, @futuristicallykawaiiturtle, @astrofai , @rintaroubby, @nanaseishiro

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳Become a member of the council: TAGLIST (under any delays, send a letter to the owner)

[seijorhi]

Reminiscent

i’m (semi) back, y’all, and i come bearing a fic!! fhdjhfjdk it’s for oikawa i won’t apologise

Oikawa Tooru x female reader

TW non-con, drunk/drugged reader, forced infidelity, emotional manipulation, angst, past trauma, coercion, mild(ish?) smut, nsfw

“F-fuck, cutie! Just like – hah– just like that!”

You weren’t the clubbing type.

Not usually, at least – but exams were over and one of your friends was fresh off a bad breakup, one night letting loose wouldn’t hurt.

Walking is… difficult, your steps are sloppy – there’s an arm wrapped around your waist, your own slung over a stranger’s shoulders. Why are you outside? Where are your friends – they… they promised they wouldn’t leave you. 

“She good, dude?”

A soft, pretty laugh rumbles at your side, “Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.”

And you remember the bar, the overpriced cocktails and the saccharine sweetness of strawberry liquor on your tongue. The dizzying lights and the bass that thumped so loudly you felt it reverberate in your chest. You knew the rules; they’d been drilled into you since you were sixteen years old.

Stick together, don’t accept drinks from strangers, and watch the one in your hand like a hawk - it doesn’t leave your sight.

A tongue between the valley of your breasts, long fingers curling up inside of you. 

“You like that, huh pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?”

They wouldn’t have just abandoned you, right? Maybe you told them to go. Maybe they thought you wanted it; to go home with the handsome stranger.

You never had the guts to ask them, never spoke about that night again. Not to anyone.

Pain. Something thrusting inside of you, splitting you open while he moans and pants atop you. It hurts so much and you want it to stop. 

Please stop. Please. Please. Please.

You’re begging, at least you think you are, but the words come out jumbled and wrong, and he just laughs, hiking up your thigh so he can fuck you deeper.

Why won’t he stop?

When you wake up, bruised and sore and all alone in your bed, it feels like a bad dream. You know it’s not – not with cum still seeping from between your thighs, the scent of the stranger’s cologne clinging to your sheets.

And you scrub your skin raw in the shower, but it isn’t enough to rid you of his touch.

—

It’s nothing like what they show on tv.

There’s no sympathetic detective to pat you on your shoulder while you break down, swearing that they’ll find the man who did this and you’ll get your justice.

You don’t go to the cops because you’ll know what they’ll say. You were drunk, drugged, and even if you could remember what he looked like (his eyes were brown, you think, and there’s a flash of a smirk in your head but the moment you try to focus on it it slips away like smoke) any evidence of rape washed down the drain the moment you stepped into the steaming shower.

At least… that’s what you tell yourself. It’s easier than admitting you’re terrified of judgemental eyes. 

Or worse; pitying ones.

So you pretend that nothing happened. You show up to your classes and throw yourself into studying, make the time to get coffee with your friends, you even pick up a part time job – it’s good to keep busy. 

The nightmares are just that; nightmares.

And things are fine, until they’re not.

—

“Baby, you’re here!!”

There’s barely time to drop your bags before she’s pulling you into a warm hug. “Hi mom,” you reply, squeezing her back.

When she draws back to take you in, one hand cupping your cheek, she frowns, “You look tired sweetheart. Have you been sleeping enough?”

“Yeah, just tired from exams and stuff.”

She looks unconvinced, but mercifully doesn’t push the issue. Of course, you don’t tell her that you missed your last two exams because you’d walked past some guy wearing that same cologne and just choked – that instead of finishing off your semester strong, you’d spent the day alternating between throwing up and crying in bed.

She doesn’t need to know that, because of that, you’ll probably fail both classes and have to retake them again next semester on top of an already full course load. It’s fine; you’ll figure it out.

