#but she's also an attractive blue eyed blonde white woman

[tinky-dinky]

Please, for the love of god, actually watch the trial. Look into Amber Heard's history.

There is no evidence that Johnny Depp was ever abusive to her. She blatantly lied about having severe injuries; she cannot produce a single medical record or even a photo of her with bruises. There is a lot of evidence that she was abusive, including photos of a bruised Johnny, the medical records of his severed fingertip, witnesses who saw her abuse him and recordings of her admitting to it.

She has a history of abusing others. She was arrested for assaulting her girlfriend Tasya Van Ree, her assistant Kate James testified that Amber abused her, her sister's friend Jennifer Howell gave a statement saying that Whitney admitted to her that Amber beat her up and Elon Musk was seen with a black eye when they were dating and described her as a toxic nightmare in his biography.

Why anyone believes this woman with a long history of abusing people wasn't the abuser, I don't know. It seems very obvious to me.

Actually, wait, I do know. It's because she's an attractive, white woman.

I've been re-reading Lundy Bancroft's Why Does He Do That? and I am revisited with rage that Johnny Depp got the entire internet and pop culture at large to extend his abuse of Amber Heard. Textbook abuser manipulation and millions fell for it

[biracy]

The John Post

The thing about John Gaius is like… a lot of people refuse to recognize him as like a Bad Guy, and a lot of people criticize tlt for having him as a Bad Guy, for similar reasons. I think a lot of people have these ideas that colonialism and empire and the vague concept of "war crimes" are bad due to some kind of ontological evil within the souls of white men or something, and that misogyny and the objectification of women exist due to some kind of ontological evil within the souls of straight men. Relating to the former, I think a lot of people hold a sort of "but it's okay when we do it" approach to systems of oppressive power + imperialism, where their vision of a perfect world is not one without these things, but ones where currently marginalized people get to participate in colonial and imperialist power forces just as much as the white men ("I hear the next one will be sent by a woman!"). John Gaius is both a representation of this and a good litmus test for people's opinions on this - he was a bisexual, Māori man living in colonized Aotearoa, and when he got to remake the universe, he made one where he is the emperor. Instead of making a world where these systems no longer exist, John went "but it's okay when I do it." A lot of people in real life are like this, honestly - a lot of marginalized people choose to only understand liberation and empowerment through the lens of the power wielded by their oppressors. It's an attractive concept, at first, but it doesn't really work in the long run and it cannot provide liberation for everyone. John becoming the most powerful man in the universe, literally becoming God, gives HIM that power, but does not give EVERYONE that power. The Nine Houses are subjugated under him, the non-House planets are regularly destroyed by him, and even his Lyctors are decidedly "under" him, even after ten thousand years. In choosing to wield the weapons of his oppressors for himself, John becomes not a liberator but an oppressor in his own right.

The same thing can be said about John and gender; people tend to reduce the misogyny John expresses because he's bisexual and played with girls' toys, but bisexual men are just as capable of wielding patriarchy against women as straight men. People also find it difficult to grapple with how John, a Māori man, constructed a blonde Barbie to house the soul of the Earth in, and are hesitant to analyze him as misogynistic because of this. But John making Alecto a Barbie, the icon of white femininity, is the same as him becoming an emperor and surrounding himself with Lyctors in the ancient Roman fashion. Alecto is the idealized white woman, and she is John's. John created her, possesses her, embodies her, in what is both a patriarchal power trip and a marginalized person taking power into his own hands. Alecto being a blonde white woman, being Barbie, carries very clear colonialist AND misogynistic connotations. White supremacy and colonialism has taught John that a blonde-haired white woman is the feminine ideal, which is backed up by the white, blonde-haired and blue-eyed Barbies of his childhood. At the same time, Barbie has an extensive history of being criticized for misogyny, with the doll's design embodying a very clear feminine sexual ideal. The desire to control and contain a beautiful woman is an inherently patriarchal one, and John takes it to the extreme when he chains his Barbie in a coffin at the center of a labyrinth. Alecto is the patriarchal fantasy to wholly possess a beautiful woman, powered by hundreds of years of colonialism teaching John what a beautiful woman even is, filtered through a thin veneer of exerting power over an image of whiteness (although John's treatment of Alecto is primarily misogynistic - it's a very clear part of the text and you need to get comfortable confronting that).

John Gaius is an example of a marginalized person who wishes for the power he has been denied, yet hasn't fully deconstructed colonialism and patriarchy. The only things separating him from anyone else fitting this description is that a) he is a fictional character being written deliberately and b) he had the opportunity to become God. And when John Gaius became God, he didn't change the world; he just made a world where he was in charge. This is an extremely important part of the books! The books are very clearly making commentary on both imperialism and misogyny, and to have people so passionately ignore these themes because they can be uncomfortable to talk about is disheartening. John is a character that invites so much analysis and conversation, there are so many layers to why he is the way he is and what that contributes to the books. People are so unwilling to discuss misogyny and assault or so uncomfortable with the idea of calling a nonwhite guy an imperialist that they steamroll right over these themes, which loses a lot of what makes the books so interesting to begin with in the process.

[jischw]

1. Catherine of Aragon (married 1509-1533)

motto: HUMBLE AND LOYAL

Even allowing for tactful hyperbole, it is clear that Catherine, […] did have the kind of youthful prettiness and freshness of appearance that charmed observers, not only the family into which she would marry. It was partly a question of her complexion: her naturally pink cheeks and white skin were much admired in an age when make-up was clumsy in execution, easy to detect and much scorned. Ambassadors abroad, describing princesses to their masters, generally emphasized the tint of the skin, carefully noting whether it was 'painted' or not. A fair complexion like Catherine's was thought to indicate a more serene and cheerful temperament than a 'brown' one. Then Catherine's hair was also fair and thick, with a reddish-gold tint, her features neat and regular in a pleasingly shaped oval face.

Perhaps Catherine's fair colouring, so far from the conventional picture of a dark-visaged Spaniard, reminded onlookers of her one-eighth of English blood: […] 'there is nothing wanting in her that the most beautiful girl should have. '

If her complexion was her chief beauty, Catherine's chief disadvantage was her lack of height. All the grace of her bearing, inculcated over many years at the Castilian court, could not conceal the fact that she was extremely short, even tiny. Years later a loyal defender had to admit that she was 'in stature somewhat mean', while adding quickly 'but bonarly [bonnie] withal'. She was also on the plump side - but then a pleasant roundness in youth was considered to be desirable at this period, a pointer to future fertility. In contrast Catherine's voice was surprisingly low and 'big-sounding' for a woman; and that no doubt contributed to the impression of gracious dignity she left on all observers, making up for the lack of inches.

2. Anne Boleyn (married 1533-1536)

motto: THE MOST HAPPY

Anne Boleyn was not a great beauty. The Venetian ambassador […] pronounced her 'not one of the handsomest women in the world'. […] Anne Boleyn was only moderately pretty.

Some of this lukewarm praise may have been due to the fact that her looks did not accord with the fair-haired, blue-eyed ideal of the time. In theory, dark looks were regarded with suspicion and Anne Boleyn's looks were conspicuously dark: she was 'Brunet' […] Anne Boleyn's olive complexion’ […] her colouring 'rather dark' or sallow 'as if troubled with jaundice', or 'not so whitely as ... above all we may esteem.' She did have a few moles, although she was hardly disfigured by them on the contrary they acted as beauty-spots. Her hair, thick and lustrous as it might be, was extremely dark […] And her eyes were so dark as to be almost black. But then the theory of public admiration was one thing - blondes were supposed to be of cheerful temperament - and the practice of physical attraction was quite another. Clearly in adulthood Anne Boleyn exercised a kind of sexual fascination over most men who met her; whether it aroused desire or hostility, the fascination was there.

The black eyes were sparkling and expressive; and they were set off by those 'dark, silky and well-marked eyebrows' […] on the subject: she knew well how 'to use [her eyes] with effect', whether deliberately leaving them in repose or using them to send a silent message which carried ‘the secret testimony of the heart'. As a result many became obedient to their power. More prosaically, the Venetian ambassador called her eyes "black and beautiful'. Her mouth, described by him as 'wide' (another theoretical disadvantage by the standards of the time), was recorded by Sander as pretty. […] Anne Boleyn was 'of middling stature' (which made her of course a great deal taller than Queen Catherine). She seems to have been quite slight or at any rate not full-breasted - the Venetian ambassador remarked that her bosom was 'not much raised' […]. But a much more important aspect of her appearance when she first came to court was her elegant long neck; this, with the deportment she had learned in France […] gave her a special grace, especially when dancing, which no one denied.

The fresh young damsel had other qualities, some more obvious than others at the moment of her arrival back in England. She had 'a very good wit', wrote Cavendish in his Life of Wolsey, another source not prejudiced in Anne Boleyn's favour? The phrase, going beyond mere intelligence, carried with it connotations of spirit and adventurousness; in other words, Anne Boleyn was good company. Like many spirited people, she had another more impatient side to her: she would display on occasion a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But of these characteristics, deplored in a woman as much as skill at singing and dancing was prized, there was as yet no sign.

3. Jane Seymour (married 1536-1537)

motto: BOUND TO OBEY AND SERVE

From other sources, it seems likely that the charm of her character considerably outweighed the charm of her appearance: […] of middle statute and no great beauty. Her most distinctive aspect was her famously pure white complexion. Holbein gives her a long nose, and firm mouth, with the lips slighty compressed, although her face son a pleasing oval shape with the high forehead then admired (enhanced sometimes by discret plucking of the hairline) and set off by the headdresses of the time. Altogether, if Anne

Boleyn conveys the fascination of the new, there is a dignified but slightly stolid look to Jane Seymour, appropriately reminiscent of English medieval consorts.

