#Articles Flat Earth

[roundaboutnow]

This is one of the funniest articles I've ever read.

[billionneuronscurious]

Something fishy. Our world is full of aliens.

The Macrognathus aral, One-stripe spiny eel has its mouth and anterior shaped like a bird's beak. People make artworks by combining different kinds of animals or their forms. People also wonder about aliens, how they would look, and we have had so many drawings, cartoons of aliens. But isn't our own earth, the very world where we live, comprised of creatures alien-like? We have thousands and lakhs of species, all different from one another. And if we were to pick any animal group from these, let's say, fish, even they have so much variety. This variety, again, is in their body shapes, colours, size. And they are found in different habitats - freshwater (rivers, streams, ponds, lakes), saltwater/ marine, estuary. Let's consider their looks and body features. There's this one, in this post itself - Macrognathus aral, One-stripe spiny eel - which has a bird's beak-like anterior. There're 'flying fish' that can fly or glide in air for some time (with help of their fins). There're 'frogfish'. From their name itself, one can understand that they must be appearing like frogs. Walking on the seafloor. 'Sole' are flat fish that can be observed, again, on the seafloor, and with both of their eyes on one side (facing upward), on contrary to the single eye on each side of the fish. There are anglerfish, which lure their prey with their luminescent part. And so many others, grouped together based on their 'usual' characteristics, but still 'unusual'. Our world itself is full of aliens!

- Dhairyasheel Dayal

[jackdawsfavorite]

On Symbolic vs Factual Beliefs

“The Truthers, in short, maintained that the government had gone to extreme measures, including killing thousands of its own citizens, in order to carry out and cover up a conspiracy. And yet the same Truthers advertised the conference online and met in a place where they could easily be surveilled. Speakers’ names were posted on the Internet along with videos, photographs, and short bios. The organizers created a publicly accessible forum to discuss next steps, and a couple of attendees spoke to a reporter from the Times, despite the mainstream media’s ostensible complicity in the coverup. By the logic of their own theories, the Truthers were setting themselves up for assassination.

“Their behavior demonstrates a paradox of belief. Action is supposed to follow belief, and yet beliefs, even fervently espoused ones, sometimes exist in their own cognitive cage, with little influence over behavior.”

[marauroon]

𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑. (𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞)

James suddenly discovers that girls exist. And then seems to realise that you are one.

eventual james x fem!reader | 6.0k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

CW | marauders are cocky little shits ofc, james is an obnoxious flirt, the marauders humiliate severus (and unintentionally lily and reader) in public

The September sun was weak and golden, casting a lazy glow over the Hogwarts grounds as students spilled out of carriages and onto the familiar stone steps of the castle.

The air was thick with the chatter of summer stories—trips abroad, new broomsticks, and fleeting first kisses on starlit beaches. The scent of warm earth clung to the castle walls, a final breath of summer before the Scottish chill crept in.

You stood with Lily and Severus near the edge of the crowd, half-listening as Lily recounted the letters she’d exchanged with Dorcas over the break.

The two had written back and forth nearly every week, mostly sharing trivial gossip about mutual friends and the latest Which Broomstick articles. But despite Lily’s cheerful recounting, you were more focused on Severus, whose face was carefully blank.

You recognised the expression by now—it was the mask he wore when he didn’t want you or Lily to see how much something bothered him. His eyes kept flickering over toward the clumps of Gryffindor boys, his lips pressed into a hard, flat line. You didn’t need to ask who he was looking at.

You spotted them easily enough—James and Sirius in the center of it all, their laughter carrying over the hum of the crowd. Peter shuffled after them, nearly tripping over his own feet in his effort to keep up, and Remus walked slightly behind, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around as though half-hoping to be ignored.

And they were different. Taller. Broader. Their voices richer with the remnants of a summer spent outside, and something about the way they carried themselves had shifted, as if they suddenly knew their presence mattered.

James, in particular, was different. The boy who had spent the past three years as an insufferable menace—the one who had hexed your bag to spew out a swarm of singing paper cranes in the middle of Potions—now strolled through the crowd with a maddening sort of confidence.

His hair was still a mess, but now it looked intentional, as though he’d spent time ruffling it into disarray. His tie hung slightly loose around his neck, giving him a roguish look, and he slung his broomstick over his shoulder with all the casual grace of a boy who knew everyone was watching.

And everyone was watching.

A few fifth-year girls by the doors were giggling into their hands, stealing glances in his direction. Even Marlene, who had always been sharp-tongued and disinterested in school gossip, tilted her head slightly as the boys passed, her eyes briefly lingering on them before she smirked and nudged Dorcas with her elbow. The two exchanged a glance that made your stomach turn sour.

“Since when did they become the heartthrobs of the castle?” you muttered under your breath, half to Lily, half to yourself.

Lily’s green eyes narrowed slightly. “Since they realised girls exist, apparently.” Her tone was dry, but you could tell she was just as irritated as you were.

James caught your eye as he passed. His grin widened. With an exaggerated flick of his wrist, he tossed his broomstick from one hand to the other, showing off his reflexes. It was a ridiculous, peacocking display, but he looked irritatingly pleased with himself as he strolled by.

“Looking forward to the first Quidditch match, then?” he called out, though he was clearly speaking to you. His voice carried easily over the crowd. “Better get a good seat, might see me break a record or two,”

You glared at him. “I’ll be sure to bring my sick bucket, just in case the show makes me ill,”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s missed you, James. I can tell,”

James didn’t respond right away. He just kept looking at you, his hazel eyes glittering with amusement, as though your snark was the highlight of his day.

You turned back toward Lily and Severus, deliberately ignoring him.

But the exchange seemed to satisfy him.

—

The Great Hall was louder than ever that evening. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the dusky lavender sky, dotted with early evening stars. You sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene. Severus was over at the Slytherin table, his face half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair as he bent over his meal, avoiding any and all attention.

You could feel the heat of James’ gaze before you even glanced his way. He was two seats down with Sirius, laughing a little too loudly at a joke Remus had made, occasionally glancing sideways in your direction. When you finally shot him a flat, disinterested look, he didn’t even try to be subtle. He smirked and tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you to keep ignoring him.

It was maddening.

Lily noticed. “You know he’s only doing it because you react,” she muttered, poking at her mashed potatoes.

“I’m not reacting,” you snapped back in a low voice.

“Sure,” Dorcas drawled, not even looking up from her pumpkin juice. “That’s why you’re glaring at him like you want him to burst into flames,”

Marlene snorted. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though. He’s bloody annoying,”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shoving a bite of bread into your mouth just to keep yourself from saying something regrettable. The longer you sat there, the more it grated on you—James’ easy confidence, the way Sirius whispered something in his ear that made him glance over at you again, both of them grinning like idiots.

Your fingers tightened around your fork.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

The bread was dry in your mouth, sticking unpleasantly to the roof of your mouth. You forced it down with a gulp of pumpkin juice. You were halfway through formulating a perfectly scathing glare when James’ voice rang out across the table.

“Oi, McKinnon!” he called out suddenly. “You coming to the pitch tomorrow? Early practice. Gotta keep the team sharp if we’re going to destroy Slytherin,”

Marlene raised a brow but nodded, clearly amused. “Bright and early, Potter,”

James grinned. His eyes flicked back toward you. “You should come too,” he said, voice light and teasing. “You could watch me practice. Might even dedicate a goal to you,”

It was such a pompous, ridiculous thing to say, you actually let out a laugh—but it was cold, sharp, and entirely without humour.

“Right,” you drawled, your voice dripping with disdain. “Because that would be such an honour,”

Dorcas snickered into her goblet, but James seemed unfazed. In fact, his grin widened, as though he was utterly delighted by your scorn.

You scowled and turned back toward your plate.

“That boy,” you muttered, stabbing your carrots with more force than necessary, “is going to drive me mad.”

Lily cast you a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching faintly. “You do know you’re giving him exactly what he wants, right?”

You scowled. “What he wants is a concussion,”

Marlene let out a low chuckle, but from the corner of your eye, you caught James still watching you—head propped in his hand, wearing a lopsided smirk that made your stomach twist with irritation.

And yet, you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Stupid traitorous blood vessels.

—

The next few weeks at Hogwarts passed in a blur of early autumn mornings and late-night study sessions, but James made it his personal mission to remain a consistent, inescapable thorn in your side.

No matter where you went—whether it was rushing to Transfiguration, trying to concentrate in the library, or simply walking to the Great Hall—he was always there, hovering on the edge of your awareness.

And always, always, with that insufferable smirk.

At first, you chalked it up to him being bored.

That was the only logical explanation.

James and his friends had been tormenting you, Lily, and Severus for the past three years—hexing Severus’ cauldron to bubble over, charming your quills to squawk like chickens mid-essay, or charming your bag to fly around the classroom, spilling ink all over your notes. So, of course, this new fixation was just another game. Another way to irritate you.

But then he didn’t stop.

If anything, it escalated.

You were coming out of Charms one afternoon when you heard his voice—loud and overly casual—float down the corridor.

“Hey, did you see that Wronski Feint during practice?” he announced to no one in particular, but you immediately knew the performance was for your benefit. You stiffened as you walked by, but James’ voice carried on, deliberately and obnoxiously. “No? You should really pay more attention. Could’ve sworn you were watching me,”

You didn’t slow your stride or glance in his direction. You simply kept walking, grinding your teeth.

The next day, you spotted him leaning against the doorframe outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. His tie was loose around his neck, and he was running his fingers through his hair in that deliberately careless way you were starting to recognize as his signature move. It was so predictable now that you could practically count down in your head before he did it.

Three… two… one—

“Oh, this?” he said loudly when you walked by, tugging at a lock of his untamed hair. “Yeah, just got off my broom. Early morning practice. You know how it is—gotta be the best on the field, after all,”

You turned your head sharply, fixing him with a withering glare. “Is that what you tell yourself to make up for the fact that you’re insufferable off the field?”

For a brief moment, you saw James’ eyes flash with surprise, as though he hadn’t expected you to bite back so quickly. But then the corners of his mouth quirked upward, clearly thrilled.

You stalked off before he could fire back with some infuriatingly cocky retort, but you could practically feel his grin at your back.

—

It wasn’t just the hallways. You were convinced he was orchestrating it now—finding ways to place himself in your line of sight or to make sure his voice reached your ears.

In Potions, he made a show of stretching as he walked past your table, rolling his shoulders like he was nursing a Quidditch injury, despite the fact that you were fairly certain Gryffindor hadn’t had practice in two days.

“Ugh, strained my shoulder last match,” he announced to no one in particular, though his eyes flickered in your direction. “Happens when you carry the whole team, you know?”

Dorcas, who was hunched over her cauldron beside you, snorted so quietly you nearly missed it. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips.

You gripped your stirring rod a little too tightly, turning the ingredients with more force than necessary.

“Do you think if we hexed his lips shut he’d still find a way to talk?” you muttered under your breath.

Dorcas’ eyes glimmered with mischief. “Oh, definitely. He’d probably find a way to mime his Quidditch stats,”

You let out a sharp, unrestrained laugh, drawing the attention of the students around you. When you glanced up, you found James watching you. His hazel eyes had a glimmer of something warm in them—something that caught you off guard, if only for a moment.

But then he winked.

Your face immediately hardened. You turned back to your cauldron with a scowl, ignoring the strange, uncomfortable heat building in your chest.

—

It didn’t stop.

By the time the third week rolled around, James’ antics had grown so frequent and shameless that Lily had taken to audibly groaning whenever he opened his mouth in your vicinity.

“Honestly, does he think it’s subtle?” she muttered to you one evening as the two of you made your way to the library. “It’s embarrassing,”

You didn’t even have the energy to argue. You were too busy fuming about the incident from earlier that day when James had dramatically “dedicated” his goal during a Quidditch scrimmage to you in front of half the school.

Now, as you and Lily made your way toward the library, you could still hear his voice in your head, all dripping arrogance and showmanship.

You were mid-rant when Lily suddenly came to a stop, glancing over your shoulder with a grimace. You followed her gaze—and there he was again.

James was sauntering down the corridor toward you with Sirius at his side. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and he was saying something that made Sirius snicker under his breath. The two of them were a walking embodiment of cocky, lazy confidence, and it made your blood boil.

James caught sight of you and, predictably, his entire face lit up. He slowed his stride, falling slightly behind Sirius so he could meet your eyes as he passed.