For now, you work on matching her enthusiasm at having you home, grabbing your bags to bring them inside and into your old room.

“Oh, wait–”

Abruptly, you pause, gazing in confusion from the doorway of your bedroom. There’s a duffle bag lying open and empty atop your bed, a tangled jump rope, some weights, an empty bottle, a sweat towel – even what looks like a spare workout tee scattered haphazardly across the sheets.

“… I didn’t take you for a gym junkie, mom.”

She stops behind you, sighing. “It’s not mine it’s– Tooru said he was going to tidy it up, sorry sweetheart.” She sweeps past you to start tidying it up, but not before you catch sight of her wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

And you can’t help the lone eyebrow that rises, falling back against the doorframe, arms folding across your chest. “Tooru, huh?” you grin, “And who might Tooru be?”

The flustered, almost guilty look she sends you makes you want to laugh – this is easy, comfortable, this you can do – but you restrain yourself. Just. “Tooru is… he’s– well, he’s the man I’m… seeing.”

She admits it like she’s confessing to a crime, eyes all wide and nervous; anticipating your reaction. And you suppose it’s not unwarranted. As far as you’re aware, she’s been alone ever since the day your dad walked out on you both – raising you was always the priority, or maybe the excuse. But you’re not fourteen anymore, you don’t need another father figure or every spare bit of her time and attention, and she doesn’t need your approval for this.

So you smile at her, “Is he nice?”

She lights up, her features – almost a mirror image of your own – softening as she beams, “He’s amazing, honey. I honestly don’t know how this whole thing really happened, or why he’s even interested in someone like me but… I lucked out with him.”

And so it goes, you prying little bits of information about the mysterious Tooru as the afternoon passes.

She tells you that they met a few months back, at the bakery she likes in town – and how she kept running into him; at the grocery store, and then at the park, and then on her way back from yoga that one night.

She tells you that he’s a terrible flirt, all smooth and charming with warm, pretty brown eyes, but he’s a good man beneath it all and she’s never met anyone like him. 

It strikes you, as you watch your mom animatedly talk about him, that you’ve never seen her look like this before. 

Happy. 

She can’t stop smiling, and when you look at her, really look, she’s almost a different person – younger somehow, a bit more care-free. It suits her, and you wonder with a slight pang in your heart how you never noticed how lonely she was before.

And she’s adamant that they’re taking things slowly, that he still has an apartment of his own in town – which to be honest, you really aren’t gonna judge her on either way – but it is kind of funny simply because whether your mom realises it or not, it’s clearly a lie.

The subtle reclaiming of your bedroom aside, there’s traces of Tooru scattered all around the house; the extra toothbrush and aftershave you’d spotted in the bathroom, the men’s  shoes and the jacket by the door, red wine in the cupboard when your mom’s only ever indulged in white.

You haven’t been into her bedroom, but at this point you’d hazard a guess that there’s at least one drawer full of Tooru’s clothes, probably half her closet cleared out for him as well.

“He’s coming for dinner, but I just wanted today to be just us,” she says, reaching across the couch to squeeze your hand. And you’re grateful for it, because you’re happy for her – you are – but you’re not so sure how you would’ve handled meeting the stranger holding your mother’s heart first thing. At least, not after the last few days.

Not when you still feel all… brittle. 

—

Tooru arrives a little after seven, and to say that he’s not entirely what you were expecting is kind of an understatement. 

She’d gushed about how tall and handsome he is – though personally, you think pretty’s the more accurate word, what with his soft, delicate features, perfect cupid’s bow lips and all. What she’d neglected to tell you was that the man in question, stepping through the front door with a faint smile on his face, has to be at least ten years younger than her, mid-thirties at most.

Suddenly, your mom’s initial reluctance to bring him up starts to make sense.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he murmurs, stopping by your mom to drop a fleeting kiss to her cheek before warm brown eyes turn to you. 

Your heart stutters.