But the predominant impression given by her portrait - at the hands of a master of artistic realism - is a young woman of calm good sense. And contemporaries all commented on Jane Seymour's intelligence: in this she was clearly more like her cautious brother Edward than her dashing brother Tom. She was also naturally sweet-natured (no angry words or tantrums here) and virtuous - her virtue was another topic on which there was general agreement. There was a story that she had been attached to the son of Sir Robert and Lady Dormer, a country neighbour, but was thought of too modest a rank to marry him; even if true, the tale brought with it no slur on Jane's maidenly honour. It was told more as a Cinderella story, where the unfairly slighted girl would go on to be raised triumphantly to far greater heights. Her survival as a lady-in-waiting to two Queens at the Tudor court still with a spotless reputation may indeed be seen as a testament to both Jane Seymour's salient characteristics - virtue and common good sense. A Bessie Blount or Madge Shelton might fool around, Anne Boleyn might listen or even accede to the seductive wooings of Lord Percy: but Jane Seymour was unquestionably virginal.

In short, Jane Seymour was exactly the kind of female praised by the contemporary handbooks to correct conduct; just as Anne Boleyn had been the sort they warned against. There was certainly no threatening sexuality about her. Nor is it necessary to believe that her 'virtue' was in some way hypocritically assumed, in order to intrigue the King […]. On the contrary, Jane Seymour was simply fulfilling the expectations for a female of her time and class: it was Anne Boleyn who was - or rather who had been - the fascinating outsider.

4. Anne of Cleves (married 1540-1540)

motto: GOD SEND ME WELL TO KEEP

Let us take the actual appearance of Anna of Cleves first: for this we are fortunate in having a first-hand description, written only a few days later by the French ambassador, Charles de Marillac, who was not prejudiced in either direction, towards her beauty or her ugliness. Anna of Cleves looked about thirty, he wrote (she was in fact twenty-four), tall and thin, 'of middling beauty, with a determined and resolute countenance.' The Lady was not as handsome as people had affirmed she was, nor as young […], but there was a steadiness of purpose in her face to counteract her want of beauty.

The 'daughter of Cleves' was solemn, or at any rate by English standards she was, and she looked old for her age. She was solemn because she had not been trained to be anything else and the German fashions did little to give an impression of youthful charm in a court in love as ever with things French, or at any rate associating them with fun and delight. […] Turning to Holbein's picture, one finds this solemnity well captured: a critic might indeed term it stolidity. Besides Wotton, in his report, had confirmed that Holbein, generally regarded as the master of the 'lively' or lifelike (not the flattering) in his own time, had indeed captured Anna's "image' very well.

Of course a beautiful young woman, however stolid or badly dressed, would still have been acceptable. Anna of Cleves was not beautiful, and those reports which declared she was were egregious exaggerations in the interests of diplomats […]. But was Anna of Cleves actually hideous? Holbein, painting her full-face, as was the custom, does not make her so to the modern eye, with her high forehead, wide-apart, heavy-lidded eyes and pointed chin.

There is indirect evidence that Anna of Cleves was perfectly pleasant-looking from the later years of Henry VIII. When Chapuys reported Anna of Cleves as rating her contemporary, Catherine Parr, 'not nearly as beautiful' as herself, this expert observer did not choose to contradict her; so that the boast was presumably true, or at least true enough not to be ridiculous.

5. Katherine Howard (married 1540-1542)

motto: NO OTHER WILL BUT HIS

No confirmed authentic picture of Katherine Howard survives. The fact that Katherine Howard is the only one of Henry VIII’s wives for whose appearance we must rely properly on contemporary descriptions, gives her career an appropriately evanescent quality. The same mistiness surrounds her date of birth. She was eighteen or nineteen when the King’s roving eye first fell upon her: that is, roughly thirty years younger than he was. […] Katherine was not only small, as Catherine of Aragon had been, but diminutive: parvissima puella – a really tiny girl. If King Henry was about thirty years older than Katherine, he must have been well over a foot taller. We need not speculate further about their respective weights. The French ambassador rated her beauty as only middling (the same phrase he had used for Anna of Cleves, incidentally), but he did praise her gracefulness, and he found much sweetness in her expression; her habit of dressing à la française (as opposed to Anna of Cleves’ Germanic fashions) no doubt commended itself to him.

Even if Katherine Howard was not a beauty, she must have had considerable prettiness and obvious sex appeal (as well as – or perhaps because of – her youth) since we know that she captivated the King instantly.

6. Catherine Parr (married 1543-1547)

motto: TO BE USEFUL IN ALL I DO

The woman who brought about this cheerfulness, the new Queen Catherine Parr, was herself never described by anyone as a beauty: even the term ‘of middling beauty’ used for both Anna of Cleves and Jane Seymour by Marillac was not applied in this case. ‘Pleasing’ and ‘lively’, ‘kind’ and ‘gracious’ were the most flattering epithets ascribed to her. It is true that a difference of age and status may have been responsible for this lack – widows of over thirty were not expected to be beauties – but when Anna of Cleves indignantly exclaimed that the new Queen was ‘not nearly as beautiful as she’, Chapuys, passing on the comment, did not see fit to contradict it.

Queen Catherine Parr’s only known authentic likeness, attributed to William Scrots, shows an amiable face rather than an intriguing one; the nose is short, the mouth small, and the forehead broad rather than domed in the way that contemporaries admired. Her hair was rather similar in colour to that of Catherine of Aragon: light auburn, tinged with what Agnes Strickland in the nineteenth century would call ‘threads of burnished gold’.

But if the new Queen Catherine was not a beauty, she was neither dull nor austere. She enjoyed dancing. […] She was well set up – the tallest of King Henry’s wives – and her height would have enabled her to cut a regal figure since her conception of her role as queen consort also included a great deal of ornate dressing-up.

Bibliography:

- Fraser, Antonia. The Six Wives of Henry VIII. New York Knopf, 1993.

[punkeropercyjackson]

Pjo fans who think Percy is bisexual but not transfem are highkey just misogynists who don't want her to be a woman because then they'd hate her like how she hates men,only her case is justified because men have always abused her(Poseidon,Smelly Gabe,her male bullies,Luke and the gods)and especially considering they make her crush on those specific men with an emphasis on the serial pedophile who incestously groomed fucking Annabeth,y'know,the canon black girl mc.They have more sympathy towards and interest in Luke for being a sheltered cishet conventionally attractive blonde blue eyed white man who got a one taste of the real world and turned into a fascist over it than they do for Piper for being a brown native butch girl who had femininity ruined for her by racist white girl bullies and Hazel for being a darkskin 1940s black girl who died and got ressurected at 13,is the daughter of the king of the underworld with gem and psychic powers and basically had the same attitude to authority and school experiences Percy does and did.They also hate Rachel more for pursuing someone who she was mutually crushing on and is best friends with than they do Apollo for hitting on tween girl members of a group about protecting girls from men and maybe even Percy herself when she was underaged and they actually mass ship him with her yet hate on Annabeth💀💀💀See the point i'm making?Pjoheads are fandom misogynists of all time

[saintsir4n]

— there are some things I want to say, many of which are regarding race!

The fact that Francesca Amewudah-Rivers is receiving hate the fact she’s playing Juliet is not surprising, since people do not need reasons to hate black women. She’s a dark-skinned pretty woman but of course, because she has prominent black features she’s seen as manly and shouldn’t be playing alongside someone like Tom Holland. I’m not one to put down people but Tom Holland is not God’s gift, and neither is he publicly defending his co-star, a matter that I won’t get into as the focus is Francesca. The role of Juliet is one that was originally played by a man, and since then has been played by people of different ethnicities, some being black women. The fact people are using her appearance or the fact she’s deemed as “not conventionally attractive” is disgusting as if that’s an excuse. I’m glad that over 800 black actors signed a letter in solidarity because of the racial abuse as well as the production company who issued their own statement.

POCs especially darker-skinned women are constantly the target of racial abuse even over things that don’t exist and yes I am talking about fan-casts, especially tangled. I haven’t watched the film but I know the source material isn’t from Brothers Grimm but a Persian poem written in the 10th century by Ferdowsi, 8 centuries before it was turned into a “German folklore.” It’s hilarious how micro-aggressions and racism come out when people think white characters aren’t at the centre of it all. People crying about how their younger selves Would hate to see a stunning South Asian actress in the place of a blonde hair, blue-eyed ADAPTION of an original when brown and black girls had little to no representation at all. “Why can’t we stick to the originals?” Please look up what the original is before you start with your insults specifically those who are crying on TikTok or trolling on Avantika Vandanapu’s Instagram.

And lastly, stop bringing Tiana into it. She’s based on a real person just like Pocahontas, their race is important to their stories, black and indigenous, it’s tiring and also just foolish to post edits of “if they can have an Asian Rapunzel why can’t we have a white Tiana” when it’s clear that missed the plot of the princess and the frog, blind to/ ignoring its micro-aggressions (that are written in solely for a black character) and are just showing their bias all in defence of a film that doesn’t even exist.

And before anyone starts on “Why don’t you just invent your own characters?” Many have tried and the movie itself wasn’t watched, had little to no promotion or has been whitewashed but of course that gets little backlash.

And don’t get me started on wish…

So just to conclude, stop attacking us!

[zot3-flopped]

I think one of the most frustrating things about Taylor Swift discourse to me is trying to have meaningful conversations with some of the more rabid Swifties. They hype her up as some groundbreaking artist, and it’s often hard to offer any constructive criticism without being smeared as a “hater” or “misogynist”.

On the popheads subreddit, Swifties will often post ridiculous takes or ask ridiculous questions. There was a post just recently asking if Taylor has received more criticism in her career than Madonna. This was very quickly pointed out as ridiculous, as the Catholic Church tried to cancel Madonna for being blasphemous, and Madonna also broke boundaries by loudly advocating for AIDS patients in the 80s. Taylor’s attempts at advocacy have been very tame (“You Need to Calm Down” was quite pathetic IMO), and there was also a vocal alt-right section of her fandom that worshiped her for years. She took ages to condemn them. Not to mention that she loves portraying herself as a victim. Whilst I don’t deny she’s had hardships as a woman in the music industry, she has also benefited from much privilege (She’s a white, blond-haired, blue-eyed attractive woman who came from a well-off family and her dad was able to purchase a significant stake in a record company to help get her career off the ground).