“Hey,” he drawled, casual as ever, with that infuriating half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just heading back from the pitch. Did you catch the scrimmage? Thought of you, y’know. Every goal,”

You leveled him with a look of pure disdain.

“Funny,” you said, voice laced with false sweetness. “Every time I see you, I think about throwing myself into the Black Lake. But you don’t see me announcing it, do you?”

For the first time in weeks, James actually seemed momentarily stunned into silence. His eyes widened slightly before his lips parted in surprise, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something flash behind his eyes—something oddly genuine, like he was genuinely caught off guard by how cutting you could be.

Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A low, warm sound that made your stomach clench with irritation.

“I like you,” he said, far too sincerely for your liking. “You’ve got fire,”

And then he was walking away, still grinning to himself, while you stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your heart hammering far too quickly for someone who was supposed to be unimpressed.

Lily arched a brow. “You sure you’re not reacting?”

You glared at her.

“Shut up.”

—

It happened right before Christmas.

You remembered that because it was the first properly cold morning of the term—the kind that bit at your skin and left the stone corridors of the castle slick with condensation. You had been walking with Lily and Severus down the main courtyard steps, talking idly about your latest Charms assignment. The courtyard was crowded, full of students making their way toward the greenhouses or heading down to the lake before the weather grew too bitter.

You had been halfway through complaining about Flitwick’s unreasonable essay length when it happened.

It began with a flash of light—brief, sharp, and disorienting. For a second, you thought someone had simply cast a Lumos a little too enthusiastically. But then you heard the noise.

A loud, high-pitched squealing filled the air. It was shrill and almost cartoonish, like the sound of a pig being chased around a farmyard. You froze, confused, your eyes darting around for the source of the noise. And then you saw him.

Severus.

Your stomach plummeted.

He was standing several feet away from you, trembling slightly. His wand had been knocked from his hand and lay several feet behind him in the damp grass. His face—no, his entire head—was unrecognisable.

In place of his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones, his features had morphed grotesquely. His skin was mottled and sagging, and his eyes were comically large and bulging, like a frog’s. His mouth stretched into a wide, drooping line, slurred and drooling at the edges. But worst of all was the sound—every time he opened his mouth, no words came out. Just that hideous, animalistic squealing.

For a moment, you didn’t understand.

Then you saw them.

James and Sirius were several paces away, wands still drawn. Sirius was bent double with laughter, clutching his stomach, while James stood upright, grinning broadly, his eyes alight with the kind of reckless, boyish amusement you had once found so infuriatingly charming.

Your stomach turned.

Severus took a step back, wild-eyed and humiliated, his mutated face flushed with raw, boiling shame. You were already moving toward him, reaching for your wand, your chest tight with anger, when you felt it.

A sudden, powerful whoosh of magic slammed into you.

You heard Lily cry out beside you as the spell hit you both—an obvious bit of collateral damage, careless and incidental. You staggered backward from the force of it, blinking as your vision blurred.

When you wiped at your face with your sleeve, you realised your skin was sticky with a thin, viscous film of potion. It clung to your cheeks and hair, leaving a bitter, chemical taste in your mouth.

You stared down at your hands in shock. The tips of your fingers had turned an unnatural shade of green, the skin puckering slightly as though you’d been submerged in a swamp for hours. You felt your cheeks swell—puffy and numb—and when you glanced at Lily, you saw her frantically scrubbing at her own arms, where iridescent scales were spreading in a glittering patchwork over her skin.

The crowd around you had gone deathly silent. Students were no longer passing by on their way to class. They had stopped. They were watching.

Someone laughed.

It was Sirius.

“Merlin’s balls, Snivelly,” he cackled, doubling over with glee. “I was going for ugly, but you’ve outdone yourself. You look bloody spectacular,”

James snorted beside him, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Tough luck, Sev,” he drawled, wand still loosely in his hand.

You felt a sharp jolt in your chest.

It wasn’t just a prank. It wasn’t just childish rivalry. This was cruel. And what was worse—it was public.

Severus was still staggering slightly, blinking furiously, his enormous, frog-like eyes watery with equal parts rage and humiliation. His shoulders were rigid, his hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. You knew that if he could speak, he would be cursing them with every hex he could think of.

Instead, he just stood there. A grotesque, disfigured spectacle.

Your wand was in your hand before you even realised it.

“Finite!” you barked, voice shaking slightly. The spell lifted from your skin in a thin, shimmering mist. The potion residue vanished, but your cheeks were still slick with it, sticky and warm. You spun on your heel, grabbing Lily’s wrist, helping her clean the remaining scales from her arms. Your hands were trembling slightly, but you forced them steady.

When you turned to Severus, you hesitated. Your hands hovered over him uselessly, unsure how to help. You couldn’t reverse the effects with a simple counter-curse—whatever they’d hit him with was complex, possibly potion-based. You clenched your jaw.

Before you could even speak, you heard James’ voice again.

“Relax, he’ll be fine,” he said breezily, waving a hand as if he were dismissing a particularly dull lesson. His tone was light, almost bored, as though it were all just harmless fun. “We were just—”

“Just?”

Your voice rang out louder than you intended, raw and incredulous.

You rounded on him, wand still clenched in your hand, your chest tight with fury. You were dimly aware of Lily standing stiffly beside you, her fists trembling at her sides. Dorcas and Marlene had appeared somewhere in the crowd, their eyes wide, but you were too focused on James to notice.

“Just what, exactly?” you spat. “Just making him a laughingstock in front of the entire school? Just making sure everyone will talk about this for weeks? Just making sure he’ll remember this every time he walks into a room?”

James blinked, clearly startled by the venom in your voice. For a fleeting moment, you saw something flicker behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or maybe just surprise at the force of your anger.

But before he could speak, Sirius clapped him on the back and let out a sharp, barking laugh.

“Bit of fun, love,” Sirius grinned, eyes glinting. “No harm done,”

No harm done.

You turned sharply to Severus. His breathing was shallow and uneven. His wand was still lying several feet away in the grass, but he didn’t move toward it. He didn’t move at all. His hands were still curled into fists, shaking slightly at his sides, but his eyes—now back to normal, though still rimmed with faint red—were fixed on the ground. Refusing to look at anyone. Refusing to let them see.

You felt something cold and leaden settle in your chest.

You turned back to James and Sirius, trembling with rage, but they were already walking away, laughing to themselves. Laughing.

James’ hand was still casually ruffling his hair as they strolled toward the castle steps, as though nothing had happened. As though the entire incident was a meaningless bit of entertainment.

You felt something twist in your chest—sharp, ugly, and unforgiving.

For the first time, you didn’t just find James Potter irritating.

You hated him.

—

The Gryffindor common room was warm and buzzing with the low hum of evening chatter. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a dim, golden glow across the room. Groups of students were scattered in their usual spots—some lounging on the worn, oversized armchairs, others cross-legged on the rug, trading Chocolate Frog cards and talking over the sound of a battered wizarding wireless crackling faintly in the corner.

It was the usual cozy, carefree scene. One you might have found comforting, even, if you weren’t still seething.

You stood near the far wall with Lily, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes sharp and unyielding. You hadn’t spoken since you’d entered the room. Neither had Lily. You hadn’t needed to. The quiet, crackling tension between you was louder than any conversation.

Across the room, James sat on the arm of a squashy red sofa, laughing idly at something Sirius had just said. He had shed his outer robes, lounging comfortably in his shirt and tie. His hair was its usual mess, sticking up wildly in every direction, and he ran his fingers through it as he grinned at whatever nonsense Sirius was spouting. His broomstick was propped lazily against the wall behind him, as though he’d just returned from practice and hadn’t even bothered to put it away.

He was relaxed, comfortable—unbothered.

And that made something in you snap.

You didn’t consciously decide to move. You just did. Your feet carried you across the room with swift, deliberate steps, each one driven by the raw, simmering anger that had been building in your chest since that afternoon. You vaguely heard Lily following behind you, but your eyes were locked on James.

The room was still filled with idle conversation, but it dimmed in your ears, muffled and distant, like everything else had blurred except for the space directly in front of you. You came to a sharp stop right in front of him.

James glanced up, momentarily surprised. His grin wavered slightly when he saw the look on your face—hard and cold, all sharp angles and barely restrained fury.

“Potter.”

The casual, easygoing lightness in his eyes flickered, confused by the way you spat his name. He straightened slightly, his fingers still loosely curled around the arm of the sofa, but his grin hadn’t entirely disappeared.

“Hey,” he greeted, still wearing that maddeningly lopsided smile. “What’s—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was low and firm. Sharp enough to cut.

James’ grin faltered. He blinked, slightly caught off guard. Around you, a few people were starting to glance over. Even Sirius’ voice had dimmed slightly, sensing the shift in your tone.

You stared at James, your chest tight, the words already rising in your throat, burning hot and unchecked.

“You think you’re funny?” you asked flatly, your voice low and cold. “You think you’re charming?” Your lips curled in disgust. “You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.”

The noise in the room dimmed further. Several Gryffindors nearby turned their heads, eyes flickering between you and James. Even Sirius, who had been halfway through a sentence, fell silent, his brow furrowing slightly.

James’ eyes widened faintly at your words. His mouth opened slightly, as though he was about to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“You humiliated Severus today,” you continued, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Publicly. Deliberately.” Your eyes narrowed, and you felt your throat tighten with the force of your own anger. “You hexed me and Lily, and you didn’t even notice.” You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Because we were nothing more than collateral damage to you. Because that’s all anyone is to you—pawns in your pathetic little game.”

James’ lips parted slightly. The easy smirk was gone now. His hazel eyes were wide, blinking slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

But you weren’t done.

“You’re not clever,” you hissed. “You’re not funny. You’re not some tragic, misunderstood hero. You’re just a coward with a wand and too much free time.”

For the first time since you’d known him, James Potter didn’t have a comeback.

He was still staring at you, his face oddly still, but his eyes were tight around the edges, his throat bobbing slightly. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again.

“We’re not your entertainment.” Lily stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. Her green eyes were like shards of glass as she looked at James, and when she spoke, there was no warmth left in her voice.

“Not me,” she said slowly, her tone hard and deliberate. “Not her.” She glanced at you briefly, then turned her gaze back to James. “And certainly not Severus.” She took another step closer, her voice barely above a whisper but thick with restrained fury. “Grow the hell up. You’re not a child anymore.”

You saw James’ throat tighten, saw the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. His hands had slipped from the arm of the sofa, falling loosely into his lap, and he was staring at Lily as though she had physically struck him.

And for once, he didn’t say anything.

No glib remark. No boyish grin. No cocky retort.

Just silence.

Around you, the entire common room was still. All eyes were on the two of you. You could feel the weight of the stares—the sudden, suffocating attention pressing in from all sides. You could feel the tension settle heavily in the room, thick and suffocating, like the whole castle was holding its breath.

You stared at James for a moment longer, daring him to speak, daring him to try and laugh it off. But he didn’t. His eyes were on you, wide and unreadable, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

“I hope you have the Christmas you deserve.”

You turned sharply on your heel, the blood roaring in your ears, and without another word, you walked out of the common room. You didn’t glance back, but you heard Lily’s steps following closely behind you.

The heavy wooden door swung shut behind you with a dull, resounding thud.

Neither of you spoke as you walked through the dim, winding corridors. Your breath was still shallow with adrenaline, and your hands were trembling slightly, your fingers curled tightly into fists. You didn’t slow your stride, didn’t glance at Lily, didn’t say a word.

But you didn’t need to.

Because the image of James’ face—stunned and silent, stripped of its usual arrogance—was burned into your memory, a hollow ache had settling in your chest.

Not like it had a few weeks ago. No, this was raw unbridled loathing.

—

James Potter had been hexed more times than he could count. He’d had stinging jinxes blast him off his feet, been thrown into the air by poorly aimed levitation charms, and had more than one duel with Sirius that had left him sore and limping for days.

But none of it—not a single curse or hex—had ever landed with the same sharp, breathless impact as your words in the common room.

He sat there for a long time after you and Lily had left. Long after the crowd had dispersed, after the low hum of conversation returned and people pretended they hadn’t just watched Gryffindor’s most popular pranksters get publicly shredded.

James didn’t say a word.

He was still on the edge of the sofa, his elbows braced against his knees, fingers loosely clasped. His eyes were fixed on the carpet, unmoving.

Sirius, who had initially made a few half-hearted quips about your “overreaction,” gradually fell silent. Even he could sense that something was off. After a while, he clapped James once on the back, muttered something about heading up to the dorm, and left.