“Sweetheart,” your mom begins, slipping an arm around his waist and relaxing into his side, “this is Tooru– Oikawa,” she corrects herself.

He smiles at you, friendly and charming, “It’s great to finally meet you, your mom’s told me so much – all good things, of course!”

You force yourself to smile in return, “Yeah, you too.” 

There’s nothing overtly wrong with Oikawa, age difference aside – your mom’s clearly head over heels in love with the guy and on a surface level he seems nice enough, but you find yourself glad for the fact that he doesn’t make a move to step closer, try to shake your hand or god forbid hug you or something like that.

He’s nothing but a gentleman as your mom steps back into the kitchen to finish off dinner, setting the table without being prompted, pouring a glass of wine for your mom and one for himself before he offers a glass to you. 

“Oh, no I’m alright, thanks.”

You don’t drink so much anymore. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal but your mom pouts at you from the kitchen. “C’mon, sweetie. We’re celebrating tonight! One drink won’t hurt.”

“We’re celebrating?” you ask.

She throws you a wink, gaze softening as she turns to glance at Oikawa, already diligently pouring you a glass, “Of course we are. It’s not every day my girl comes home, and it’s nice having you both here with me.”

Oikawa’s fingers brush against yours for a fleeting second as he passes you the glass, and you have to fight to keep yourself from ripping your hand away. It’s nothing, you just– you’re not good with strangers touching you, and as nice as he is and as much as your mom might be infatuated with him, he is still a stranger.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, a playful twinkle in his eye as he clinks his wine glass against yours. “So you’re at uni, right? What are you studying?”

Uni’s the last thing you want to be thinking about right now, but whether or not Oikawa genuinely cares, he’s obviously trying to make an effort to get to know you. For your mother’s sake, grinning innocuously in the kitchen as she adds the last little touches to dinner, you suck it up, plaster a smile across your face and ignore the twinge of discomfort in your gut.

You can handle one night of small talk.

—

You wake the following morning to the sound of voices carrying down the hall.  

Not your mother’s – both are too deep, and your mom left a few hours ago for work. Figuring that one of them at least is likely Oikawa, you pull on a thin, satin robe over your pajamas, tying the sash in a loose knot before you slip from the room.

Those suspicions are proven correct; you round the corner to find Oikawa sitting up at the kitchen counter, a warm cup of coffee in his hand. There’s another man, a touch shorter, but imposing with dark, spiky hair and olive green eyes standing on the other side, hands braced on the marble top, glaring at Oikawa.

They both look up at the sound of your hesitant approach, the stranger abruptly straightening up, while Oikawa merely grins.

“Ah, you’re up,” he observes cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee.

Your eyes flicker between him and the stranger – clearly comfortable enough in your home and with Oikawa, despite the faint, lingering irritation still visible on his face – and as your cheeks warm, you find yourself wishing you’d put actual clothes on before coming out to investigate.

“I- I heard voices…” you trail off, awkwardly folding your arms over your chest. “Is mom–”

“At work,” he supplies. “Do you want some breakfast? Coffee, maybe?”

You risk another glance at the other man, watching you now with an unreadable expression, dark eyebrows furrowed. You swallow uncomfortably, shifting slightly as you shake your head. “No, I-I’m okay.”

And in an instant, a flash, something like recognition passes through those olive eyes. 

 Oikawa chuckles smoothly, finally tearing his eyes away from you to address his friend, “Iwa, stop being so rude. You’re scaring the poor thing.”

The stranger, Iwa, just scoffs. “You’re a real piece of shit, y’know?”

If he’s bothered by the scathing insult, Oikawa doesn’t show it, merely shrugging before turning his attention back to you with a smirk. “Ignore him, he’s just pissy this morning.”

You’d have to be a complete idiot not to sense the uncomfortable tension between the two of them – and now you. This is your home, but it feels like you’re intruding, like you’ve stumbled into a conversation you have no business hearing, but even if you wanted to leave your feet are rooted to the ground. 