Then, I’ve seen such preposterous statements from Swifties such as Prince being overrated because he only made 4-5 good albums and Taylor Swift popularizing the concept of cohesive albums. This to me just shows their lack of popular music knowledge. Prince may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and he did need someone to hold him back from dumping as much product out as he did in the late 90s-early 00s, but albums like “Dirty Mind” and “Sign ‘o’ the Times” were ambitious pieces of work that showed Prince was not afraid of taking huge risks. Taylor has made some excellent albums and songs, but she plays it very safe, and IMO seeks too much validation from places like the Grammys. If she threw caution to the wind occasionally, we’d probably get a more exciting song or album from her. I can’t ever see her making a song like Prince’s “Head” or “If I Was Your Girlfriend”.

And the statement about Taylor popularizing cohesive albums is just stupid as hell. Frank Sinatra had one of the earliest concept albums in 1955 with “In the Wee Small Hours”, and there was an entire era of popular music called “the album era” from mid-1960s to the mid-2000s where the album was the main way of consuming and discussing music. This era began in earnest in 1965 with such albums as Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, The Beach Boys’ Today! album, and especially The Beatles’ Rubber Soul. I was very happy to see that user on r/popheads being mocked for suggesting Taylor Swift’s Red popularized cohesive albums (especially since that album isn’t even particularly cohesive).

Agree that she's given far too much credit for innovation and is actually quite mediocre.

[superbdragoncollection-stuff]

don't forget:

Outdated posts about John Brown

Anti Semitic rants and people downplaying said anti semitism, and Jewish people responding to that

"why are we talking about the war in the US think about what they are doing to the [insert slur for indigenous people here]"

Reblogging the extremely racist cornerstone speech and going "wow this is messed up"

Complaining about union soldiers

People saying their white relatives got carted off as slaves, and flame wars starting in the comments over who qualifies as white

Fun fact: the definition of "black" was very different back in the day. It varied from state to state, with things like the "one drop rule", where if you had 1/8th black ancestry, but had snow white skin, you legally were considered black. There are also a bunch of escaped slave posters that describe the victims as "can pass as white", with details like blonde, blue eyes, "will try to pass as white", etc. Some would even say things like "would not be readily taken as a slave". Basically, if you had curly hair, and no one to vouch for you, a slave catcher could haul you away. Seriously, that is how insane this stuff was. Many people claimed Cuban or Welsh ancestry to try and escape being enslaved, and there are stories of people visiting New Orleans and being astounded at how white everyone looks.

This is NOT, repeat, NOT to downplay the racism in society at the time. It is to show how ARBITRARY it was, and how race is a social construct. Like, what they defined as black was in the eye of the beholder. You could be white, blonde, and blue eyed, yet according to racist logic, if you had curly hair, or a certain kind of nose, you would be considered 1/5th of a human being. The definition of black varied from state to state for crying out loud! There is a book from the 1890s, Iola Leroy, taking place in 1859, where a white woman is up north, defending slavery, only for literally an hour later to discover her mother was an escaped slave, and she is legally also a slave. She gets hauled down south until liberated by the federal army. And characters comment on the arbitrary nature of this. A white doctor who claims he knows "those people" on sight thinks she's attractive. He is then immediately repulsed when he hears who this white woman's mother is.

This is why slavery wasn't just a "black people" problem: because black was whatever the slaver said it was.

what my dashboard would actually look like in 1861:

i can't believe no one is talking about the war in the united states

i'm so sick of posts about the war in the united states; why is the hellsite so america-centric

IF YOU ALL DON'T STOP POSTING UNTAGGED SPOILERS FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS I SWEAR TO GOD

george eliot setting off a flurry of debate regarding which other authors are Actually Secretly Ladies

put down "idylls" and read some actual arthuriana 🙄🙄🙄

are gothic and sensation novels poisoning the minds and morals of the youth? discuss.

a call-out post by a lady's maid of her former employer, leading to the latter getting doxxed

extremely gung-ho spiritualists

swifties but make it jenny lind

coquette but make it pre-raphaelite

james steerforth x y/n fic written by someone whose URL is rosadartles

temperance movement discourse

Girls When Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of His And Mine Are The Same

"getting a lot of anthony trollope vibes from this" <- guy who's only ever read anthony trollope

hysterical unsourced posts about the horrors of white slavery with thousands of notes; debunkings of the same that have maybe a few hundred

[irenedubrovna]

Progressive female writing:

The girl with deeply ingrained daddy issues will do quite literally anything for a man who shows her a modicum of reciprocation. She is suicidal, having breakdowns every moment of every day trying to find solace in ignorance of her own actions, her obsession with this singular man overtakes any relationships she may have had before hand. She is pathetic, is constantly reminded that she is pathetic, and none of her mental issues are addressed. All of her mental issues are treated as being not serious, for attention, a bluff, or just straight up comical.

The girl who has been struggling to understand her own sexuality and gender identity finally has an idea of who she is. She has a girlfriend who she loves. She is upset at the slightest bit of attention that said girlfriend receives from a man, perhaps because she is still insecure about her identity still? Don’t expect that to be addressed in any meaningful way. She proceeds to almost immediately cheat on said girlfriend, sending a twofold toxic message for anyone watching: women are sluts who will fall to their knees for any man that makes them feel seen and relationships between two women are loveless sexless disasters. This is in line with the common belief that women aren’t really attracted to other women, and that any woman claiming to be attracted to just women will fold as soon as you charm them into doing so. Homophobic, transphobic, and sexist all in one.

The girl who once used underage sex work as a means to “empower herself” is unhappy in her relationship with a “nice guy”. She has issues related to depression and self image, but don’t look at that part because that was just shoehorned in to make a corny reference to influencer culture and we’re not gonna talk about it again. Anyways she’s unsatisfied because, aligning with incel ideology, women are unable to be happy with men who treat them well, and are simply mindless bimbos who want to be conquered. But don’t worry! She she has a totally out of character scene (however it’s Euphoria, so “what character?” would be a very valid question) where she tosses around words like gaslight incorrectly whilst doing that very thing to a man she’s trying to break up with. You know, because women are cruel tempestuous bitches who victimize themselves and are uneducated about simple manipulation tactics.

At least we have Maddy, who, let me check my notes here, is actually a sweetheart, a good friend, and appreciative of those around her? Wait, this is the same Maddy from last season right? Anyways, she gets to say stuff like “I’m gonna fuck you up” and show frequent bouts of aggression which is not at all a common misrepresentation of Latina women. But wait, there’s more! The woman her aggression is centered around right now is a Eurocentric blonde hair blue eyed white woman, who is incredibly afraid of her! Very iconic and not at all indicative of how the writer (it’s Sam Levinson) views woc, and women in general.

Don’t worry though. There are some women who are treated like people and not gross walking caricatures! Take Rue, who is Sam Levinson according to Sam Levinson, and Rue’s family and support group, who are extensions of Sam Levinson’s experience as an addict. Also, we have Lexi, who we can’t undress and ogle disgustingly at because she’s been given the role of the “straight man”, the person who can see just how odd everything is. Also, she’s the daughter of a prolific director and Sam doesn’t want that nepo smoke.

[jackoshadows]

They got triggered by Arte072's Arya fanart on the tag. Like how dare Arya be drawn that way, that should be Sansa!!

This is an example of the fandom racism and sexism that I was writing about the other day.

We know what they mean when they say Arya is a 'conventionally unattractive character' - i.e she is not blonde (in this case auburn haired), blue eyed and according to their headcanon - she is not white.

If you look at the fanart of Arya and Sansa they reblog, Arya is poc and they headcanon Arya as trans/nb - all the greatest hits of racism in there (Again, not saying this is wrong in terms of wanting to represent one's fave character as trans - but then why not headcanon their actual favorite Sansa as trans because canonically, in the text of the books, Arya is very clear and very comfortable with her gender - it's characters like Sansa, Septa Mordane, Catelyn and even Ned who try to get her to fit into a Westerosi patriarchal ideal of femininity.

Also they reblogged a post about Brienne being straight and cis with these tags:

However, when it comes to Arya, a character who explicitly objects to being labelled a boy and has the following canon text:

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested.

"The steel must be part of your arm," the bald man told her. "Can you drop part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things. Listen to him, boy." It was the third time he had called her "boy." "I'm a girl," Arya objected.

They don't know me, Arya realized. They don't even know I'm a girl.

And so on. Literally her ADwD chapter is titled 'The Blind Girl'.

But for this person:

Why is it that Arya is getting headcanoned as poc and then stripped of her gender because she is supposedly a 'conventionally unattractive character'? This is transphobia as well as racism. Can't 'conventionally attractive characters' be trans?

We see this in real life, where at the recent Olympics, the validity of Algerian boxer Iman Khelif's femininity and womanhood were challenged because she is a woc. We see this in the Bridgerton fandom where Simone Ashley, a dark skinned south Asian actress, was subjected to racist and transphobic attacks because she was not a blue eyed, petite, blonde/auburn haired white woman.

This is the Arya fanart they reblog:

For someone who wants canonically accurate fanart, where is the canonically accurate pink skinned, long faced Arya Stark with the brown hair and grey eyes?

This is the Sansa fanart they reblog:

These are fanart of sisters from their very white parents, descended from their very white ancestors but somehow by magic Arya got so much melanin in her skin because she is 'conventionally unattractive'.

This is what I was referring to when I talk about the fandom racism in interpreting Arya/Jon and the Stark looking Starks as poc and enforcing masculinity on Arya.