Remus, who had watched the entire thing with that unreadable, mildly disapproving expression he sometimes wore, simply gave James a brief look before heading upstairs himself.

Peter, sensing the shift, trailed after them.

And then James was alone.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he sat there, staring at the fire as it crackled low in the grate. His jaw was tight, his hands stiff, but he couldn’t move. The words kept circling in his head, sharp and unyielding.

You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.

His throat tightened.

He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to people being angry with him. Merlin knew plenty of professors were. McGonagall practically had a permanent glare reserved just for him. Even some of the older students rolled their eyes when they saw him and Sirius sauntering down the corridor, up to no good.

But you—you weren’t supposed to be like that.

James had spent years goading you, teasing you, pulling you into his line of fire because he liked watching you fight back. He liked the way your eyes flashed, the sharpness of your wit, the defiance in your voice. You were clever, quick, and infuriating in all the best ways.

He’d always thought you were fun. Even when you scowled and hexed him, even when you spat insults at him, there had always been a part of him that assumed you were playing along.

Because he had been.

But now, sitting alone in the dying firelight, he realised he’d been wrong.

You weren’t playing. You weren’t rolling your eyes with secret amusement or secretly enjoying the banter. You genuinely, sincerely disliked him. Loathed him, even.

And what was worse—he wasn’t entirely sure he could blame you.

—

After the Christmas holidays, James tried to shake it off. He returned to Quidditch practice, flew longer and harder than usual, pushed himself until his muscles burned.

He let Sirius convince him to pull a few small pranks—nothing serious, just minor jinxes that left a few Slytherins stomping down the hallways in a rage—but none of it worked. None of it pulled his mind from the image of you, glaring at him with cold, unrestrained contempt, your voice shaking with fury.

You were avoiding him.

And it was driving him mad.

It wasn’t as though you had ever sought him out before, but he had gotten used to your presence—used to you rolling your eyes whenever he strolled into the common room, used to the exasperated glances you shot him when he launched into some self-congratulatory Quidditch monologue.

But now, you didn’t even look at him.

You walked past him in the corridor without sparing him a glance. You sat at the opposite end of the common room with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene, your back turned sharply whenever he walked by. When you passed by him on your way to class, you barely acknowledged him, your face hard and impassive.

It was worse than if you had hexed him. Worse than if you had screamed at him.

Because it was deliberate.

He started pulling back without even realising it. His usual attempts to show off—the casually loud mentions of Quidditch practice, the not-so-subtle hair ruffling, the needlessly flashy spellwork—gradually fell away. He stopped making excuses to linger near you, stopped trying to catch your attention with deliberately obnoxious comments.

Instead, he found himself watching you from a distance.

He would glance across the common room at you, quietly studying the way you leaned forward when you were deep in conversation, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Or he would spot you walking ahead of him in the corridor and, for some reason, he would slow his pace slightly, watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear or bit your lip when you were lost in thought.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some sign that you weren’t still furious with him, maybe. Some proof that you didn’t completely hate him.

But he never found it.

—

Meanwhile, things with Severus shifted.

You didn’t notice it at first. It was subtle—the way he started keeping his voice lower in the corridors, the way his eyes flickered warily toward passing Gryffindors when the two of you walked together.

But then he started making excuses.

He began skipping your usual study sessions in the library, claiming he had extra Potions work. You caught him slipping away early from the Great Hall during dinner, retreating to the dungeons alone. You asked him twice to meet you by the lake on Saturday, but he mumbled something about needing to help Slughorn with an experiment and left before you could ask again.

And then one day, you saw him walking across the courtyard. Alone.

You were on your way to class with Lily when you spotted him heading toward the castle. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair falling in front of his face, obscuring the sharp lines of his profile. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and he was walking quickly, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Your first thought was that he must have been hexed again, but then you saw the Marauders loitering by the courtyard steps. James, Sirius, and Peter were laughing about something, but they didn’t even glance in Severus’ direction.

Because they didn’t need to.

Severus was already slipping away on his own. Already making himself small.

Already retreating.

You felt something twist in your chest.

“Hey!” you called out sharply, your voice carrying across the stone courtyard.

Severus slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. His expression was wary, his eyes flickering toward the Gryffindor group before settling on you.

“Wait up,” you said, hurrying toward him.

But instead of waiting, he shook his head slightly and quickened his pace.

“Sev—”

“Just—go with Lily,” he muttered under his breath, not slowing. “I’ll see you later.”

And then he was gone, slipping through the castle doors without looking back.

You stared after him, blinking, your chest tightening with a slow, familiar ache.

Lily placed a hand gently on your arm, her voice quiet. “He’s trying to protect himself,” she said softly. “You know that, right?”

You swallowed hard, but didn’t respond.

You just stared at the castle doors, feeling something cold and bitter settle deep in your chest. Because you did know.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

[hrrtshape]

never listen to an anti-shifter.

never let them in your ear, never let them sit at your table. it’s a losing game, a house always wins situation.

because, ok, anti-shifters don’t hate shifting. they hate themselves. they hate that they tried once, twice, a dozen times, and got nothing but the black of their own eyelids, their own breath bouncing back at them. they hate that you have patience they do not. they hate that you see a door and walk through it, and they stand in the threshold muttering something about physics, about logic, about how the world simply does not work that way. anti-shifters are like people who read the first three pages of a novel and declare it unreadable, then sneer when you finish the whole thing and tell them it was brilliant.

it’s a bit like sitting in a room with someone who’s never been in love and listening to them explain why love doesn’t exist. how it’s just hormones and habit and a trick of the light. you listen politely, you nod along, and then you go home to the person who sends your heart clawing at your ribs like a dog at the door. the point is....people who don’t get it will never get it, and they’d rather pull you down to their level than admit they might be wrong. you ever see a dog bark at its own reflection? it’s that. it’s resentment dressed as rationality.

so they call you delusional. a dreamer. they say it like it’s an insult, like the world wasn’t built on delusions. you think the wright brothers weren’t called insane? you think galileo didn’t get laughed out of rooms? people used to think tomatoes were poison. people used to think the earth was flat. some people still think the earth is flat. you are standing in a lineage of people who believe beyond belief, and some guy with a reddit account is not about to change that.

because here’s what they won’t say out loud. they are jealous. not just of the shifting....of you. of your ability to see beyond the edge of the map, beyond the exit signs, beyond the way things are. of your ability to step into something larger than yourself without looking back. of the way your mind is elastic and theirs is rigid, locked in place like a rusted hinge. shifting is not just about movement. it’s about knowing you were meant for more. and nothing terrifies an anti-shifter more than someone who believes in something bigger than what they have been told.

and so, they scoff. they quote science articles they do not understand, they call you childish. but. the ones who cry the loudest have the most to hide. they want to shift. they just can’t admit it. they want it the way people want all impossible things... with their hands behind their backs, pretending not to reach for it. and that? that is their burden to bear. not yours. never yours. you're simply meant for greater things.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Palmetto Tortoise Beetle: the larvae of this species produce long, thin strands of feces that are gradually woven together to form protective "fecal shields" around their bodies

During its larval stage, the Palmetto tortoise beetle (Hemisphaerota cyanea) uses its own feces to create a defensive layer known as a "fecal shield" or "fecal thatch."

As this article explains:

Most remarkable, perhaps, is the fecal “thatch” of Hemisphaerota cyanea. In the larva of this beetle, the feces are emitted in strands, which, as they build up over the course of larval life, form a loose assemblage that totally hides the larva from view.

The construction of the "fecal thatch" begins almost immediately after the larva hatches. Each larva begins to feed within minutes of hatching, and the very first fecal strands emerge from its anal turret just a few minutes later. Subsequent strands are then produced in quick succession, and they begin to accumulate around the larva's body; as each strand emerges, it is made to curve around the larva's left or right side depending on whether the anal turret is flexed to the left or right. The direction of the curve usually alternates from one strand to the next, ensuring that a nest-like structure is formed around the larva's body.

As they emerge, the fecal strands are gathered together and then cemented into place with the help of an anatomical feature known as a caudal fork. Once an individual strand has been extruded to its full length, the anal turret is rotated upward until it comes into contact with the caudal fork, and the larva then pinches off the strand while secreting a droplet of "glue," which effectively cements each fecal strand into place against the caudal fork.

It generally takes about 12 hours for the larva to finish building its very own "fecal shield."

As an adult, the Palmetto tortoise beetle has another unusual defense mechanism: its tarsi (i.e. feet) are each lined with 10,000 tiny adhesive bristles, and when the beetle is attacked, it can press its feet flat against the surface of a leaf and secrete an oil that allows it to adhere to that surface with an enormous amount of strength. The adhesive mechanism is strong enough to resist pulling forces that are up to 60 times greater than the beetle's own weight for a full 2 minutes; it can resist even greater forces (up to 230 times greater than the beetle's own weight) for shorter periods of time.

According to this article from the University of Florida:

Each of the greatly enlarged tarsi is equipped with approximately 10,000 adhesive bristles. Each bristle has two terminal pads. When walking, only a few of the bristles touch the leaf surface. However, when attacked by a predator, the beetle puts all or nearly all of the bristles in contact with the surface and secretes oil onto the pads. With the adhesive force created by the oil between the leaf surface and tarsi, the beetle is able to clamp its hemispherical shell down tightly against the leaf and has been demonstrated to withstand pulling forces of approximately 60 times its own weight for up to two minutes. This time period is sufficient to thwart the efforts of predatory ants attempting to pry the beetle from the leaf. 

Palmetto tortoise beetles are native to the southeastern United States, and they're especially common in Florida (which is why they're also known as Florida tortoise beetles).

Sources & More Info:

Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences: Defensive Use of a Fecal Thatch by a Beetle Larva (Hemisphaerota cyanea)

Earth Touch News Network: By the Power of the Poop-Shield: Beetle Defenses of the Faecal Kind

Cornell Chronicle: Fecal Defense: This Beetle Uses 'Overhead Sewer System' to Ward off (most) Predators, Cornell Biologists Discover

Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences: Defense by Foot Adhesion in a Beetle (Hemisphaerota cyanea)

University of Florida: Palmetto Tortoise Beetle

Bug Guide: Hemisphaerota cyanea

[widowsofchaos]

Buckynat

𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

—- even the unloveable can be loved.

pairing // bucky barnes x brown!fem!reader x natasha romanoff

warnings // dom/sub smut (Shibari), cheating, mention of pcos, stretch marks, and hyperpigmentation. mention of an unnamed omc.

a/n // read it here on ao3. I hope whoever requested this, sees this. sorry for taking so long. wrote this in a low point in my life. hope you enjoy. <3

It’s methodical.

A routine well practiced, it’s recited in your footsteps. Auto-piloting through the lavish apartment corridors, a secluded area in the compound that always leaves you in a daze, coordinating footfalls that felt as a maze—- with keys digging in your grip.

The rigid craved curves dig into the flesh of your thumb, wedging the copper tip underneath your fingernail, edging on subtle pain.

The path to the secure living spaces of the earth’s mightiest heroes is a familiar one. The billion-dollar compound is secured and shrouded in silence.

The ideal timing, when the majority of the avengers are in their own worlds. Some are on a mission, and some are just —- not here.

The walk of shame isn’t something you want. Despite being a lab technician for Tony, you don’t try to rub elbows. You’re use to being alone, casted in the shadows—- and just because you warm the bed of two avengers doesn’t mean, you yearn to fuck your way to the top.

Another turn in the hallway, and right at the end of the corridor, is that familiar sterling gray door. Just beyond it is your solitude.

Copper ridges twist and unlock, the crisp air conditioning fans your face as the door opens, relaxing your nerves.

Slipping out of your flats, by a whisk of your ankle, the shoes are perched at the door. Smoothly you glide your wedding ring off—- hide it away in your pocket, all its value is nothing more than a stranger now.

Steadied steps inside the spacious apartment. Pristine, with cool tones. Perched on the polished flooring is a rich violet pillow.

Well versed motions, mutely, you remove each article of clothing. From the flaps of your beige blazer, to your white button blouse, each button snapping open with anxious aggression, to your unzipping your black skirt—— the anticipation of the zipper splitting open against the flesh of your thigh.

Folding neatly, fabric on top of another, resting on the pristine couch.

It’s all arousing.

To be owned. To be eaten carnally. To be degraded, reduced to nothing. Some days, the aftercare is merely an afterthought, you think you don’t care for it, because it’s a belief of not deserving of it.