“Besides,” Oikawa continues, “he was just leaving anyway, weren’t you, Iwa?” It’s almost a purr, the way he speaks, but even the silken words can’t entirely mask the razor sharpness that lies beneath. 

Goosebumps prickle along your arms.

Staring at you, Iwa opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but seemingly thinks better of it, snapping it shut with an audible click. He huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

He spares you another glance on his way out, standing frozen by the hall. For a split second he slows, his scowl softening just a fraction–

“Iwa.”

It sounds like a warning, but he only rolls his eyes and huffs again. You think he’s going to walk out without another word to either of you, but he pauses once more, lingering by the entryway.

“You look a lot like your mother, anyone ever tell you that?”

He’s out the door before you can even think to reply, letting it slam shut in his wake. And you flinch at the harsh sound, something uneasy settling into the pit of your stomach–

“Hey,” Oikawa’s there by your side, his fingers entwining with yours. You hadn’t even heard him move. “Come sit, don’t worry about Iwa. He’ll get over it.”

His voice is soothing, you don’t pay attention to the words themselves, the implications there. You forget for a moment that you’re still in your pj’s, that you really don’t know him that well either, and mindlessly follow when he leads you to the couch and sits you down, taking the seat next to you.

And while your head’s still spinning, an uncomfortable feeling gnawing in the pit of your gut, Oikawa seems entirely unbothered by the turn of events, sighing contentedly as he stretches his long legs out, one arm sliding along the back of the couch behind you.

“Do your… friends usually just drop by like that?”

You don’t know where the words come from, or why that’s the first question on your mind, but when you glance over at him, Oikawa’s just watching you, an odd little half smirk playing on his lips. “Sometimes.”

His answer does little to soothe your unease. It’s really not a big deal, you know it’s not. Officially or not, this is his home too – you’re the one out of place. And if he wants to have people over when your mom’s not around, that’s fine, he can do whatever the hell he wants, but�� 

You came home for peace. To hide away for a few days and pretend that everything’s just fine and you’re not one breakdown away from shattering entirely. You wanted your mom and the comfort of your old bedroom and safety and it’s fine – great, even – that she’s found somebody who makes her happy, but this– him and the weirdness with his friend and everything is just too much, and–

You don’t realise that your leg’s bouncing until Oikawa’s hand comes to rest on your bare thigh. It’s enough to make your stomach flip, an icy chill trickling down your spine as his thumb slowly strokes across the soft, plush skin. “Relax, cutie,” he coos, chuckling softly when you visibly flinch and squeeze your eyes shut.

“P-please don’t call me that,” you choke out, fighting against the wave of nausea rising up your throat. And it’s just like last time, his cologne, notes of vanilla and cedar and spice, swirling thick and heady around you. That phantom touch, the warmth of hands gripping too tight, unwanted kisses hot and eager against your skin. 

“No?” he asks, cruel amusement dripping from his tone. “Why not? I think it suits you, cutie.”

You want him to stop, to push him away, slap him – do anything really, but you’re frozen in place, shaking as the memories you’ve fought so hard to shove down come bubbling back to the surface. You can’t think straight, not with his hand sliding between your thighs, the warmth of his body pressing too closely against yours.

“Iwa was right, you know,” Oikawa murmurs, smoldering brown eyes drinking you in as you childishly shake your head, willing him away. His other hand catches your cheek, drawing your face back to him as tears well in your eyes, stubbornly clinging to your lashes. “She does look so much like you, the same eyes even.” 

He whispers it like a secret, nuzzling his nose against yours like a lover would as he sighs sweetly, “It’s the only reason I could stand it.”

And then he’s kissing you, the tenderness of his lips belied by iron fingers digging into your jaw when you whimper and try to wrench yourself free. 

It’s not like the nightmares that startle you awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air; hazy, broken recollections that fade the moment you try to reach for them. No, every touch, every moment of his assault passes in stark clarity.