And I noticed that their post was reblogged by all the Sansa/Jonsa stans who are invested in Arya being 'ugly' because as per their metas Jon Snow is this very shallow character, repulsed by Arya's 'ugliness' while falling for Sansa because of her beauty 🙄

mom come pick me up they are calling arya a "canonically unconventionally attractive" person, when the only people to consider arya "unconventionally attractive" (this is like when you know someone wants to say a slur so bad when they start using certain terminology and bearing around the bush, just say ugly, we know that's what you mean with your post) are two mean girls, who are known to be arya's bullies.

there's a weird group of people that they say to like arya, but you look through their posts and it's always posts diminishing canon arya in such a quirky and so progressive way

🙄🙄🙄

[filmmakerdreamst]

Why Xena: Warrior Princess Was Groundbreaking

If you remember Xena: Warrior Princess, you probably do for a few reasons. The tiny, tight-fitting costumes worn by its lead characters. That circular spinny thing Xena threw at people (it’s called a chakram). Xena’s fabulous ululating war cry. The bizarre mish-mash of history the show threw together (though the producers knew their stuff, deep down – Rob Tapert later produced the rather more accurate Spartacus for STARZ). What you might not remember, or might not know if you’re unfamiliar with the show, is just how important and ground-breaking Xena was when it first aired between 1995 and 2001.

The first and most obviously groundbreaking thing about Xena: Warrior Princess was, of course, the gender of its lead character. Xena wasn’t the first female lead of an action-adventure series – Charlie’s Angels and Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman, for example, had enjoyed success in the 1970s, while non-action-adventure shows led by women had been common for quite some time, with 1990s examples including Ellen, Blossom, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and Cybill.

The way Xena presented its female hero, though, was a bit different. The opening narration describes how “a land in turmoil cried out for a hero” and then presents the hero in question with an emphatic “she” as we see Xena riding into battle. Lucy Lawless, aside from being likable and charismatic, gave us a heroine who looked like she could physically handle a fight (rather than a super-powered waif-like heroine) while still being extremely attractive (as the costume department and directors were keen to emphasize!). She owed a lot to Carter and Wonder Woman, but Xena’s capability, confidence, and independence were a breath of fresh air in the 1990s SFF television landscape.

Xena’s portrayals of race, gender, and sexuality may seem fairly normal or even disappointing now but were highly progressive at the time. While the show was white-dominated, there was a clear effort made to introduce a more diverse cast. One of Xena’s early love interests was a black man, something hopefully no longer of note, but still relatively unusual at the time. The show also cast a black actress, Galyn Görg, as Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world, offering a nice change from the usual blonde, blue-eyed Helens we’ve seen on film and TV for decades. Similarly, Cleopatra was later played by Gina Torres. The series also set several episodes in Asia, featuring Asian guest characters.

The most significant relationship on Xena was, of course, that between Xena and Gabrielle. To a modern viewer, their relationship probably comes across as frustrating and disappointing, as despite many hints, frequent sub-textual references, and great chemistry between the two actresses, their relationship was never officially clearly stated to be romantic. They did, however, kiss as early as season 2.

Back in the 1990s, two characters of the same gender kissing was still a huge deal. Carol and Susan on Friends were restricted to hugging even at their wedding, while Willow and Tara’s first on-screen kiss on Buffy the Vampire Slayer was eventually worked into the deeply emotional episode “The Body,” after almost two years of subtext and more hugging.

On Xena, in the grand tradition of SFF TV (see also: Star Trek‘s “Plato’s Stepchildren”), a way was found to make the kiss more palatable to the networks. Xena was occupying the body of a man, Autolycus, at the time, so we see Xena’s spirit and Gabrielle’s come together for the kiss, played by the actresses, and then cut to Renee O’Connor’s Gabrielle kissing Bruce Campbell’s Autolycus, so the image actually broadcast is that of a man and a woman kissing. This may look like pandering and queer-baiting to modern eyes, but for the 1990s, it was a major step forward and the kiss was hugely important to LGBTQ Xena fans. Throughout the series, tricks like this were used to create a romantic story by the back door, so to speak. In another plot arc, Xena and Gabrielle’s reincarnated souls married each other.

Both characters had relationships with men throughout the series as well, but a reading of the show as led by two bisexual female characters who were in a relationship with each other was positively encouraged by numerous hints. In 1997, the same year as Xena and Gabrielle’s kiss, both Ellen DeGeneres and her namesake character on her own sitcom came out, something which sent shock waves through the entertainment industry, so this was a genuinely progressive move. And Xena told progressive stories about gender in other ways as well. Also in 1997, the episode “Here She Comes… Miss Amphipolis” featured a transvestite character winning a beauty pageant (in which Gabrielle acts as Xena’s “sponsor,” surrounded by men “sponsoring” their girlfriends).

Xena was groundbreaking in its format as well. Like contemporary show Frasier, Xena was a spin-off based on a character from another series and this produced a setup that might not have sold without its head start from Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. Our hero is not a pure and innocent champion of good, but a former villain trying to redeem herself for the bad things she’s done (this may sound familiar, but remember, the show pre-dates Angel!). This setup ensures that Xena never slips into standard Strong Female Character tropes. Strong she certainly is, but she is also fully three-dimensional, flawed (always trying to balance violent impulses and a desire for peace), looking for ways to use her violent skills for good and burdened by guilt. And then there’s her counterpart, Gabrielle – resisting physical violence for a long time, interested in art and literature but unable to tear herself away from Xena and the violence inherent in Xena’s lifestyle.

The show also popularized some of modern SFF television’s most beloved tropes. It was not the first show to break the fourth wall, or do a musical episode, or do a time loop episode, or any of the other tropes that show up. However, it did do a lot to popularize more experimental episodes like “A Day In The Life” or the famous first musical episode “The Bitter Suite” – which took the musical format completely seriously, a move unusual at the time – as the show used these in a manner and with a frequency that were unusual at the time (along with its parent show, Hercules).

The X-Files, for example, produced some great format-bending episodes, but usually only once or twice a season (with the exception of season six). Xena showed that a series format could be seriously flexible, including multiple episodes set in the twentieth century, hundreds of years away from the main setting of the show, as well as a wide range of other stories. Again, it was not the first or the only show to do so (Doctor Who is the most obvious example of a show with a seriously flexible format) but it made this type of television seem viable and popular.

Xena has had a huge influence on SFF film and television over the years. It takes only a brief look at a basic description of the show to see how much Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which debuted as a television series two years after Xena, in 1997, though the 1992 film pre-dates Xena) and Angel owe to Xena, and the debt was acknowledged in Buffy’s “Halloween” (“She couldn’t have dressed up like Xena?”).

It’s also worth noting that, before The Lord of The Rings showed the world how beautiful the New Zealand landscape was, the cast and crew of Xena and Hercules were ignoring the distinct lack of any similarity between the geography of New Zealand and Greece and showing the scenery off as best they could on relatively low budget television. Many of the cast and crew worked on the Lord of the Rings films as well – notable examples include cast members Karl Urban and Martin Csokas, costume designer Ngila Dickson (whose departure in 1999 presumably allowed her to focus on the films), and Richard Taylor and Tania Rodger, co-founders of Weta Workshop, who worked on a handful of early episodes.

In some ways, Xena: Warrior Princess hasn’t aged too well. The special effects can look a bit ropey (not surprising considering the show’s era and budget), the stories are often cheesy, and its episodic format has gone out of fashion. But the show is well worth a watch if you haven’t yet caught an episode. It has heart and heap-loads of humor (every episode ends with a joke disclaimer about who was or was not harmed during the making of it) and managed to balance dark and light pretty well, veering between pure comedy and deeply serious material with relative ease. The current SFF TV landscape wouldn’t be what it is without Xena and her chakram.

- Why Xena: Warrior Princess Was Groundbreaking by Juliette Harrisson

[smileygoth]

Hellcheer at Redwood - Part One (Stranger Things / AHS 1984)

So after watching Stranger Things season 4 for like the tenth time I decided to continue my 80s nostalgia by watching American Horror Story: 1984. And of course my obsessed like brain had to put the two together!!! Please be informed that I'm not as familiar with AHS:1984 as I am with ST4, so while I have tried to keep to the plot of the show, exact details of scenes may vary. But it's all a bit of fun anyway, so I hope that doesn't bother you!

Here's part one - mostly introducing the characters and setting the scene. I'm anticipating it being about five parts long, but we'll see.

Word Count: 2451 words

CW: Underage drinking, a little misogyny. Spoilers for episode 1 of AHS: 1984.

Images courtesy of FX and Netflix and smushed together by me!

Part One

1986

“You know, this isn’t the first time we’ve … hung out.”

“No?”

1984

Eddie stepped out of the cab and looked up at the big wooden gate, the sign at the top proudly proclaiming: ‘Welcome to Camp Redwood’. Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he sighed and scuffed the dirt with his boot as the cab pulled away, leaving him there. Other than swapping his sneakers for sturdy hiking boots (at his uncle’s strong suggestion), he’d made absolutely zero concessions toward spending a summer out in the woods. He didn’t want to be here, and he wanted everyone to know it. Moodily, he trudged up the path that led into the camp.

Not far in, the path turned a corner and he could see a group of people, mostly teenagers perhaps a little older than him, sitting and standing around, waiting. He eyed them warily. Who this group consisted of would determine how shitty this summer was going to be. He saw a prissy looking girl with dark hair, nervously clutching her pack (do-gooder, he instantly thought); a girl with voluminous blonde hair wearing a blue denim jacket not totally dissimilar to his vest (hot, potentially cool); a tall, blonde, ridiculously attractive guy who looked like he’s stepped straight off the pages of Seventeen magazine (probably gay); an older guy with a moustache who looked like he’d stepped straight off the pages of a porno mag (total hound); an older woman with her hair pinned neatly up, smoking a cigarette (clearly doesn’t want to be here either); and two sporty looking guys (jocks, steer clear).

He also saw a second blonde girl, sitting a little apart from the group using her backpack as a seat. Her hair wasn’t big and teased like the other blonde’s; it was done up in a perky little ponytail. He looked her over closely as he approached. The blue jeans and plain white shirt had thrown him off at first, but now he recognised her: Chrissy Cunningham, one of the girls on the cheerleader squad at Hawkins High. What was she doing all the way out here? Surely she couldn’t be here for the same reason he was?