Some days, you depress yourself, thinking that you’re just a sex toy to a bored couple. But, when they touch you, caress you—- your heart settles, and you feel safe.

Grateful to them, for once —- in all the years of your life, you never once accepted your sexuality, nor explored regions of intimacy. Embarrassed of extra flesh you carry, and scars, finally, to have anyone adore these flaws.

To be taken care of is still a foreign concept, a notion that even your boyfriend doesn’t even entertain so often.

A few kisses here, and a stroke against the meat of your thigh there—- no, he doesn’t clean up the rawness, the humanity of facing the aftermath of sex.

Nor does he want to. He doesn’t want to touch the darkness that casts upon your inner thighs.

Rarely any relationship birthed from obligation promises a happily ever after.

Now you sit, kneeling on the lush readied cushion, just for you. Awaiting for the touch, the manhandling. The silence prevails in the apartment space. Enveloping you with bated breath.

The walls have eyes.

They’re watching you. You can feel the forest green and icy blue hues stalking you akin to predators in the wild, awaiting their vulnerable prey.

Goosebumps form on your flesh, palms resting on your knees. Skilled and lethal, years of expertise—- they tread in silence. All the more erotic, to be caught off guard, knowing that you can never win. Never hide from them.

They can sniff your soul a mile away.

They need control. After decades of being subjected forcefully to commit heinous acts —- even still seen as criminals, despite saving the world numerous times.

Used as puppets, with no autonomy. Both learned through each other —- even in the most violent environments —- that safety isn’t impossible, if it's through tender intimacy, or communication.

Mastered the art of speaking with just their eyes.

A moment passes, and you wait, as a loyal dog. It turns them on. To see you obedient, even when you’re trembling in your skin, to be touched.

Staring at the wall ahead, fingers fidget against your bare thigh, your bum seated against the soles of your feet.

You didn’t even hear him.

“Privet, moy pitomets.” Hello, my pet.

The vowels slip from his lips with ease, only a few words have been taught to you routinely, but the language remains foreign.

“Let me see your nails.” It’s not a request. Bucky inspects each nail closely. He sighs disappointedly to see swollen red cuticles.

“You’ve been biting.”

“More like ripping.”

Bucky gently smacks your fingers, with his right hand. “What did I tell you?” He chastises, his breath warm and wispy against the shell of your ear.

“Not to do that.”

Your head bows submissively, a twinge of genuine shame birthes itself, all your thoughts consume your mind, yes, yes, punish me, I deserve it.

“And yet, you deliberately disobey us.” A silky, Russian accent that edges on a moan with every vowel. Not daring to turn your face, gracious legs step into your eyesight.

Mindless picking relieves your mind from the small stresses. You don’t tell them the personal issues, just enough to indicate that there is a broken marriage, that was already fractured before the consummation.

“I want the pain.”

You are nothing, you are void of all that is pure. You deserve it—- “Pain, moya lyubov'?” My love. Natasha asks, kneeling to your eye level, but your eyes are downcasted.

Her index finger glides under your throat up the slope to your chin, sending a shiver down the terrain of your spine. Her finger curves, lifting your gaze to hers.

“Is that all you want?” Natasha speaks with silk on her tongue. Smooth metal fingers tread and engulf your throat, a caressing fist.

Bucky’s soft pink lips shower your check in tantalizing kisses—- feathery. Leaving you wanting more, his flesh hand weaves in your hair, stroking your scalp.

Pulling you to him, controlling you, handling you his way. Natasha hums, with that smug smirk she always dons.

“No.” You wheeze a whine, eyes dazed.

“Bucky hasn’t even touched you yet,” Natasha teases, her eyes catch your hip lifting just a bit, craving to be touched, “—- and already you’re cock drunk.”

You whine a whimper.

-

Swinging mid-air, bondaged with a blindfold shielding your eyes.

Washed in cold water, and oiled. Soft and flexible—- intricately hemp tied around the ceiling’s hook, and clings to your anchoring body.

Mischievously, you’re tied in a position that splits your legs apart, arms bent back as a bird’s wing, and digging into your torso in pretzel knots. Heavy breasts hang freely as the hemp is tied akin to a bralet, roving between the hills of each tit.

It’s been hours. Three to be exact. A few breaks in-between.

A gust of breath escapes you, panting as your body settles from another orgasm. Vibrating from your skin, if you could, you would melt within these knots.

Bucky’s thumbs caressing and digging into your hips assuring you.

But, some moments, you cringe at the sensation of his fingers stroking your spilt thighs. Fleshy, and darkened—- you swallow that tightness in your throat with soft moans.

Eye-lids wrinkling behind the shrouded fabric, but you swallow the brewing prickles in your throat. Masking the cringe deep inside.

Natasha is completely naked, unbuckling the leather strap from her hips; smugly staring as Bucky has been ravishing your soppy cunt. Your skin is coated in a dew of sweat, as faint purplish handprints bloom on the swell of your hips.

Both of them have been taking turns on you. Natasha fucking you deep with her strap, and Bucky with his cock. Having you eat Natasha out, her finger gripping your hair as Bucky savored you, thighs split. Just a moment ago, Bucky stuffed your mouth full as Nat’s long smooth pink dildo had you crying with pleasure.

“Hmm,” Nat hums to herself teasingly. Her slender ivory fingers caress your chin, lifting your head. She can see your chest heaving, you’ve been wrung loose. “Maybe we should stop.”

Bucky’s teeth nip at the rope, his lips gliding against your shoulder blade. “Maybe.” He taunts. “You probably had enough.” He whispers in the shell of your ear.

You mumble, but the words just can’t fall out.

“What was that?” Natasha’s brows lift, “We couldn’t hear you.” Her fingertips tapping the underside of your chin.

“Please fuck me.” Wringing your hands against the tight rope, a low whine stretches. Bucky tsks. “Please.”

Both chuckle. Insatiable, Nat mumbles with a lazy grin.

Bucky’s fingers glide against your split mound, fondling the empty connection between you both. With gentle ease, he readies himself inside you, following with a smooth thrust.

Bucky pauses for a second, and sighs. He looks down at his cock with realization, a lazy smirk. You turn your head over the slope of your shoulder, despite being blinded, “What’s wrong?” you pant.

“I guess we forgot a rubber.” Bucky laughs. Natasha breathes a chuckle, murmuring that she’ll get another one real quick.

Adrenaline rushing to your ears. You utter a small no, their smiles fade a little, but you don’t see it. Your skin feels the shift in the air, the quick silence.

Like vomit, your words spew.

“I can’t have children…. it’s okay.” You gesture over your shoulder, tugging on the knots. Not enjoying the silence, you swallow.

“Cum in me, please!” You wail, brows pinching. Tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

Curls stuck to your face by the sheen of your sweat, nearly tangled, and tears kissing your lashes. “You don’t have to be so cautious.” You laugh through a squint, blur of gray cotton. Laughing to guise the bitter twinge, making your words softer.

An odd glimmer passes through Natasha’s face. But it’s gone as fast as it came. Soothingly caressing your cheek, a flutter of her gaze catches Bucky, who nods so tenderly. Speaking through the silence, the need for the rush now dissipates to a kinder pace.

Natasha retrieves another condom, as Bucky’s thumbs caress you in circular motions. One part of your mind enjoys it and the other is sinking into itself, reminding you that he is touching your fat.

Bucky leans down, kissing the arch of your spine, “Remember your safe word—-” another kiss, “we’ll stop if we have to.” Two more kisses, and he gently adjusts by your waist, so his tip is just at your entrance. Curved and hung, stroking through your lips.

Natasha’s hands cup your cheeks, “Remember to breathe.” Your skin yearning with lust, and desperation. Just as your lungs expand, Bucky slowly sheethes himself inside you, earning a breathy sigh from both of you, his eyes fluttering.

Moaning low, as an odd sense of comfort. That he is meant to be here, inside you. A reminder that you are wanted. The taste of Nat lingers on your tongue, and it feels like home.

Starving for that high, reaching for it one more time. Your body can feel every thrust, but your mind is drifting. Stifling the thoughts, you try to focus on the pleasure.

Your body is a spongy blob, in need to be used. You are nothing, and the void must be filled. With a cock, or a strap. Replace the sorrow with the crack of a belt, or a striking hand.

Bucky fucks deep inside you, your breathing becoming heavy. Nat holds your cheeks, kissing you, swallowing your sounds. Her warm tongue slipped inside, dancing against yours.

It’s all so suffocating. To be between their presence. Bucky hit a curved angle, making you cry out.

Yes—- the familiar knot is tightening. The curve of Bucky’s cock stroking and punching that spot, that delicious spot—- his balls slapping your swollen clit.

Soft moans and guttural grunts dance together in the air. Natasha’s slender fingers gripping your throat, no doubt, she’s touching herself. To see her husband fuck animalisticly their third.

String of slick connects between Bucky’s sac and your swollen clit, spilt and weeping on his cock.

The pit in your belly is tightening, so close. Swirling thoughts plague your mind, distracting you from your approaching high. Trying to pay attention to Bucky’s grunts, and gripping hands, but the thoughts of ugliness and shame rip at your skin.

Closer… closer … closer…

A gasp and …. nothing.

“I didn’t … cum.” You spoke in a hush. Eyes moon-wide, lashes blink against the cotton, disbelief eroding within your veins. Staring through the barely mesh blind-fold. Your breathing becomes short.

“That’s okay.” Nat says, caressing your scalp. She’s a slight blur in your hazy vision, coming forth to you with gentle ease.

But all you feel is the rush of blood flooding your ears.

“I — didn’t cum.” You repeat, breasts heaving, the cage of your ribs erratic with breath.

“And that's—- okay.” Bucky repeats. His lips kisses your cheek, caressing the skin with his thumb. Bucky moves around you, being careful with your body. Blood rushes to your ears, dissociating into the void, as their footsteps fade from your mind.

Your head hangs low, eyes watery, and humiliated. Expecting at any second for them to cut you down, and make your grand escape. Ensure that you must resign, never show your face again, pretend you never existed—-

Soft hands gently start cutting at the rope, as another pair grabs at your body, making sure you don’t fall. With kind precision, Bucky pulls you to his warm body. Natasha flicks at the rope, splintering fibers into split ends. A white towel wrapped around his torso.

He caresses your body into a hug, and you’re speechless. Nearly sinking into your skin, like being swallowed by a black hole. Cringing at the realization of being naked. Trying to muster the words, to tell them that you don’t need help, and you’ll be leaving, but Bucky just carries you as a feather.

“Where—-” your words die in a groggy grunt, “—- where are you taking me?” Your eyes are bleary, brows knitting in frustration. Bucky chuckles, “You need a bath.” His lips curl into a smile.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to—” your words are snuffed by a shush, Natasha’s fingers stroke the hairs clinging to the sweat of your brow.

“We’re going to take care of you.” Spoken with such firmness, as if saying you’re not winning this. With such declarations in their tones, it’s enough to shut you up.

And they did. They took such care of you.

Bathing you with gentle hands. You can feel they were deep in thought, a shift now in the air. Silently cursing at yourself for being so compulsive with your words, sitting in the bath with empty eyes.

Pampered you with a soapy scrub, and comforting silence. Naked among each other, but not sexual. Bathing one another, as you slip inside the bubbles. The water is warm, and it nearly lulls you to sleep.

All you can feel is hands holding you gently, and the blur of the dim bathroom lights.

-

The phone is stuck in the grip of your palm, blankly staring at the screen. Desperately your thumb hovers over the keyboard, itching to just rip the band aid off.

You peek over the hill of your shoulder, making sure Nat and Bucky are sleeping. Fiddling with the hem of Bucky’s shirt, you always loved wearing his clothes— spacious and big to conceal your fluffy body; plus, it smells like him.

You couldn’t sleep. Restlessly your mind raced. The pit of your belly pinches, as you set your eyes back on the screen.

His contact picture mocking you.

Let him know. It’s over. No more enduring the humiliation of being nippicked, for what you can’t control. Why continue being with someone who doesn’t love you for yourself? Who always makes you feel less than dog shit?

A soft hand glides up from your shoulder blade to the cusp of your neck, earning a gasp from you.

Your eyes flit to your side, to see Natasha’s sharp eyes staring into your screen. It’s hard to read her face, it’s … void.

“I can’t have children either.” Nat whispers. Her eyes shift to you, a small smile lifts. “Doesn’t make us any less of a woman.” Her eyes blink with sympathy, unflinching.