The feel of Oikawa’s mouth as it trails greedily down your neck, his hand sliding under the cotton of your sleep shorts, even his pleased little hum when he realises you’re not wearing panties. “Such a good girl for me. Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

This time there’s no drugs in your system keeping you pliant and helpless, but that doesn’t make a difference. Not when his words echo in your head, playing again and again until every awful, sickening piece falls into place.

Long, nimble fingers stroke at your folds, and you can’t help the shivery gasp that leaves you when the tip of his middle finger sweeps over your clit. 

“Please– please don’t do this,” you sniffle.

Oikawa presses another fleeting kiss to your shoulder, “Shh, none of that. Let me help you, baby.”

“N-no, I don’t, I don’t– Stop!”

Knocking away the hands that try to push him back, he hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides them down your legs, your pitifully weak struggles only making things easier for him. It’s only when Oikawa reaches for his own zipper that panic truly strikes home.

You can’t just lie here and let this happen again. You won’t.

And like a switch flipped, you start to trash like a wild thing beneath him, the scream you’ve kept buried inside of you for months ripping itself free from your throat–

Only for the fingers that had been toying with your pussy to be shoved down your throat, cutting you off with a choked gurgle. As you gag, fruitlessly try to tug yourself free, Oikawa leans in nice and close – except this time there’s no gentleness to his expression, nothing but viciousness as he grins and bares his teeth. 

“You wanna yell, pretty girl? Want the neighbours to come running, let them see me fuck you?” He grinds his hips against you, his breath shivery as he pants at the friction of his half hard cock against your side. Nausea twists at your gut, acrid and bitter – you want to be sick, to cry and beg with him to stop but with his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, his thumb digging into the soft underside of your jaw all you can manage is an unintelligible whine. He hums, kissing away the single hot tear that spills down your cheek, “You think if you cry loudly enough, mommy’ll come home and save you?”

And it’s like time stands still as he laughs, cruel eyes glinting when he presses down on your tongue, warm saliva pooling around his digits. “Such a little whore, trying to seduce her poor, innocent boyfriend the very moment her back’s turned. Tell me, cutie,” he coos, “who do you think she’d believe?”

Your breath hitches, another sob catching in your throat – even if you wanted to answer, you can’t and he knows it. “She’s in love with me, you know. It’s almost a little pathetic how easy it was to manipulate her into bed – so lonely… desperate for love, for somebody – anybody – to pay attention to her, take care of her,” he sneers, distaste curling at his lips. “Wouldn’t it just break her fragile little heart to know she’s fallen for the man who raped her baby girl?”

Another garbled cry slips past his fingers and you can only watch in frozen horror as his other hand drifts back to his zipper. “You want to protect her, don’t you?”

His grip relents just enough for you to jerk a shaky nod.

“Pretty girl, so good for me.” Another kiss pressed to your cheek as the quiet hiss of his zipper fills the air around you. “It’ll be our little secret, hmm? She doesn’t need to know just yet, let her be happy a little while longer…”

Sliding down his briefs just far enough for his cock to spring free, he strokes it for a moment with slow, leisurely movements, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he watches your eyes widen. 

And when he pulls you forward, guides your mouth towards it, pre-cum beading at the tip, withdrawing his fingers so you can quickly gasp for air, you just… let him.

The fight’s gone, as quickly as it had come. 

You let his fingers curl through your hair, use it as an anchor when your lips part to force his cock between them. And he moans, low and shivery as your tongue slides along the underside of his shaft and you try not to gag around the sudden intrusion. 

You think that there’s no room left inside of you for shame, but as his other hand creeps back between your legs, teasing at your cunt, you burn with it, clinging to the pyre of your own humiliation and disgust.

And still, you kneel on the couch, letting him fuck your mouth, letting those long, pretty fingers curl up inside of you – moaning around his cock when they stroke that perfect little spot.