As he stared, she glanced up at him. She showed no sign of recognising him as she gave a slight smile and looked away. That stung, but only a little. There was no real reason why she should recognise him. Freaks and cheerleaders didn’t exactly run in the same circles.

The moustache guy looked up as Eddie joined them. “Hey, you another counsellor?” he asked, tone friendly but unsmiling. Eddie nodded.

“You don’t look like the counsellor type,” Mr Hot Blonde Guy said, lip curling up in a smirk.

“Neither do you,” Eddie shot back.

“Leave him alone, X.” The hot blonde girl stood up from her seat on a fallen log and wandered over. Now that she stood up, Eddie could see the leopard print dress and knee high boots she was wearing. Definitely hot. “My name’s Montana,” she said, putting out her hand to him.

He took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Cool name,” he said. “I’m Eddie.”

Montana smiled. “Like Iron Maiden’s Eddie?”

Eddie’s smile widened. “You like Iron Maiden?”

She shrugged. “Some.” Turning back to the group, she started pointing people out. “That’s Xavier,” she said, pointing to the blonde guy. “He’s a bit of a bitch, but he’s okay deep down. Those two -” The jocks – “Are Chet and Ray. Chet failed at getting into the Olympics, and that’s probably all he’s going to talk about all summer, so be warned.”

“Fuck you, Montana!” Chet shouted angrily.

She ignored him. “This one is Brooke,” she said, indicating the dark-haired girl, who gave him a friendly if uncertain smile. “She’s studying to be a veterinarian! Super exciting! These two -” She waved at Chrissy and the moustache guy – “I don’t know. And that lady over there is Nurse Rita, who is supposed to be doing the meeting and greeting while we wait for the lady who runs the show to turn up.”

Rita turned her head enough to give Montana a cool glare, then went back to her cigarette without saying anything.

Eddie bit back another sigh. He didn’t have a great feeling about this.

As if in response to his thought, a short blonde woman with her hair styled in 70s-esque flicks came striding down the path toward them from deeper in the camp. She was wearing khaki shorts and vest over a white shirt and looked at them through a huge pair of glasses. Eddie’s heart sank as she approached.

“Good afternoon, campers!” she cried cheerily. “My name is Margaret Booth, and I am the owner and proprietor of Camp Redwood! Thank you all for coming, we have a busy summer ahead of us and the kiddies are showing up first thing in the morning, so let’s get right into it and get you all set up! Follow me and I’ll show you to your bunks so you drop off those heavy bags.”

She turned, whip-fast, and started walking away again. The group hurriedly scrabbled to hoist their bags onto their shoulders and follow – all except Nurse Rita, who wandered after Margaret as if she couldn’t care less.

The tour of the camp was brief. First they were shown their bunks (“Boys and girls sleep separately, this is a good Christian organisation,” Margaret had said, to much rolling of the eyes from the others), then Margaret led them round the other areas of camp. Rita peeled off from the group when they got to the infirmary. Eddie tried hard to memorise which trail led to which – showers (“Boys in the evening, girls in the morning, no exceptions, cleanliness is next to Godliness”), kitchens, lake, boathouse. He could easily imagine getting lost out here at night when he couldn’t read the little wooden signposts. Then, finally, they stopped at a round firepit in the centre of the camp. By this point the sun was already going down.

“You’ll want to get yourself settled,” Margaret said. “Bertie, our cook, will be serving up supper in an hour or so. Then you’ve got the evening to get to know each other. No alcohol or drugs are permitted on site, so if you brought them, keep them in your bags. And boys, don’t forget to shower.” She smiled. “I’ll see you at supper!”

>>>>>>

Supper was … interesting. Margaret took it as an opportunity to drill the camp rules into them all – no sex, no booze, no drugs, no cohabiting between sexes, who showers when, blah blah blah – so none of them really had a chance to talk to each other. However, the cook, Bertie, seemed to be pretty chill, and her meatloaf was excellent. Eddie was feeling full and lazy and considering just crashing in his bunk when Xavier sidled up to him as he was putting his tray through the kitchen hatch.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said, smiling. “Montana’s right, I can be a bitch. It comes with the territory.”

“What territory?” Eddie asked, bracing himself for some joke.

“Being an actor,” Xavier replied. “Or trying to be. You need a thick skin, and I guess it’s a defence mechanism to bite first before I’m bitten. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He shrugged nonchalantly, though to Eddie it looked like an act. “We’re all getting together at the firepit now if you want to join us. You know, get to know the team?”

Begrudgingly, Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Xavier smiled, a little more genuinely this time. “Awesome! Well then, let’s go! Oh, and …” He lowered his voice. “Watch out for Montana. She’s into bad boys.”

“What makes you think I’m a bad boy?”

Xavier laughed. “The long hair, the ripped jeans, the metal patches? If you’re not a rebel, you’re trying to look like one.”

“Shit,” Eddie smiled. “You’re onto me.”

Laughing, Xavier led him out of the kitchen, which was already empty except for Margaret and Bertie, and across to the firepit not too far away. The moustache guy was using a lighter to set a small bundle of wood alight in the stone circle in the centre of the ring of benches. Montana was staring at him with a weird look on her face. Brooke and Chrissy were sat close together, a little apart from everyone else, talking quietly; Chrissy was holding Brooke’s hand and nodding sympathetically at what Brooke was saying. Ray and Chet had already broken open a couple of six packs and were handing bottles of beer to everyone. To Eddie’s surprise, Nurse Rita was there with them, an open beer in her hand.

Eddie and Xavier joined the group, Eddie taking a seat next to Montana, who instantly switched her attention to him. He accepted a beer from Chet with a nod of thanks. Xavier remained standing, one foot on the stone rim of the firepit, his perfect face illuminated from below by the growing firelight. Eddie glanced at him with a twinge of jealousy. He looked like George Michael, posing there with his dangly earring and his perfect blonde hair. He bet he had no trouble getting dates … whatever his preference was. Eddie wished he could have half that confidence.

“Okay, so let’s do the introductions,” Xavier said, lifting his beer bottle. “So me, Montana, Chet, Ray and Brooke all came from LA. Getting away from the city while all this crazy Night Stalker shit goes down.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie saw Brooke give a shiver. Chrissy put a comforting hand on her arm.

“Who are the rest of you?” Xavier continued. He looked at the moustache guy.

He grinned. “I’m Trevor, your activities director,” he replied. “Before this gig I was doing various jobs around LA, a bit of fitness, a bit of aerobics …”

Montana’s attention snapped back to Trevor, and she frowned like she was trying to remember something.

Xavier’s gaze fell on Eddie. “How about you, rock star?”

Eddie shrugged. “My name’s Eddie and I’m here doing community service,” he replied.

Montana smiled at him. “Ooh, you’re a bad boy?” she purred. “What did you do?”

Xavier mouthed ‘Told you’ at Eddie and grinned. Eddie smiled back. “Just dealing some dope,” he replied. “Got off light since technically I was a minor at the time.”

“Wait … how old are you?” Xavier asked.

Eddie bristled a little. “Eighteen,” he replied.

“Oh my God!” Montana squealed. “Baby boy! You’re not even old enough to drink!”

“Fuck off,” Eddie retorted, and took a swig from his beer. They all laughed. Then Xavier’s eyes turned to Chrissy.

“What about you, princess?” he asked.

Chrissy looked around nervously. “Um, my name’s Chrissy,” she said. “I’m here because my dad told me it’d look good on my college applications.”

“So how old are you?” Montana asked.

“I … I just turned seventeen last month,” Chrissy replied, her eyes darting from one person to another.

“Jailbait,” Trevor remarked with a snigger.

Eddie felt a sting of anger at that. He glared at the older man fiercely. Trevor noticed and his smirk vanished.

Xavier shrugged and grabbed another beer and put it into Chrissy’s empty hand. “Whatever,” he said. “What happens in Redwood stays in Redwood.” The others all laughed and cheered at this, raising their bottles in a toast. “However!” Xavier went on, raising his voice again, “If anyone is anything less than a perfect gentleman to these lovely ladies – unless they request otherwise, of course – I will personally kick your ass.” He gave a pointed look to Trevor, who snorted scornfully.

“So,” Ray said, leaning forward into the light cast by the fire. “Has anyone actually been a camp counsellor before?”

They all shook their heads.

“None of us?” Ray looked surprised.

Rita spoke up. “You don’t think they’d be able to get qualified staff after what happened here, do you?” she said. “They all know better than to come to this place.”

They all looked around at each other. “What happened here?” Eddie asked.

“Oh, come on,” Xavier grumbled, retreating to sit on the bench next to Chrissy. “I know this is like a tradition and all, but I’m really not in the mood for some spooky haunted woods bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Rita insisted. “It’s true. And it wasn’t ghosts. It was Mr Jingles.”

Ray snorted. “Who?”

“Mr Jingles.” Rita paused and looked round at them all, as if checking that they were all listening. Then she continued.

“He worked as a groundskeeper here at Camp Redwood. Nobody knows why, but in the summer of 1970 he snapped and went on a rampage, killing ten innocent young people, right here in this forest. He took their ears as trophies.”

“Oh come on,” another voice called out from the shadows. A murmur rippled through the group around the fire as they all jumped, startled. Margaret strolled into the circle of light, casting a scornful glance at Rita. “If you’re going to tell a story, tell it right. He didn’t kill ten people. He killed nine.” Then with a sweep of her hand, she pushed back her hair on one side of her head, revealing the ugly scar where her left ear should have been.

“Jesus,” Eddie muttered, shocked.

Margaret fixed him with an icy stare. “I reopened this camp because I wanted to replace all the awful memories of this place with good ones … happier ones,” she said. “You’re all here to help me do that.” Stepping forward, she snatched the beer bottle from Ray’s hands. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d get rid of these, call it a night and go get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.” She turned to leave, calling over her shoulder as she went: “And boys, remember to shower.”

When she was gone, there was an uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Rita got to her feet. “Well, I guess that’s that,” she said, draining the rest of her beer. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.” And with that, she walked off into the darkness.