No quivering in the truth. That’s one of the best aspects of Bucky and Natasha. Neither one lies. It’s always been pure honesty, never looking away from shame.

You wish to master that. To not let shame eat at your core, till it’s festering. To the point of crippling anxiety, falling apart at the idea of being perceived.

And yet, these two, have cracked you open, physically and emotionally—- has seen every bit of you with no judgment clouding their eyes. Found beauty and value within you—- but is it love? What if they found another?

You wouldn’t find this connection again—- “Don’t get lost on me.” Nat’s voice pulls you back, her knuckles grazing against your forearm.

“We can help you pack your things.”

Your brows pinch with confusion. Nat breathes a laugh. “While he’s gone, we can help you move in.” The light of the phone dimmed, but Natasha can still see through you. Her observant eyes unblinking.

“You want me… to move in?” Your voice floats on a whisper, feeling that anxious drop in your belly.

“We’ve been wanting that for so long.” Natasha says. Her eyes flew over to Bucky’s sleeping body, “I had to stop him from just taking you.” She smiles, laughing a bit.

“He was ready to tear the door down.” The image of Bucky barging in your home, and just taking you sent a jolt to your core—- so rugged. Natasha’s eyes gaze back to you. Her shiny nails softly graze your forearm.

“We love you.”

Those three words nearly make you cry. Yet, you have no love for yourself. It felt compulsive to ask—- “Why?” the question just spews. Natasha’s brows pinch.

“How can we not?” She asks, as if it’s the most ludicrous question. Your eyes filter away, staring down in shame. The light of the phone screen goes out, the darkness becomes your veil.

“Because my body is ruined.”

Natasha remains silent, you can only see a glimmer of her through the dark, not even the night slipping through the blackout drapes.

Soft fingertips graze the outline of your shoulder, it was the warm flesh fingers you are so familiar with.

“You’re not ruined.” A soft husk whispers behind you. With how he moves in silence, it should have startled you, but it didn’t. You felt Bucky’s breath fan the skin of your shoulder, caressing you with a shiver in its wake.

You have no doubt he was listening to the entire conversation— nothing could ever be hidden from either. You shake your head, your lips caving into your mouth into a tight lip.

“A lot of people would disagree with you.” You say, it’s second nature to speak with such defeatism, to never accept a compliment. It was always a rare occasion to be told that you were beautiful.

“Many people can fuck off.” Natasha snips. Her finger curls under your chin, making you look at her. A swirl of frustration and sympathy tastes her ivory-skinned features, illuminated by the dim darkness.

“I wish it was that easy.”

“It is.” Bucky hisses low, “You’re making it difficult for yourself.” His words sting, but the truth is all too bare.

He exhales a sigh, so soft you barely hear it. Your eyes staring into the void, straining to see your lap before you.

By now, the light of your cellphone is gone.

Bucky’s flesh knuckles stroke your shoulder blade, you can feel he wants to speak more; but he graces you with the chance to swallow his words.

“What would the team say?” Unshed tears sting your oculus, filtering from your left to right. Your head shakes in disbelief, trying to find words; but the vowels seem to limp from your tongue.

“What— wh…” you stammer, nose flaring to keep the tears at bay. “The three of us…” your lips wrinkle, “I don’t fit…”. Your entire face prunes in despair now.

“How would that look?” You speak hastily and anxiously, your throat feels raw, chest rising and falling rapidly. You can feel their eyes piercing through your entire body, the rush of blood and heat captures your ears.

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” Natasha says, her tone is edged. Her face leans in closer, her breath fanning your face.

“It matters to me.” You sniffle, your fingertips pointedly hitting against your chest. “I have lived my life by everybody’s opinions…their taunts… I… I don’t know how I…” you begin to fumble over your words again.

“None of them would be against us.” Bucky says softly. “Or mock us.” He takes your fingers into his, interlocking. You can feel his warmth encasing you, from his thumb stroking your knuckles.

“We wouldn’t let them get the chance.” Bucky’s voice is low, an edged husk.

“I don’t want to embarrass you.” You spoke in a whisper, grinding your teeth, restraining the itching in your throat. Droplets of tears rain down your cheeks, soaking the jut of your chin, down underneath your neck.

“We’re not embarrassed.” Natasha’s fingers guide your chin. “Far from it.” She kisses your scalp, earning just the softest hint of a smile.

A pregnant pause.

“I would love to live with you…” you speak as soft as a baby’s breath, “to feel loved for once…”. A resignation rests on you, weighing heavier and heavier. A battle of resistance, to grasp violently onto the sadness, and on the other side, is acceptance.

Just give in. Don’t you want love?

It’s not important what I want.

It’s all here… in the form of two souls… doesn’t it feel nice?

It does feel nice.

“What do I say… to him?” The mention of your boyfriend back home stirs an odd tug in your belly. “How do I tell him? A fight can break out—”

“How about you sleep on it.” Bucky interjects, as Natasha’s open fingers stroke your spine. You nod, trying to swallow the harshness in your throat, muttering an okay under your breath.

A fight won’t happen, Bucky thinks, he won’t let it happen. He can sense Natasha feeling the same. A silent agreement that if anyone tries to hurt you —- it would end quickly and six feet deep in dirt. But, your anxiety vibrates too loud at the moment, it’s best to just rest now.

Laying down between them, sinking into the sheets. Natasha and Bucky encase you, as Bucky puts your phone on the nightstand. Out of sight, out of mind.

You let your last message to your now ex-boyfriend be your white lie of sleeping over at your mother’s. Now, your bones melt into the mattress, tucked between two bodies—- you can start anew in the morning, till then, you just want to rest with the two people who make you feel safe.

[writing-for-life]

I think this article about Sandman/Flat Earth is an AI piece, or at least a very badly researched article…

Okay, I am NOT going to reblog the OP because I’m not going to directly boost engagement for this, but this “article” about the supposed parallels between The Sandman and Tales from the Flat Earth is currently floating around in the tags:

Please do NOT take this at face value. I strongly suspect someone clobbered this together with the help of AI, because most of it makes no sense whatsoever:

Half of the characters and story beats mentioned don’t even exist while important stuff is totally missing. Some of it is hilariously wrong as well: Sivesh is a boy/man, not a woman.

It’s honestly comically bad if you actually know Tales from the Flat Earth.

Since there are affiliate links at the bottom of it, it looks as if someone who has never read Tales from the Flat Earth spotted a business opportunity and quickly jumped on the bandwagon.

As someone who actually read both and thinks Matthew Boroson’s FB post is a bad faith piece that’s often factually wrong, or at least very embellished, I can only say: This is not it.

I’m currently sitting on a post to dig into what’s been said in that post and why it doesn’t really hold water if you do an actual comparison, but this is even worse than Boroson.

Tumblr makes me despair sometimes…

[kaffkanya]

scratches head dont flame me for this but sometimes i kinda......hate the star trek worldbuilding (this is tos. we're in tos territory) cause they want soooo bad for me to believe that earth is past internal conflict and the federation promotes a classless society and no ones opressed anymore and we dont even use currency! and we aint even colonizers and definitely not a militarized force. far from it, actually. thats like, earths bloody past. we are not Them. but like... i dont know, dude. it wants me to believe in this incredible utopia without touching on the nasty stuff. and that just falls flat in on itself BECAUSE its a 60s show. because it was made during the cold war. and above all else, because its an us show, to us citizens. and gene roddenberry was a fucking cunt.

anyway, everyone should read this article:

[feroshgirlsims]

Chapter 9.2 - 50 Shades of Enchantment

ALICE

Real life has considerably less sexual tension than Twelve or So Swatches of Woohoo.

After a few charged moments, Vlad settles into being her actual assistant. Alice describes what she knows about the secret society—dramatic robes, creepy body movements, a penchant for cult shit out behind Pepper’s Pub—and he turns that into search terms, running down articles from old newspapers and books. 

By lunchtime, Alice’s contribution had dwindled to ordering delivery, grabbing it from the main hall, and posting a sign on the door that said “Thesis Interview in Progress” to keep everyone from knocking. It was demoralizing to go from feeling sexy and in charge to feeling insecure and bored. It was almost as if she had imagined the jolt between them. 

And maybe she did. 

Vlad didn’t seem to care about touch. At first, that didn’t matter because she didn’t want to be touched either. But now, Alice was comfortable with him, and so, of course, her fucked up brain had gone from “Please don’t touch me” to “Please give me some sign you want this by putting your hands on me.”

It didn’t help that this impromptu date was her worst nightmare. Vlad was sending a terrifying number of articles to the printer. He seemed understanding, but Alice knew that would disappear as soon as he realized that reading wasn’t something she struggled with because she didn’t care about it. Her brain flat-out refused to cooperate as soon as she looked at a page. 

Audiobooks, podcasts, and being an excellent mimic helped her hide it, but she had no time to prepare for this. The idea of reading these articles in front of him made her want to puke. 

“Alright, here’s what I’ve found,” he sets a pile of papers on the coffee table. “There are conspiracy theories about a secret society on campus going back to before the turn of the century. But the first article to name them is this one from 1895. It’s about a charity gala.” He glances at her. “Which one would you like me to read first?” 

“What?” her mouth falls open. “You would do that for me?”

“I’ve combed through hundreds of pages of amateur student writing without complaining about the quality once. And I was horny the whole time. I’d do anything for you.”

“Except touch me,” Alice blurts out and immediately feels stupid. “I mean, touch is not your thing, which is cool; I’m just worried because I think it’s my thing. Ugh, I should’ve said that before we even started dating. It’s just been a long time for me, and I was working through some stuff…” Instinctively, she holds out her hands in a protective gesture. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I tricked you. I made you think I didn’t care about cuddling, but I do. And you—”

“You don’t know what I want,” his voice is calm as he interrupts. “You haven’t asked.”

“Oh!” Alice startles and then realizes she’s still trying to physically ward him off, which is mortifying because even though she knows Vlad isn’t going to hit her, her body won’t listen. “I’ll ask now,” she mumbles sheepishly, dropping her hands. 

“Being touched by sims I don’t know is complicated. It feels like an unpleasant surprise. Actually, even with sims I know I still occasionally find myself wanting to curl up in a corner and die rather than be hugged.”

“Well, that’s…awesome,” Alice clears her throat.

“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy it. Or that I don’t want it with you.” He takes a step toward her. “You set my bones on fire and make my body feel like I’m tethered to this earth.”

It’s a profoundly odd sentiment. Romantic, maybe, but…honestly pretty fucking weird. “Okay,” Alice replies slowly, “Is that you saying you like to cuddle?”

He cradles her neck in response, gently tracing her jawline with his thumb.

Her breath ghosts out of her. “This seems less like cuddling and more like wanting to kiss me.”

“I do want to kiss you.”

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(Part 3 of 8)

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[varijeri]

so i was watching Fit's stream and he was cleaning up a Federation outpost.... what's up with the outpost names huh? long post warning TL;DR at bottom.