“I wanted to – shit – take this slow,” he tells you as his hips jerk upwards, shuddering in breathless delight when his cock hits the back of your throat and it convulses around him. “I wanted to make you want me.”

Wet, messy, gags sound with every unwitting thrust – you’ve no choice but to swallow him down, let him fuck your throat like you’re nothing more than a toy for his pleasure. There’s saliva coating your chin, dripping down the length of his dick, pooling around his balls. You can barely breathe, a task made even harder when Oikawa decides to add his thumb into the mix, teasing your clit while he fucks you apart on his fingers.

It feels so fucking good, and you’ve never hated yourself more.

Your throat burns, hot tears stinging in the corners of your eyes, and yet he’s intent on driving you to the brink of your sanity with every calculated flick of his wrist. Something tightens in your belly, a spring coiled too tight, ready to snap, and you can’t help it when your hips chase his fingers, the needy, shameful little whimpers that leave your lips (still wrapped around his thick, twitching cock) as you search for the pleasure to temper the discomfort.

“You don’t have a clue what you do to me, do you? I could barely sleep last night–” 

You choke back a moan, your pussy clenching around his digits, sucking them deeper as white spots pepper your vision and you shudder out a moan.

“So pretty when you cum for me,” he pants, but you don’t care – can’t, not when you’re riding his fingers, tongue lolling out as he gives you a moment’s reprieve to bask in the rippling afterglow of your orgasm before everything comes crashing back down around you. 

Oikawa lets you fall back against the cushions, breathless, trembling and dazed. You’re not stupid enough to believe that’s the end of it, not when his cock’s still hard, throbbing against his toned stomach when he gives it a slow, cursory pump.

“Lie back, cutie,” he whispers, keeping his eyes fixed on you as he pushes himself up off the couch to shed the rest of his clothes.

And as you shuffle obediently downwards, heart hammering in your chest, you find you can’t tear your eyes away from him either.

Tall and handsome, she’d said, but the words truly don’t do him justice. A body corded with lean, powerful muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, a light smattering of dark hair trailing from his navel down past the well defined V of his hips… 

“See something you like?” he teases, smirking when you squeak and childishly jerk your face away, cheeks burning. “It’s okay to look, you know. I don’t mind the attention.”

It feels too soft, too intimate for what this is. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to be attractive, or to make you enjoy your own assault, and you– you’re supposed to fight it, fight him instead of just lying there and taking it… 

But when he climbs back onto the couch, easing your still trembling thighs apart to settle himself between them, his touch is nothing short of reverent, dark eyes wide and adoring as you squirm uneasily beneath him. 

With one hand braced on the cushion beside you, his cock resting just above your aching sex, he leans forward, easing your top up past your tits. “Perfect,” he murmurs.

And it’s enough to make a fresh bout of humiliated tears spring to your eyes. Your hands curl into useless fists at your side as he settles back onto his knees and takes his cock in hand, hissing in pleasure when he glides the flushed, leaking head along your slick folds.

“Fuck, cutie. I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he laughs, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches hot, fat tears slip down your cheeks. With an agonisingly slow pace, Oikawa lines himself up with your cunt and presses in – even with how wet you are, one orgasm already wrung from you, the stretch burns and you can’t stop the choked gasp that leaves you.

His eyes flutter shut, head thrown back back as inch by inch his cock sinks into your pussy until finally he bottoms out with a satisfied groan. “Perfect for me, so fucking good,” he pants, and you barely have time to drag in a breath before his hips are drawing back, another desperate, strangled mewl escaping you.

Bruising fingers dig into your waist, Oikawa cursing as your plush little cunt flutters maddeningly around him– before he eagerly slams his cock forward, stuffing you full once more.

And as you sob and whimper between every wet, obscene squelch of his dick fucking into your soaked pussy, that all too familiar, shameful heat begins to pool in your core.

“Gonna cum for me again, cutie?”

[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.