Brooke stood up next, closely followed by Chrissy. “She’s right,” Brooke said. “Goodnight.”

As they disappeared, Montana stood up. “Let’s go, guys,” she said. Ray, Chet and Xavier all got up and walked off with her in the direction of the bunkhouses. Only Eddie and Trevor were left. Trevor raised his eyebrows at Eddie and nodded in the direction Montana had taken.

Eddie scowled and got to his feet. “Night, Trevor,” he said, and made his way to the boys’ bunkhouse. What a sleaze.

[forestlingincorporated]

Consequences of Character Design Drift

Some characters’ designs are firmly set in stone, and any deviation from these designs can be met very harshly. This is typical in main characters - Bruce Wayne is almost always depicted as a broad, tall, white man with black hair and blue eyes. Minor variation are tolerated, typically simplifying the eyes (which makes them appear dark) or permitting for brown-eyed actors, but the general design remains consistently the same. Major alterations are rare and highly noticeable. 

Supporting cast is often given more leniency. Catwoman’s defining trait is that she is highly attractive, and American culture’s definition of a “sexy woman” has shifted over time, which has caused significant design drift. This design drift allows significantly more freedom when designing the character of Catwoman, because nothing about her is culturally set in stone except for two traits: seductive and likes cats. 

Compare to a character who is also primarily known for her sexiness, but who has a defining physical trait: Poison Ivy. Ivy’s red hair is a defining character design trait that transfers with almost every iteration, no matter how plant-y she gets, and variation remains in the redhead-ginger range: red, orange, and pink. 

For characters of color, character design drift unfortunately tends to come in the form of colorism and white washing. Talia al Ghul, for example. 

Character design drift occurs most often with side characters, where it is less noticeable... and more likely to just happen on accident. Character design deviations for main characters and supporting cast are typically a choice, while side characters tend to get this treatment entirely by mistake. 

However, when you’re dealing with characters that are related, design drift can cause some unintended consequences... such as children not looking biologically related to their supposed bio parents. 

Originally, Tim Drake was depicted as looking just like his father, Jack. Tim is a character whose appearance is firmly set in stone, with 32 years of being depicted as a baby-faced white boy with black hair and blue eyes, much of which was spent as the lead of his own comic. His father was black haired like him, and his mother was depicted with this sandy-brown, dirty-blonde colored hair.

After the death of Janet, Jack went through a lot of character design drift - his girlfriend/second wife Dana as well. Sometimes he looked very much like Tim, however his most memorable design was as a brunet. 

Sometimes Janet is retroactively depicted with black hair to compensate, but Janet is most memorable for also having light hair. 

This creates a situation where in people’s minds, Tim ends up looking like a misbegotten child. Combine that with Tim’s parents’ history of neglect and the fact that he DOES consistently share phenotypes with Bruce, and you get an AO3 tag just common enough to filter by. 

This has been a TedTalk only I care about, lol. 

[sassyfrassboss]

As to the speculation about the children's looks, it is 100% wrong for anyone to discuss whether they are attractive or not. But I do think that The Woman is concerned that the kids are not attractive enough for her view of the Hollywood world and that is probably at least in part why we haven't seen pictures. Money is the obvious other reason,

I speculate often on why we have not yet seen Lili. While I am sure she is adorable, it makes me wonder why we have yet to see even a glimpse of her foot a la Archie 2018.

My theory is that instead of the blue eyed, blonde Princess Diana lookalike, I think Lili looks more like Meghan and Doria.

And look, this isn't racist thinking or me being mean, it's just that Meghan really put an emphasis during her acting career as being able to pass as white and she even had Caucasian on her resume. So I do think that Meghan herself puts a lot of importance into what her children look like and how they mesh with the rest of the BRF.

She also has put an emphasis on Diana 2.0 and with Lili's name being Lilibet Diana, I think Meghan had a certain image in mind of what her daughter was going to look like.

We have seen Archie with his white freckle face and bright red hair so it makes one wonder why Lili, who is 6 months old, has yet to be been when we got pictures and events of Archie out in public a few times before he was 6 months old.

I am probably 100% wrong in regards to what Lili looks like, and honestly I don't really care, but I do wonder WHY we have yet to see her and this is the theory that fits Meghan's MO.

[house-of-galathynius]

Only You ~ Rowaelin

A Rowaelin fanfic, set if Aelin’s parents had lived and she had met Rowan under normal circumstances, if Erawan and Maeve weren’t threats. Hope you enjoy! 

Prologue ~ Chapter Two

Chapter One: Meeting 

 Summer had always been Aelin’s favourite time of the year. It was the soft breezes and the long days, the late nights. It was the time of year where she didn’t have to be a princess. There was no need for the formalities or the pretending. 

Summer was the season of freedom. 

And when she had woken up that morning, the sun was still low in the sky, the mist dancing between the trees and the bird song was mellowed, quieter somehow. She had known that summer was over; her Fae senses could feel the shift of the season. Summer giving way to the crispness of autumn. And despite the peacefulness and beauty of autumn, it was also her least favourite time of the year.

Court would begin again. Gone would be the long nights of stargazing, the lazy days lounging in the sun with a book or the trips to the Staghorns; now was the time for her royal duties to start once again. 

A gentle tap of the door had Aelin groaning and shifting in bed. 

“Your Highness? Your father would like to know if you will be eating breakfast with them this morning.” Her maid Elspeth was one of the good ones. She was in her late forties and had been with Aelin for her entire twenty years. She was a short woman, her hair starting to grey at the roots, her cheeks always rosy and plump. But Aelin loved her like a mother.

Elspeth slid into the room and closed the door behind her, she strode over to the towering windows which looked out over the forest beyond the castle. The thick curtains were opened to reveal a grey morning. Elspeth didn’t wait for a response from Aelin as she continued her way around the room to the balcony on the far side. She opened the doors and Fleetfoot, Aelin’s beloved dog perked up and trotted off to the fresh air. 

Elspeth was well versed in the ways of Aelin. Which is why her final task was to perch on the edge of her bed and pull the covers back. 

“Aelin, you have guests arriving today.” 

She shot up in bed, staring at Elspeth. She had forgotten about the guests. If she had, she definitely would have been up earlier. She said as much. 

“The Queen of Doranelle, Sellene Whitethorn is arriving with her family.” 

Of course. There had been turmoil in Doranelle for many years and finally, only a few months ago, they had decided on a new queen. It had been a surprise to her Uncle Orlon when it had been announced, but nonetheless, had extended an invitation to visit once the new queen had settled into her new role. Just as the offer would be extended to me one day- when I became queen. 

“I suppose I cannot get away with my usual attire today?” She said. Elspeth laughed and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. A dress will be required.” 

Elspeth had picked a simple yet regal gown in a deep Terrasen green. Elspeth tried and failed to get Aelin to braid her hair, or at least put it into a simple updo. But Aelin enjoyed her hair free, the long blonde locks were one of her favourite assets, and never understood the need to hide it. 

She surveyed herself in the mirror, despite her late night with Sam, she looked awake and bright eyed. Ready for a day of acting like a princess. 

When Aelin arrived into the breakfast room, her father and mother were already seated, Orlon too. She took up the seat beside her mother and smiled apologetically to the three of them. Tardiness was one of her weaknesses and had frustrated all of them to no end. But with the night she had just had… if only her parents knew. 

“Late night again, Aelin?” Orlon grinned. He had always been privy to Aelin’s whereabouts, where she would sneak off to, who she would meet. 

Sam was not royal, in fact, he held no title in Terrasen. He had moved when he had been sixteen years old; escaping the grips of an assassin in Rifthold. He had stowed away on a ship, not knowing where it was going, but hoping that anywhere was better than before. He arrived in Terrasen with a few coins and his wits about him. He’d managed to secure work at a library. The owner had been old and frail, unable to lift the books, unable to do much at all. Sam had taken it upon himself to help in any way he could. And six years later he was the proud owner. It’s where Aelin had met him. Since then, she had been sneaking off to see Sam every chance she could; the only person knowing being Orlon. 

She knew it could never be more than it was with Sam, a reason why she had been so quick to shut down his offer the night before. And despite Terrasen being a forward-thinking country— the King was married to a man for Gods sake— they still drew the line at commoners and royalty marrying, or even being involved, the only exception being a mating bond; something so rare and final that no King or God could argue with it. So she tried to enjoy the stolen moments she had with Sam. Avoiding the advances of any foreign royalty that may come her way. The King only allowing it on the condition that when a serious offer of marriage arose, Aelin would accept and take her place as the next heir to the throne. She loved Sam, and on occasion had been angry at the impossibility of it being anything other than what it was now.

There was the other problem of her immortal lifespan. Sam was human and at some point it would have to end anyway.

“Did you forget about the arrival of the Whitethorns today?” Her father asked.

“It may have slipped my mind.” An easy lie. She took a bite of the pastry in front of her, savouring the sweetness. “But I am here now, and ready to be the perfect princess.” Another bite. 

Her mother chuckled to herself, sipping on the herbal tea that she would drink every morning without fail. Orlon cleared his throat, giving her a look. 

“The queen is new to this Aelin. We must ensure she is welcomed and feels comfortable during her stay.” 

A roll of her eyes. “I think I can manage being nice for a few days.” 

“Weeks.”

She stopped mid-chew. 

“The Whitethorns will be here for at least three weeks. Their castle is under renovations, so we offered them a place to stay whilst they were underway.” 

She had never heard of such a thing. A new queen, leaving her territory for weeks? 

“Darling, you are not expected to entertain them alone, nor be present at every minute.” Her mother had always been the diffuser; ensuring the conversations remained civil, if not for her sanity, for the sake of Aelin’s temper that had resulted in a few fires. “But the sneaking off will have to stop. Lysandra will understand.” Lysandra being Aelin’s excuse for when she was actually sneaking off to see Sam. 

She smiled politely and confirmed that she would be well behaved for when the guests arrived.

And that was that. 