Sector A's outpost names are derived from Slavic mythology; specifically special places from the myths. after searching these names online i found this website: https://meettheslavs.com/slavic-mythological-places/ taking from the website; 1. there's a "mystical mountain of Vitor" that's "built in heaven" and "hard to find because it changes its location as soon as the wind blows in a different direction". it's also said to have dragons living on it (this is the one Fit was sent to for repairs, and it also had weird blue draconic-looking creatures around it. it was also an icy mountain...) 2. there's a "Buyan/Bujan Island", described to "appear and disappear with the tides" and be the "dwelling place of three brothers, the Northern, Western and Eastern winds". 3. there's a "Kingdom of Opona", an "imaginary place [that] existed at the edge of the Earth which [ancient Russians] imagined as a flat plane." it was believed "free and happy [peasants]" lived in this country under a "true and just" ruler. 4. there's a "Vyraj/Viraj", a "resting place for the souls and spirits" AKA the equivalent of Heaven in Slavic mythology. it's "a place where birds find their retreat in the winter". (notably this outpost is inactive) 5. lastly there's a "Nav/Nawia", a "mysterious place for the souls of the dead", and "often interpreted as another version of the imaginary place Vyraj", so AKA Hell or the Underworld. (the Hell outpost is active but not the Heaven outpost???) If Outpost Vitor sort of matches the description from the myth, maybe the other outposts do too? so like Bujan is on an island in the sea, Opona is super far out in a village maybe, Viraj and Nawia i have no clue... Sector B's outpost names are derived from Norse mythology; specifically Norse gods. being a nerd i noticed this instantly which was what tipped me off to search up Sector A's names. taking from various sources, but mostly from their Wikipedia articles: 1. "Tyr" is an one-armed god representing justice and fair treaties despite being a god of war, who lost his arm in the process of binding Fenrir the wolf. he dies in Ragnarök. 2. "Odin/Woden/Wodan" is the ruler of Asgard, the All-Father, and the one-eyed god of wisdom war, and death. he presided over Valhalla, a sacred hall that housed dead warriors in preparation for Ragnarok. he dies in Ragnarök. 3. "Thor/Donar" is probably the most popular Norse god, the god of thunder. the embodiment of strength, he is the protector of the Æsir and the humans. he dies in Ragnarök. 4. "Máni" is the god of the Moon and brother of Sol, the goddess of the Sun. they is eternally chased by Skoll and Hati, two wolves who seek to plunge the world into chaos by eating the Sun and Moon. he dies in Ragnarök. 5. Outpost Frïja I believe is "Frigg", the Queen of Asgard and the goddess of marriage, family and motherhood. she lives in Ragnarök. notably, all five gods (and goddess) lend their names to days of the week (Máni -> Monday, Tyr -> Tuesday, Woden -> Wednesday, Thor -> Thursday, and Frigg -> Friday). none of these outposts are active, they are all inactive or under maintenance, so i'm inclined to believe these aren't as important right now as compared to Sector A... still, these outposts are named after Slavic and Norse myths for a reason possibly so these might be significant. Nothing particularly comes to mind but if anyone has any idea feel free to add on... TL;DR: Federation Outpost names from Fit's stream have Slavic/Norse mythology inspired names, possible significance?

[thatfrenchacademic]

OK so about this "34, unmarried and childless" article about Taylor Swift. Let me tell you about Scam Academia.

TL;DR: some mediocre dude had a half baked opinio nabout Taylor Swift that everyone hated, but like Mother Nature I let nothing go to waste.

Here is the take you have not heard yet, about this opinion: this guy is actually a good case study on how to develop your academic literacy, aka how to recognize a true academic from a scammer who presents themselves as an academic, but is just a crook. In a world of pseudoscience and pretend experts that have enough resources to organize their flat earth conference, let me walk you through the world of Scam Academic, where for a few thousand dollars, you too can claim to be a researcher with a doctorate! Follow me down a rabbit hole that I hate with my whole heart!

Preamble: I have zero skin in the TS game. I don't get the hype, the lore, the obsession with those 2000s bracelet or dissecting every single line or every single song.

But then. Some guy had to write an op-ed stating Taylor Swift was not a good role model for girls ("in the US and beyond"), and it is a terrible take on so many level, but here is the thing. Whiny conservative think-pieces about highly successful women who should get back to the kitchen and think of the children are nothing new. But this one is different.

This one is fucking terribly written. It's just an abysmally written blog post. Genuinely one of the worst thing I have ever read, and I read hundreds of undergrad essays every year for a living. It contradicts its own arguments in every paragraph. It over-explains concepts like it's a high school essay and he's trying to meet the word count. It says "this is a valid question worth asking" but does not actually explain why it is worth asking. It is so, so, so bad.

Conservative writers are usually more the "high brow, drowning you in grandstanding" kind of writers. They are, usually, good technical writers - it's the one thing that helps make their talking point sound legit and palatable. So an abysmally bad conservative writer? Ok, I am intrigued.

The author is one John Mac Ghlionn. I look up the guy on Google and...

Oh.

Oh no, John.

Spewing conservative bullshit at women AND a researcher? You're in my turf now, John. You could have continued to cover UFC Pillow Fight Championships, or alien technology and other riveting subjects, but you had try to connect two brain cells to argue a thing, and slap "researcher" on top of it. Now I'm offended, as a researcher.

1. I am sorry, researcher WHERE?

Ok so if one is a "researcher", it means one conduct "research". and contrary to what backyard conspiracy theorists think, "researcher" is an actual job. It is an actual professional occupation. You get an actual contract, and you are paid actual money. By an actual employer: public (University), private (Think tank, private company), or a mix of both (at Unviersity, but on a privately funded project, for example).

So where does our John Mc Ghlionn work?

Well. Nowhere, as far as I can tell.

John does not list any affiliation. Usually, when they write, academics will state their exact position (Researcher, Doctoral Researcher, Associate Professor, Chief Engineer, Head of Department, Research Director...) and where they work. For example:

That's what it is supposed to look like.

But John? Nope, no affiliation anywhere, on anything he ever published. That's a pretty massive read flag. Research takes ressources: at the very least, time and access to database and documentation, even in social sciences in humanities. You may not need a lab, but you sure as hell need money and full access to JStore at least.

So I thought he was just one of these "I google therefore I research" kind of dude. But then, out of nowhere:

I am sorry. He has a WHAT.

2. I am sorry, a Doctorate from WHERE?

So. One thing to claim to be a researcher when you are just a professional yapper. Another to claim a DIPLOMA.

And not any diploma. A doctorate.

Let's pause. "Doctorate" is actually a really broad umbrella term of all doctoral-level degrees. The most famous (and most prestigious, for better and worse) is the PhD, but a PhD is technically just one of many Research Doctorate of, theoretically, the same level (cue this helpful reddit post). A second category of doctorates are the Applied Doctorates, and while there is Discourse on where they sit vis-a-vis PhD, the easiest is to consider that they are not research-oriented. They are hands-on, practice-oriented degrees. For example: you can practice medicine with an MD. You don't need a PhD. You can still call yourself a doctor, though.

Alright, so which of these does our friend Johnnie has? Or is currently enrolled in? And in which University?

You will notice that John does not go by "John Mac Ghlionn PhD" or even "Dr John Mac Ghlionn", when you just KNOW he is the sort of person that would but that shit everywhere. And no shade here, because I, for one, do put that shit everywhere. Maybe he is just currently enrolled in a program and has not graduated. Fair.

Since John does not list affiliation, I had to switch from academic to internet sleuth, and dig out this article:

But we learn that in 2021, John was a "PhD Scholar" in "Parkmore Institute". "PhD Scholar" is not a title I am sued to, but it's also not raising any red flag: ongoing PhD researchers can be "PhD students", "PhD fellows", "PhD researchers"... It varies from country to country and from institution to institution, so why not "PhD Scholar".

Let's check out the Parkmore Institute.

Ok, they are not a traditional university, but they appear to be more of a postgraduate institution: offering only higher level degrees, not undergrad courses. Once again, not necessarily a red flag. They are usually very heavily research focused, and embrace the "research" side of academia more than the "teaching" side. In Germany, the Max Planck Institutes are research-only institutions who deliver PhDs. They conduct cutting edge research, in part because their researchers rarely have to spend time teaching.

But that is NOT the Parkmore Institute. First of all, let's see what programs they offer:

None of them are legit.

And I mean, none of them are recognize as even Applied/Professional Doctorate by the National Science Foundation (US based). And while a PhD in Human sexuality would be perfectly valid, but I'm going to on a limb and say I have some serious doubts about "Bodymind Healing" as an academic field.

These are not legit academic degrees.

What they are, is an excellent money-making opportunity for anyone working at the Parkmore institute. Students will pay, at the very least:

And 60% of this goes to their " faculty mentor". The Parkmore institute provides no research fund, no desk or office space (they are entirely digital), no access to any resources or library, not even a Zoom account. There is also no mention of any timeline: how long a PhD take to complete? Who knows. 6 months ? A year ? 5 years? What are the requirements to graduate ? Who knows ! And I would need to pay $200 to get in touch with them, so I sure as fuck won't know any time soon!

But let's get back to our friend John. Remember that he stated, in that 2021 publication, he was a "PhD Scholar" at Parkmore ? Well that's a shame because Parkmore does not deliver PhDs. Ain't that a bitch.

ALSO. Parkmore helpfully has page with all their Doctoral Recipients! And guess who is NOT HERE ! That's right, our Johnnie !

How can this be ? Well, three possibilities:

John is still not done with a PhD. After 4 years ? In a crank university where I am pretty sure I can submit the first draft of a litt review and graduate ? Nah

John never completed the thing. Boo, that would mean that John is lying, when he says he has a doctorate. Bad, bad.

John did graduate, and obtained his doctorate in [scrolls back to check] psychosocial studies, and then was not put on the website or was withdrawn some time before today, as Parkmore institute ended their affiliation with him, as per this bit in their application form

A shame, really. If John had been affiliated with the Parkmore Institute, it would give a shred of legitimacy to anything he writes to anyone just skimming.

Now, I would love to get in touch with the Parkmore Institute and ask to see John's doctoral work, which they DO have, since the application for also has this very interesting section:

(definitely very legit, very normal).

But I am not sure how I would even phrase that request without transparently going

"hey, would love to see what bullshit research is being done over there, since one of your graduate decided to go all Handmaid's tale for the last 2 years".

If anyone feels like sending that email, I am begging you to keep me in the loop.

3. Back up, back up, what's up with that article?

Remember the article where he was listed as a "PhD Fellow"?

Well, about that... No. Welcome to the world of predatory publishing, one more cog in the Bullshit Academic ecosystem.

First: not at article. It's a "commentary". Could be worth something ia good journal, but still would not be a piece of research. But that is the least of its sins.

Its sins are being published in a journal called "Sociology and Criminology-Open Access", by a publisher called "Longdom". Longdom publishing has a bunch of journals on a lot o different fields, with the particularly of being predatory; they will publish absolutely anything you send them, as long as you pay their Article Processing Charges:

There are entire lists of Predatory journals on the web, you can find on here and another here , Longdom Publishing is in both.

This is how John can publish this last minute, Redbull-and-weed-induced essay in an actual journal, with an abstract that, I kid you not, finishes with "Please find the paper attached." He slapped together a shitty essay about people in India are poorer and therefore more likely to exhibit psychopathic traits and therefore engage in corruption, purely base on vibes. It does not even deserve be given any consideration, not even to be debunked. There is nothing to be debunked. This would be a failing grade for a 1st year intro class.

CONCLUSION

On the surface, John Mac Ghlionn is the poster boy of failed edgelords who really wish they were Jordan Peterson, but unfortunately are just Doug, the guy for 10th grade who failed the Literature class and decided it was because litterature was too woke today anyway.

Beneath the surface, John is a case study in Scam Academia, and the proof that no matter how bad actual academia is, Scam Academia can always get worse.

A quick checklist to go through whenever someone claims be a researcher, an academic, a fellow, a doctor, a PhD or anything of the sort:

What is their affiliation? Is this a legitimate organization?

Do they have a PhD? Another doctorate degree? From where?

Have they published ? Where is it published?

[hereforthefanficsandromance]

Fan Prize Story #1: Training in the Water

Credit: FlamMabel

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Thank you @flammabel for participating in the Act II opening weekend for The Way He Looks at You. I hope you enjoy your prize!

Read on AO3 Read on Blogger Read on Tumblr Master List: One Shots

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Summary

You, a former Jedi, watch Cal practice his forms. He offers to jog your memory on how to do them. Rating: 18+ Words: 2.2K

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You could hear him before you could see him. The sounds of splashing as he moved through the water, practicing, always practicing. You had been traveling with Cal for a few weeks now and his commitment to rehearsing the forms of the old ways impressed you. You knew the forms, but you practiced them much less. It was honestly embarrassing to attempt them in his presence.

Cal had helped you escape a deadly situation with the Ninth Sister. Your ability to save yourself had waned since the Purge. Lying low for years will do that to a body. You weren’t out of shape, per se, but Cal had been training more in recent years than you. Still getting to know the man, it felt awkward to ask him to teach what you both learned as padawans. So you settled for watching him move through the familiar but forgotten movements. Then sneak away to practice in your room aboard the Mantis.

Your short copper hair danced along your temples as a light breeze rustled the trees of the lush and beautiful planet. The sound of splashing grew as you neared where Cal was practicing. Your heart rate increased as you rounded the corner, exposing the handsome man.

He was wearing trousers and an undershirt that pleasantly showed off his muscular arms. You couldn’t help but let your eyes rake across each flexing inch of skin as he moved. His red hair speckled with dark stains from the water droplets he has stirred up.

Cal looks up to meet your eye as you approach. He offers you a cheeky grin and a small wave before returning to his forms. You make your way to a large flat rock by the edge of the water. The smooth stone was now heated to a comfortable temperature in the sun.

You nod your head to Cal and lounge on the rock, thinking perhaps you could meditate here. But the thought of taking your mind elsewhere when the view in front of you is so beautiful seemed impossible. So instead you watched, as you have many times before.

Mostly you tried to stay focused on learning from his movements, but your brain had other ideas. It saw each movement as more than Jedi training; it saw opportunities for how he might behave in a more intimate setting.

His long fingers, trained to coax objects into his hands using the Force, could instead coax out multiple orgasms from your aching- No. You can’t think of him like that. You barely know him. The Order fell, but you can stay true to the old ways. Though there are few Jedi left to complain if you stray.

His powerful body could save the galaxy and make you see stars, couldn’t it? It might improve morale, give him a reward for his years of hard work. Your cheeks flush at the runaway thoughts, and you focus to steady your breathing. Then you hear Cal wading out of the water and approaching your spot in the sun.

“Did you hear me?” He asks.

“Oh! No, so sorry, I was lost in, uh, thought.” You say.

Cal gives you a curious smile. “I was asking if you’d like to do forms with me in the water.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Does it have to be in the water?”

You watch as clear streams travel down his clothes and into the earth. His skin is shiny and sleek. You wouldn’t mind getting a drink off of him.

“The water resistance requires focused and precise movements. It’s a great tool for training.”

“But my clothes will get wet.”

“Don’t worry, we can lie in the sun after while they dry. Maybe just take off any layers that might slow the drying process.”

He says and gestures to his shirt lying under a nearby tree. You look between him and the article of clothing, wondering if removing your shirt is a good idea.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me taking off a layer?” You ask.

“Of course! I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I promise, practicing forms in the water is worth the time to dry.” He smiles and offers you his hand.

You accept the outstretched limb and stand with his help. Moisture moves from his hand onto yours, sharing the cool water between your bodies. Reluctantly, you release his hand to grasp the bottom hem of your shirt. You lift the fabric and remove it from your skin.

Now only in a sports bra and trousers, noticing Cal’s eyes on you. He has the good grace to look away and pretend he hadn’t stared. But you saw the look in his green eyes. The hungry way his eyes raked over your exposed flesh. This new information makes you feel bold and you feel ready to test the waters.

“I’m wearing some shorts under my pants. I’d rather not have to wait for them to dry, so if it’s okay with you, I’ll take them off as well.” You glance up into Cal’s eyes as you ask the loaded question.

Cal swallows hard and nods, keeping his eyes trained on your face. He appears to be fighting an internal battle.

“That’s great! It’s fine, I mean. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.” He stumbles over his words.

You hook your thumbs under the waistband and pull the fabric down to your ankles, stepping out of them. Leaving the clothes on the warm rock. You glance at Cal, and he looks anywhere but at you, his pale skin now burning red.

“I’m ready.”

“Right, um, lead the way.” He says.

You give a small smile, but are internally beaming. There is no doubt in your mind that he is going to check you out as you walk ahead of him. You pass the nervous man, barely brushing your arm against his as you begin the walk towards the water’s edge. Knowingly, you sway your hips a bit more than normal as you walk, giving the other Jedi a small show.

As you step into the shallow water, you turn to look at Cal. All you see is panic in his eyes as he rushes into the water until waist deep. You take your time moving into the water, allowing your skin to disappear gracefully into the blue lake. Cal watches you move, but occasionally glances down into the water directly below him, then shifting.

“The form you were doing, I struggle with this part.” You say, trying to offer a distraction.

You move through the form before getting to the troublesome part where you aren’t sure how to position your left arm to carry the right arm forward uninterrupted. Cal takes the welcome distraction and focuses on helping you. He tries a few times to talk you through the process before it happens. He approaches you in the water, realizing that you need more help than just verbal instruction.

“Like this,” He says gently while stepping behind you and placing a hand on each arm.

Your skin lights up at the touch, allowing him to guide your movements through the tricky part. You become distracted by his touch and fumble, twisting around to apologize. As you turn to face Cal, your thigh brushes against something firm.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you brought your lightsaber in here. Do I need mine? I left it back with my clothes.” You say, embarrassed that you joined in practice so unprepared.

Cal turns deep red. “That’s not…I, uh, also left my lightsaber with my shirt.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you…are you…um…”

“You’re pretty.” He mumbles.

“You are too.”

He cocks his head and gives a half smile. “You think so?”

You bite your lip and glance down before looking into his crinkled eyes. “It’s honestly distracting.”

“My sentiments exactly.” He lets out a laugh.

His hands are still on your arms, frozen from a forgotten moment. You take a chance and rest your hands on his chest, facing him entirely. Cal repositions his hands, resting on your hips.

“Can I…” He trails off.

You nod, not needing to hear more. Cal wastes no time leaning down to brush his lips against yours. Electricity sparks in your body as he kisses you harder. His hands grip you tighter and pull you flush against his body. The angle proving that it was not a lightsaber you felt earlier.

You kiss him back with equal force, wanting him as much as he wants you. Cal wraps his arms all the way around you and steps back, falling deeper into the water, pulling you in with him. You let out a small squeal as you fall, landing softly on his chest as he partially floats.

“Cal, are you sure?”

He nods once then resumes kissing you deeply, his tongue moving in past your lips. You let out a small moan, encouraging him. He breaks the kiss, looking at you with hooded eyes, his pupils dilated and lustful. Cal moves in to kiss down the side of your neck. You tilt your head, and he fills the new void. His hands move up from your waist to figure out how to remove your bra.

You giggle as he struggles, and he sinks his teeth into the base of your neck in response. The sounds of laughter changing to something more primal and needy. He finally frees your body of the offending fabric and pulls away to watch your breasts spill into the water.

His eyes light up and he leans forward to take one into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue at the sensitive bud. You throw your head back as he works, his other hand snaking up to play with the ignored nipple, pinching and twisting to your delight.

“Cal.” Escape your lips.

You feel him smile against your skin at hearing his name while he pleasures you. Trying to return the favor, your hands move down to his waistband and push them down over his hips, freeing his hard length. You wrap your fingers around him and immediately hear a strangled sound from the man suckling at your breast. Slowly pumping him beneath the water, you imagine what it must look like.

Thoughts interrupted by his expert fingers pushing under your elastic shorts and searching between your legs. He brushes your clit as he finds your weeping hole and you let out a groan. Cal draws back away from the wetness and tries to find the small bud that made you cry out. He wants to hear you make more noise.

He finds the spot, and you cry out his name again. Cal settles into position and rubs deliberate circles around the bundle of nerves. You let loose an array of noises and barely audible swears.

Cal keeps his eyes focused on your face, fascinated by the way his fingers are affecting your body. His other hand travels down to free you of your shorts. Once you kick them off, he uses the Force to pull them from the water and send them to the edge of the shore. His trousers following soon after.

You release his cock to pull his soaked shirt up over his body, causing his fingers to leave your body for a moment. His hair is messy and wet, his incredible physique is now on full display. He gives you a boyish smile and you feel weak at the knees.

Cal pulls you close again, and you wrap your legs around him. His tip pressing against your entrance, you look at him and nod and he pushes in a few inches. You both press your foreheads together as you experience this new and wonderful sensation.

“You feel so good. It’s really…good.” He says in a hazy lust.

Cal reaches between your bodies to pull more sounds from your mouth as he successfully finds your clit again. Your moans give him the permission he needs to thrust repeatedly into your body. You wrap your arms around his neck and meet his movements. It doesn’t take long until you are both panting and approaching your edge. Cal’s fingers become more frantic, trying to time your pleasure with his own.

“Cal, please, I’m close.” You say.

“Me too. You’re incredible. I should have offered to help you with your forms sooner.”

“You can help me with my forms daily if it ends like this.”

A coy smile crosses his lips as he pumps forcefully a few more times. You grip his shoulders hard as your orgasm arrives. Your core squeezing and gripping at the Jedi inside you. Cal swears under his breath as his thrusts slow and grow sloppy. You feel his own release as he fills you with his desire.

You both stay in the water, just enjoying being so close to one another. Finally, he slides out and carries you to shore, your legs still wrapped around him. Cal takes you to the large rock and sets you down before sitting next to you.

“I promised you we would dry in the sun.” He offers a shy smile. “Maybe we could keep working on things out here. I’d like to hear those noises again.”

Cal doesn’t stop his work until you are both as dry as you’ll likely be.

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[neos127]

DIE FOR YOU — SIM JAEYUN (chapter ten)

spider-man!jake x fem!reader; synopsis. university student and daily bugle intern jake sim does his best to juggle having two separate lives. unfortunately y/n, who also interns at the daily bugle, is obsessed with finding out who the popular vigilante ‘spider-man’ is. with their constant close proximity and jake’s new found crush, y/n is closer to figuring out his secret identity by the day.

jake couldn’t face you the next day and explained that he had to skip out on finishing the article so he could check up on riki. the two of you had plenty of time so he wasn’t compromising anything— well maybe your relationship.

you never replied after jake’s pathetic text and he felt mortified, barely getting any sleep as he stared up at his ceiling the whole night. between the two hours and sleep and excessive amount of sirens blaring outside his window, jake was a zombie throughout the whole school day.

but as he promised, he still hopped on the subway and trudged over to the upper east side to visit his friend.

as soon as the elevator door opened, jake froze. he forgot how insane the nishimura residence was. he hadn’t been there since he was about ten. when the two approached their teens, riki had wanted to hang out everywhere else but home. jake assumed it was because of riki’s issues with his father but he also had the sneaking suspicion that the younger boy felt bad about having jake over. riki hated to show off and the penthouse he lived in was way more luxurious than the flat jake grew up with in queens.

jake never minded, he always thought the place was cool anyways.

stepping into the giant living room, jake looked over to the tall windows, finding riki sitting in front of them. he smiled, knowing how much the boy liked to watch the city ever since he was little.

“riki…hey.” jake called out, walking over to him. the boy smiled, a genuine smile that made jake’s lips turn upward. he always had a soft spot for the younger boy, and seeing him happy made him happy.

“how are you feeling?” jake asked after a while, once the two had finished catching up. they were now sitting outside, enjoying the last of the nice weather before it got cold. jake concluded that the balcony was bigger than his whole apartment (he hadn’t remembered it that way), but it was cool to have a view of the whole city below.

“i’m great. never been better actually.” riki replied, his tone light. jake eyed him wearily, wondering what exactly his dad gave him. he didn’t want to be invasive and ask, but ultimately he was worried for his friend’s health.

“so um— what exactly did your dad do to cure you?” jake asked hesitantly, not being able to meet riki’s eyes. the younger boy laughed at his shyness and shook his head.

“jake, you’re my best friend, you don’t have to be afraid to ask me stuff. but uhm, my dad and his team at muracorp had been studying something otherworldly. they had been studying it for years, doing some trials and figuring out what its use could be for.” riki began to explain, making jake’s eyebrows shoot upwards when he said ‘otherworldly’.

“i’m sorry— as in not from earth? something alien?” he asked in disbelief.

“yeah, definitely alien. one of team members tested it, but it didn’t seem as attracted to him. the alien attaches itself to people, but it has to want to. although with the short time that it was attached, it made the guy stronger and faster and overall just better. it improved his health significantly even though he is perfectly healthy. they concluded that it could be a cure so my dad asked me if i wanted to try. i was a bit hesitant at first, but im glad i did.” riki replied, a small smile on his face.

jake was at a loss for words, his head starting to hurt a bit. his spider sense began to tingle, but he wasn’t sure why. jake had many false alarms before due to anxiety, but this felt different.

“is it safe…?” jake asked, his form becoming rigid. he suddenly noticed the black goo crawling up riki’s arms which explained the reason for his spider sense going off. jake backed up a bit when he noticed it extending towards him, feeling a sense of danger.

“it’s ok, jake. my dad personally tested the symbiote for years. he made sure it was safe enough. it seems to like me too, apparently the last guy who tested it became a little violent. my dad felt weary because of that, but there haven’t been any issues.” riki replied, turning the black goo into an arm and extending it into the air. jake jumped back in surprise, watching his friend curiously.

“so, you were that hero at coney island the other night?” jake asked, wanting to confirm his suspicions. riki nodded with a smile on his face, looking as proud as ever.

“yup, that was me. i’m sure our friendly neighborhood spider-man gets tired sometimes, i wanted to help my friend out.” riki shrugged. jake froze, his mouth drying up.

“oh…um…you know spider-man?” he asked dumbly, already knowing that he had been caught.