She finished breakfast quickly and excused herself before they could make her stay longer. Aelin made her way to the training ground just beyond the walls of the garden. Orlon had had it built when it was evident Aelin needed a place to train with her powers. Fire magic was a rare gift, one that hadn’t been in the royal family since Brannon. She was grateful for the space, even if she no longer needed to train to the same extent. Only meeting with her trainer once every month.

“I thought I might find you here.” Lysandra’s voice echoed across the stones. “Hiding?” Lysandra laughed. 

“Something like that.” 

Lysandra was silent as she perched on the stone bench, watching as Aelin made shields of flame, as she danced the fire through her fingers and flung her powers towards the wall.

“I won’t be available for a while Lys. The Queen of Doranelle and her family are arriving today.” Aelin held the flame in her palm. “I need you to send a message to Sam for me.”

Lysandra had been the daughter of one of her mothers maids. And when her mother had died, Aelin’s mother could not stand the thought of Lysandra going to an orphanage. So she had housed Lysandra and trained her as a lady-in-waiting for Aelin. And even though they hated each other as children, the older they got the more they understood the other. 

“I heard one of the Whitethorn princes is extremely handsome. Do you think he’d be interested?” Aelin snorted. Any person would be insane not to be attracted to Lysandra. 

“Gods help the poor male if you pursue him.” Aelin returned to her flame.

“We all know that you’re going to marry me one day.” 

They both whirled at the sound of the male voice at the archway. Aedion stood there in all his glory. He wore a midnight blue jacket and dark pants, clothes for important people, Aelin thought. It was envy that Aelin was feeling. Aedion may be a prince, but he would never be King; marrying Lysandra would never be a problem, if she ever agreed, that was. 

Lysandra rolled her eyes and flipped her hair to the side. “Aedion, we both know you can’t handle me.” 

“We’ll see, Lysandra.” Mischief glittering in his eyes. 

Aedion took his wandering eyes away from Lysandra and back to Aelin, who had already lost interest in their banter. 

“What do you want Aedion? Aelin and I were busy.” 

“I’m here to tell Aelin that the Whitethorns will be here any moment, and her father wishes for her to be in the great hall to welcome them.” 

No peace. Summer was well and truly over then. Her flame flickered out and she brushed down her dress that was lightly coated in dust. She shook out her hair and let it fall past her shoulders, running her fingers through it to release any tangles. 

“How do I look?” 

“Like your father is going to kill you when he see’s the mess on your clothes.” Aedion held his arm out, she linked hers through it and smiled back at Lysandra who was brushing her own dress down.

“I’ll see you later Aelin.” A smile. “Always a pleasure, Aedion.” And then she was gone. 

Aelin and Aedion strolled down the path that led back into the gardens and then into the tall white palace of Orynth. The guards bowed their heads as she passed, the only acknowledgement that they would give. They continued into the palace, the halls empty of people. 

“Did they have to put out so many flowers? I feel like I’m just going to sneeze the entire time.” Aedion laughed, but didn’t respond as they approached the doors to the great hall. 

The room was only ever used for special occasions, I suppose a new queen included that. The room was large, taking up an entire wing of the castle, it’s ceiling tall, gold chandeliers dropping from it. The walls were painted white, with green and gold accents dotted around— the colours of Terrasen. The room was magnificent, every inch dripping in wealth and splendour. 

When she entered she dropped into a low curtsey. Orlon was sat atop the Antler Throne, his eyes fixed on her and Aedion— who was also bowing low. Her father and mother were sat on two smaller seats to Orlon’s left. A second, smaller throne rested next to Orlon’s; for the consort of the king. Which was unusually empty; Orlon’s husband usually filling the spot. 

As soon as she was in her place and everyone else were in their correct spots the guard at the end of the hall announced the arrival of the first Whitethorn family members. Aelin knew this formality all too well— get the lesser family members out of the way first, and then announce the most important. So she dropped her eyes and fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. She kept her eyes averted as the guard listed off the names of lesser royals and their spouses. A pinch on her shoulder made her look up, she spun to berate Aedion for being an ass, when the guard started to speak once more. 

“Your majesty, I would like to present Rowan Whitethorn, Prince of Doranelle and  Endymion Whitethorn, Prince of Doranelle.” 

The two males stepped through the open doors and she met the eyes of the shorter male. He was handsome, of course; and she smiled politely at him, wishing this would go faster. He smiled back, lowering his head slightly before doing the same to Aedion. Aelin tore her eyes away and looked at the second male stood next to him. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld what was in front of her. 

It took him a moment to look toward her, and when their eyes met she felt every hair on her body stand up. His pine green eyes met her own and it was like the world was falling around her. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe, her body heating. 

The male in front of her seemed to be doing the same thing. His breathing turned shallow and he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. 

It was like everything around her was spinning or maybe she was falling, Orlon’s voice faded to the background, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. 

As she stared into the eyes of her mate.

[zukump3]

fixated ✰ s. aizawa

aizawa takes interest after you, but he doesn’t really know how to go about it.

genre: fluff, some smut in the second part! fem!reader

warnings: two parter!! aizawa has a CRUSHHHH, he pins after you heavily, counselor!reader. zawa used to have a thing with ms joke, black!reader

a/n: this idea was super cute so i had to write it. i hope you guys like it!!

requested: yes!!

part 2 (coming soon)

Aizawa has never been one for dating. Honestly, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had a relationship.

Back in high school, when he sat in the very desks his students sat in, he was often teased at by Mic about getting a partner. The hero tried to set him up on dates, give random people his number and all types of other methods, but Aizawa was just never interested. No one really caught his attention that way... until Fukukado came along.

She was everything he despised. She was loud, she talked too much, and she never took anything serious. But somehow she made her way into his cold heart and he indulged in her.

He enjoyed his time with her. Underneath all that goofiness she was a sweet woman who cared deeply for her job and her students. Aizawa felt emotions he had never felt with her, and was a bit peeved when they split. However, they remained friends. Since then, he hasn’t bothered dating with anyone.

“Have you seen the new counselor?!” Aizawa opened one eye to see Kaminari and Sero gushing as they entered the class. “She’s sooo hot. And she’s foreign!”

“Doesn’t she speak English and Japanese fluently though? She’s smart and attractive, jeez.” Sero huffed, and Aizawa furrowed his brow, zipping down his zipper on his yellow sleeping bag.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Miss L/N!” They both yelled, making Aizawa blink. “She’s our new counselor. She said parents were complaining that the students mental health wasn’t being cared about enough, so U.A hired her. She’s from America too.”

“America.” Aizawa groaned. He already had an image in his own eyes—a stereotypically one, but oh well. You probably had blonde hair and blue eyes. There was probably nothing special about you at all. His students weren’t as used to foreigners, so of course they would find you attractive.

Throughout the entire day he kept hearing his students chatter about you. About how kind you were, how pretty your voice sounded, how you looked so unique. He was getting peeved—why was everyone so hung up on you?

He carried the thought with him until the end of the day, when he headed down the hall to what seemed to be your room, just as you were leaving.

And—wow. He really understood why everyone was talking about you.

You weren’t blonde haired, blue eyed at all. Your hair was in a fluffy afro, like Mina’s but kinkier. You had the most supple brown skin and dark eyes that lit up when they caught his. His eyes widened a bit at just how radiating you seemed, your multi colored lips raising into a smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Aizawa! I’m L/N,” you spoke, your hand pushing out to shake his. He shook your hand silently, noting at how warm your palm was against his cold one. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your students!”

“You’ve met them?” he asked, voice deep with shock.

“Ahh, well, they kind of pranked me earlier,” you said sheepishly. “They came banging on my door and said there was a fire, and that I needed to leave as soon as I could. But then they said they were just joking when I was about to jump out my window,” you laughed, shaking your head. “They’re pretty goofy huh?”

Aizawa couldn’t help but note at how good your Japanese was. He knew English and Japanese were two different languages—you must’ve been pretty smart and hardworking to learn it.

“Well, I have to go do paperwork at my apartment-hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” you smiled once again. Aizawa only nodded and then you were off, with his eyes burning into your back.

His fists clenched. You were much more attractive than he originally imagined. But he wasn’t going to indulge—he knew that would only end badly.

Right?

The next day, Aizawa heard the same chatter about you. And the next. And the next. He didn’t see you again until about a week later, when he saw you chatting with Midnight and Mic in the lunch line. He cringed—the two were notorious for gossiping and he really hoped they weren’t telling you anything stupid.

“And then I—aye yo, Zawa! Good afternoon! Have you met L/N?!” Mic screamed, and Aizawa’s eyes went to meet yours ago. Your hair was styled differently to the point where he could see your eyes better, and it framed your face so nicely. You waved at him and he smiled sheepishly.

“We were just talking about our high school days~” Midnight’s voice rang out. “American high school is reaaaally different from Japanese high school, according to L/N.”

“The students here are really well behaved, especially in Aizawa’s class,” you smiled at him. “You’re doing a damn good job with them. They’re some of the most charming students I’ve seen! The ones in American high school can be really rude and nasty... I haven’t experienced any of that here. It’s nice.”

Aizawa breathed shakily. Thank god his students weren’t embarrassing him.

“L/N here’s got a degree in psychology and all that mental stuff!” Mic yelled once again as you all moved down the lunch line. “She understands da brain! We really needed someone like her here, with all the breakdowns our students have!”

Aizawa huffed. Teachers, too.

“I’m here for everyone,” you spoke. “Students, teachers, even the Recovery Girl if she’s got a lot on her mind. I’m just here to help everybody as much as I can.”

“Aizawa needs some of that help fo sure!” Mic yelled, smiling so hard all of his long, white teeth showed. “Motherheffa never talks to anyone about his feelings, keeps em balled up! That’s not healthy!”

Aizawa’s ears turned red. “No, I don’t need-“

“I’ll help ya!” you offered, moving so your body was right next to his. He couldn’t help but inhale your scent—it was strong and sweet, something he’d never smelled before. “Don’t worry—whatever we discuss in my room stays in my room. It’s something I pledged to do when I became a therapist.”