“dude, it’s okay. i found out before i left.” riki scoffed, patting his friend on the shoulder reassuringly. jake jumped in surprise once again before he noticed that the goo was gone. the alien was giving him a feeling that he did not like.

“was i too obvious?” he groaned, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“kind of…you’ve definitely gotten better over the years. but i also did a lot of investing. sorry bro, i just wanted to know where you ran off to all the time.” riki said, making jake smile. even though he often kept his secret for safety reasons, it was nice to have his best friends in on it.

“what do you think about us saving the city together?” riki asked timidly, playing with the rings on his hands as he awaited jake’s response.

the older boy pondered the question for a few seconds, not wanting to put riki in danger. but it seemed as if he could handle himself, especially with the symbiote attached to him.

the city was getting a bit harder to handle on his own anyways, it would be nice to have a friend tag along.

“alright…i’m down.”

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— ky’s notes; SORRY for the long wait :/ i was feeling super unmotivated with this smau so i took a small break from working on it

[whencyclopedia]

Arapaho Creation Story

The Arapaho Creation Story is the account of how the world was made from the mud at the bottom of the endless waters by Father (also given as Pipe Person in some versions) with the help of the duck and the turtle. The story is similar to one of the versions of the Cheyenne Creation Story.

Eastern Painted Turtle

Greg Schechter (CC BY)

Both of these accounts are also similar to the Lakota Sioux Creation Story as well as those of other Native American nations, many of which begin with the world as a great expanse of water and feature a central character – usually supernatural – who brings the earth into being with the help of waterfowl or the turtle. The Arapaho tale is also similar to that of the Cheyenne and others in that there is no mention of the concept of 'evil' or corruption. The Father, inspired by the Grandfather above, creates a perfect world, completely in balance. Any aspects of life humans will later find objectionable are entirely so because of their interpretation, not because of any flaws in the creation itself.

In some versions of the story, the Grandfather is the Creator God Be He Teiht (the Great Spirit) and Father (or Pipe Person) is understood as the First Arapaho, meaning the spirit of the Arapaho people, not the first man. In other versions, Father seems to be the Creator God and Grandfather is not mentioned or the Father figure goes by the name of Flat Pipe or, as noted, Pipe Person. There are also variations in how humans, plants, and animals are made in different versions, but, in all, the world is created for the greater good and its inhabitants, all related as family, are expected to share it generously with each other.

Versions of the Story & Arapaho Religion

These different versions of the Arapaho Creation Story are all fragmented and some incomplete because they were passed down through oral transmission by the people's storytellers, and so many of these were killed by US troops and settlers in the latter part of the 19th century – in conflicts such as the Sand Creek Massacre – or died of diseases or malnutrition on reservations that the story was almost lost completely. The best-known and most complete version comes from Traditions of the Arapaho by George A. Dorsey and Alfred L. Kroeber in 1903, given below.

In this version of the tale, after the duck and turtle have brought up the primordial mud, Father creates the earth and then the sun and moon before creating humans out of clay. In another version, he accomplishes this through prayer-thought – purposeful thought generating change – and literally thinks the world into being. All things, therefore, come from the mind of the Father, and are all closely related. This is a core belief of Arapaho spirituality – the close connection of all living things that inhabit the World House together. In the World House, every living thing is a brother or sister and all children of the same Father. This belief informed Arapaho rituals, including the Sun Dance, as well as the "medicine" objects (spiritual artifacts) the people carried. Scholar Loretta Fowler comments:

the Arapaho origin story focuses on Pipe Person's creation of the earth from mud below the surface of an expanse of water. Pipe Person, through prayer-thought, created all life, including the first Arapahos. Arapahos henceforth kept a replica of the Flat Pipe as a symbol of their covenant with the life force or power on which Pipe Person drew. Rites centered on the pipe bundle helped ensure the success of Arapahos generally and of individuals specifically. Seven men's and seven women's medicine bags contained objects and implements that symbolized forms of power, and these passed from one custodian to another. Prayer-thoughts could affect events and lives, and the sincerity of a petitioner's prayer-thought was validated by sacrifices of property or of the body by flesh offerings and fasting. (1)

Although the Arapaho observed the Sun Dance, they did not engage in the self-torture aspect of that ritual as the Sioux and other Plains Indians did. The "flesh offerings" Fowler mentions would be sacrifices of an individual nature, though still performed for the greater good. The Sun Dance was known as the Offerings Lodge to the Arapaho and, instead of self-torture, they would donate personal items or space (land) to the community. The flat pipe was (and still is) central to the Offerings Lodge ceremony – as it is to other Arapaho rituals – as it symbolizes their connection to the Creator just as the Sioux ceremonial pipe does to that nation. When the Arapaho separated into Northern and Southern, and were then forcibly relocated to reservations, the Northern Arapaho kept the flat pipe with them, and the Southern Arapaho kept the sacred stones symbolizing the pipe. These are still used in rituals today.

Native American Sun Dance

Jules Tavernier and Paul Frenzeny (Public Domain)

In yet another version of the Arapaho Creation Story, this one incomplete, the flat pipe is featured prominently. In this tale, the Creator God is known as Flat Pipe and he walks about on the endless water with his pipe (a flat pipe) looking for some place where he can safely rest it. His entire purpose in creating the world is for a place to securely rest the pipe because, from this pipe, he will draw the power to begin the work of creation. He appeals to a flock of ducks flying past and they dive down into the water for him, bringing up some mud. This is not enough to create land from, however, and so he then asks various other creatures for help. One by one, they dive into the deep, six times, but none of them are able to reach the bottom. The seventh time, the turtle goes and brings back the right amount of mud for creation to begin.

Although the name of the main character and certain details differ in these versions, the central message remains the same: as all things were brought forth by the Creator, all are related to each other as family. One should therefore treat the earth, plants, animals, and others as kindly as one would one's own blood relatives because, in fact, that is what they all are.

Continue reading...

[lov3m3darling]

Apple of my Eye (Obsessed!Wally Darling x Short!Reader) Pt. 2

Heyyy 😊 So I'm really glad a lot of you seem to like what I'm doing here. You're all very kind ❤️

I woke up feeling pretty good today so I figured I'd be at least a little productive and write another part ✨️ How long should this be?? I'm totally down to make this a long fic if ya'll would like that. I would still write oneshots and headcannons in between chapters of course 🤗

Idk, lemme know

!!!(TW: obsessive behaviors, eye imagery, slight blood/injury, mention of a kn*fe)!!!

💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙

Wally spent that evening thinking of nothing but you.

Your smile, your eyes, your laugh...

It was like his world finally had color again. He imagined the date vividly...bringing you flowers when he arrived at your door, showing you around town while you held his arm, picking a nice grassy spot in the shade for your picnic.

Would you dress up just for him? Would he hear your charming laugh when he made jokes? Could he...kiss you?

Wally covered his blushing face at the idea, and Home rolled their eyes, creaking mockingly.

Wally sat up from where he was laying across his chair.

"You don't understand, Home! (Y/n) is...they're so..."

He tried to describe you, but could only manage a happy, dreamy sigh. Suddenly, he heard a record player start up.

A love song.

"HOME!!" Wally exclaimed, his face now entirely red. Home knocked quietly, almost like a sly snicker. Wally sighed again.

"Oh, but...I could just imagine asking them to dance with me to a song like this. Wouldn't they look divine? ...Home, what on earth is wrong with me?"

The music stopped, and Home creaked.

"Lovesick? What are you talking about? I'm not sick, I feel fit as a fritter!"

Home's eyes rolled yet again, and the front door swung open with a squeak.

"You're right. Frank can explain it to me, I'm sure. He's very smart!"

With that, Wally set out towards Frank's house.

Meanwhile, you were in your own house, fussing over your clothing options. Clothes were strewn across your otherwise tidy bedroom as you dug through your closet and rejected nearly every article of clothing you owned.

But then, hanging at the very back, you spotted the miracle you were hoping for!

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

(Option 1: a multicolored striped blazer and pants combo with a white dress shirt underneath and some red sneakers to keep it from being TOO dressy!)

(Option 2: a white, knee-length dress with multicolored polka-dots and a pair of red ballet flats. and for a cute little accessory, some red apple earrings!)

(...orrrrr any combo of the two! Up to you! Doesn't really matter, I just wanted to give some visuals here. Reminder: ya dress like a cartoon character because ya ARE one!)

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Oh, it was perfect! You'd been saving this outfit for a special occasion, and if a date wasn't the perfect situation, you didn't know what was!

You carefully hung it up for tomorrow, then made your way to the kitchen to pack the picnic basket.

As you sliced up an apple, you couldn't help but think about Wally. You'd only just met him that morning, and yet you already had a massive crush on the guy.

But who could blame you? There was just something so charming about him. And strangely suave, too. He seemed like the type of guy to bring you flowers and kiss your hand...a gentleman.

"Ow! Oh dear.."

Maybe cutting an apple wasn't the best time to be daydreaming...

"Tsk..."

You sighed, setting the knife down to go grab a bandage for the small cut on your finger.

But suddenly, there was a panicked knock on your door.

"Who in the world..?"

You settled for wrapping your finger in a tissue, and went to answer the door.

Wally stood, wide-eyed, on your stoop. He seemed worried.

"(Y-Y/n) I was walking by and heard you yelp!"

Your face felt a little hot. You didn't realize you'd been so loud...

"Oh, I'm sorry to worry you but I'm alright. I was slicing an apple for our picnic and...well...I suppose my mind was somewhere else. And silly me, I cut my finger a little..."

Wally's eyes shifted past you and looked at the knife on the counter, and his pupils grew and shrank again in a matter of just a second. You barely noticed.

"Thank goodness, I thought something terrible had happened. I don't know what I'd do if-...ah, would you like me to help you? I have bandages at Home.."

You were about to decline, when you realized something. You didn't have any of that stuff! You'd only just moved, after all.

So, you had to agree and let Wally lead you to his house.

Home's eyes fixed on you when they spotted you approaching with Wally. The door opened, but the squeak it made sounded like a question.

"(Y/n) is coming in for a moment so I can tend to the cut on their finger, if that's alright"

Home said nothing else, but the door remained open, so Wally nodded and brought you inside.

He had you sit on the couch while he retrieved a box of bandages and a cotton ball soaked in something that smelled like a hospital.

Carefully, he removed and threw away the tissue you'd wrapped around it, and looked it over. A tiny drop of blood trickled out and you winced, feeling like a little kid with a scraped knee again.

But Wally just smiled and brought your hand to his lips, gently licking away the drop as he gazed up at you lovingly. His pupils grew just a little, and you felt as if you would combust at any moment.

Wally chuckled and cleaned the cut with the cotton ball before wrapping a blue bandage around your finger and giving it a kiss.

"You've turned red, (y/n). Feeling alright~?"

"I-I don't...w-why did you...?"

He laughed.

"You're so silly, (y/n). It had to be wiped away, what was I supposed to do?"

You couldn't answer him. Your face was entirely too flushed and any nervous jumble of words your brain could think up just wouldn't come out no matter how hard you tried.

"Hey, I know! I'll sign your bandage. People do that with casts, I think! Barnaby says it helps the person feel better faster"

Suddenly, he was back to normal. Acting just as he did when you first met him.

Wally left the room for a moment and returned with a red crayon. He took your hand and gently wrote his name and a smiley face on the bandage before helping you up from the couch. He smiled at you.

"How's that? Does it feel better?"

"M-Much better. Thank you, Wally.."

You excused yourself so you could continue to get ready for tomorrow, and left, waving to Home as you went.

You shut the door to your own house and slid down it, finally being able to breathe and think.

What WAS that?! He licked your cut! Why?!

After a few deep breaths, you collected yourself and stood up, returning to the kitchen. You went to pick the knife back up, only to realize the blade had snapped off of the handle and was in several pieces...

"How did that happen..?" you wondered aloud. For some reason, looking at it gave you a nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach and you hastily threw it away.

As you did, you glanced at the bandage on your finger again. You weren't sure where the thought came from, but his name written on it almost felt like a claim over you more than a nice gesture.

And...why were you strangely okay with that...?

💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙🍎💛🍎💙

Too much? 😅 That was a little intense, I know. But I promised yandere, and I keep my promises. Of course it's never gonna be a downright lemon 🍋 🚫 but who says it cant be just a liiiiiittle spicy? Just a dash of pepper, am I right?

Anyways, hope this was good 😊 more to come!