Aizawa laughed nervously, shaking his head. “I really don’t-“

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna have a session immediately, no worries,” you shrugged. “But I’m here whenever you need me. I have more work to do later, but I’ll see you guys later!”

And then you were off, with Aizawa’s eyes still on your back.

“You’re staring pretty hard Aizawa,” Midnight raised perfectly done eyebrows. “She’s pretty—I would stare too.”

“Be quiet.” He spluttered, his ears still red as he made his way back to his classroom to eat.

Another week had passed of Aizawa admiring you from afar. You always came into work with a smile on your face, greeting students with handshakes and hugs—the hugs threw him off a bit, but Kaminari told him it was an “American thing.” He didn’t know how much he would daydream about it until he started to long for hugs from you, thinking of how your arms would wrap around his middle before class.

He wasn’t obsessed with you, no, but rather infatuated. You were intelligent and easy to approach, and your appearance matched your personality. He was attracted to you but due to him not having a relationship in years and also not having the best social skills, he had no idea how to approach you. He didn’t even know much about you. His students knew you more than he did and you were his age! It made no sense.

Time after time during the third week of you being here he tried to talk to you. During lunch, when Midnight and Mic would force you all to sit together, he would want to open his mouth but he couldn’t. He’d come by your room to start conversations after school but the most he’d say was “have a good evening, L/N.” and leave you alone. He even found your social media and took a quick look through your pictures—leaving your page when he saw you in a bikini, his cheeks red.

By the time the fourth week came around, his students and his work buddies were noticing his changes in behavior. He was getting distracted much more than before and whenever someone would mention your name he’d go scarily silent and look deep in thought. It wasn’t until Mina chatted with the rest of the Bakusquad that his students actually began to do something about it.

“Miss L/N!” you heard Jirou’s voice rang out from your doorway, with some other students from Class 1-A coming in behind you. “Good evening~”

“Good evening Jirou! Hey everyone,” you smiled warmly at the students that were entering your classroom, confused as how many of them were coming in. “What’s up...?”

You had formed a pretty close relationship with the class of 1-A during your short time here. You had sessions with most of them and got to know their personalities and feelings pretty well—even Bakugo, who was closed up and rude at first, but eventually shed a few tears in your room.

“Mr. Aizawa said he needed your help with planning lessons today—he said he’s asked everyone else and they’re all busy,” Mina told you, and your brows furrowed in confusion. Aizawa needs help from... you? That was odd. “He needs you to come by as soon as possible!”

“Oh! Well, alright,” you laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stood up and grabbed your phone. “Thanks for telling me—you all get to your dorms and don’t cause too much noise okay?”

You heard rings of “yes, miss l/n’s” as everyone left your room and you locked it behind you. You started to make your way to Aizawa’s classroom, your palms a little sweaty against your notebook. You hadn’t talked to Aizawa in a while and it was weird that he had requested your help, but you didn’t mind getting closer to him. Truthfully, he had been on your mind a lot the past few days—you found him pretty attractive despite his quiet demeanor. Although, you were a new teacher, and didn’t want to be involved with anyone too early in your school year.

Aizawa jumps a bit when he hears sudden loud knocks on your door, and sees your face come into view. “Good evening, Aizawa. You needed my help?”

“Huh?” Aizawa asked, his face twisted in confusion.

“Jirou and Mina came by and said you needed my help with lesson planning—I’m not the best with planning stuff to teach but I don’t mind offering my assistance,” you offered him your normal, gentle smile. “So where do we start?”

Mina and Jirou? Ugh. Of course they would tell you that.

“Um-um-well,” he stuttered, his face already starting to heat up. “I just need a new quirk training game... yeah. That’s why I need help with.” Fuck. He hoped that sounded believable.

“Okay!” you nodded, suddenly taking a seat that was in the corner of the room and sitting right. Next. To. Him. He had to clench his fists to keep his cool, not used to such an attractive woman being so close to him at all. “Where should we start?”

He spent two hours with you discussing new games to play with his students that would also train their quirks, and those were some of the best two hours of his life.

He so enjoyed the time he spent with you. You were so easygoing and natural to talk to—he didn’t feel awkward or nervous talking to you which is what he feared he would feel in the first place. He cracked more smiles with you in the span of two hours than he did the whole week.

“You can’t just make them play dodgeball with their quirks! They’ll get hurt!”

“We have a Recovery Girl for a reason.” Aizawa rolled his eyes, smirking at the glare he got from you.

“Still! You know some of them—Bakugo—are going to take out their anger on other students,” you huffed.

“But it’ll be fun to watch?”

You were quiet for a moment, but inevitably started smirking along with him. “...you’re right. It will be.”

Together, the both of you planned for Class 1-A dodgeball, with you and Aizawa as the referees. You two even planned to go by the outfits together—and now he was out at a sporting store with you, looking for a fucking black and white striped shirt. He couldn’t believe this.

“I’ve never worn one of these before—you think I’ll look cute in it?” you asked him, raising your eyebrows repeatedly and he couldn’t help but chuckle gently at your antics. “I’m serious!”

“I’m sure you will F/N,” he told you, not even noticing his slip up until a few moments later. “I—I meant-“

“So we’re on second base huhhhh? Don’t worry, I’ve accidentally called you Shota a few times to Mic and Midnight. I’m not used to calling people by their last names, we don’t do that in America.”

“You talk about me?” Aizawa couldn’t help but feel a little proud of the fact.

“What?! Of course not, no.” you quickly shook your head, and he grinned at the flustered look on your face. “The only thing I tell them about is how you need more sleep. Your brain doesn’t function correctly on a small amount of sleep.”

“My brain doesn’t function correctly at all.”

“Wrong. You’re pretty smart, Aizawa. Pretty understanding too,” you hummed, you two walking through the aisles so you could get whistles. “Your students are always telling me how much you care about them, even though you don’t show it. They really appreciate you you know?”

He was expressionless, but his heart did warm a little bit at your words. “I know.”

You two bought the items and soon enough you were back at the school. You got out of his car, sending him a wave and a quick goodbye before heading to your own car, and Aizawa let out the longest sigh of his life.

“Shit.”

[amandaoftherosemire]

And Hell is Just a Sauna -- Part One

Fandom: Marvel/MCU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, OMC Joseph

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6,121

Format: Short Series (Complete)

Warnings: Language, violence, references to captivity, implied abuse, angst.

Summary: You meet Bucky Barnes upon your mysterious and deadly escape from a power obsessed cult leader and his followers. Though you carry a secret in addition to the wariness of trauma, you can’t help your attraction to Bucky and his irascible demeanor. As for Bucky, he is drawn to the light he sees in you while he fears the things you’re hiding. Can you trust him with your secrets, and your life? Will you have a choice?

A/N: I haven’t posted anything in five months, so this may be a little on the odd side. I guess I’m working through some stuff? 

This takes place in between Black Panther and Infinity War but is not consistent with MCU canon because I do what I want. 

I used my old taglist, but only as a way to let y’all know I’m posting again. As always, feel free to ignore me. 😊 Heads up, future parts will get smutty.

 Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four

  And Hell is Just a Sauna -- Part One

 The first time Bucky saw you, you were literally on fire. Not just a little flame, either, but a full-on conflagration engulfing your entire body and crackling with cheerful menace. You’d turned to him, your eyes blazing white in a face painted in flame, and intoned with a voice that both popped and roared.

“Are you a god?”

Bucky’s eyes widened over the barrel of the gun he continued to keep trained on you despite his uncertainty that it could do any good should you decide to attack. Unsure how to prevent that decision, but wanting to try, he responded slowly. “I have no idea how to answer that.”

From the woods around him, Bucky heard a shout. He stood at the edge of a clearing in which you stood at the center, a scatter of charred bodies surrounding you. He went no closer, not willing to discover the hard way what your range was.

Sam was yelling as he walked closer, “Ray, when someone asks you if you’re a god, you say, ‘Yes!’”

Bucky was fascinated to see blue flames dance along your teeth as you smiled. He couldn’t explain it, but something about the way the flames whipped and whirled around you was unbelievably beautiful. It was also incredibly terrifying, but Bucky had needed to survive horrors best left undefined, so had long since learned to find the beauty in terror. In the next moment, Sam was stepping into view on the other side of the clearing, his own gun out and ready.

You turned, and with a happy, surprised sob, cried, “Sam!?” The next moment, the fire was flickering into nothing and you were just a lovely woman wearing nothing more than the ash from what had once been a long white dress.

Sam immediately holstered his gun and ran forward. “Y/N? We knew there were prisoners but--"

"Sam," you whispered brokenly as you stumbled on knees turned to jelly toward the concerned face of your friend and former colleague. You hadn't seen him since before your abduction, not long after that last doomed mission in Lagos. When he'd gone on the run with Captain America after the fallout over the Accords, you'd been nothing but happy to hear that he was alive and free. His face was one of the last you’d expected to see upon your escape, but the sight of Sam was a joyous relief.

"What are you doing here?" Your teeth chattered on the question, reaction and your own nakedness leaving you freezing and shaking. You didn't see where the silver emergency blanket came from, but Sam was nevertheless wrapping you in it and then in his own arms, to your everlasting gratitude. You'd never been anything more than friends, but he'd always been a true and loyal one, with a giving heart and wicked sense of humor.

You let him comfort you, the bone-shattering terror of your ordeal hitting you now that it was over. Now that someone you knew and trusted held you, the sick horror of what you'd endured sent tears flooding into your throat. The exhaustion of everything you'd done that day turned your muscles to water and so you didn't resist when Sam bent and slid his arm behind your knees to lift and carry you out of the clearing where you'd hurt so many. Instead, you buried your face in the crook where his neck met his shoulder and let the tears fall.

"Do me a favor and tell the others I've found Y/N Y/L/N and that I'm taking her back to the jet."

Bucky had lowered his weapon when the fire had flickered out with your recognition of Sam, but his eyes were still narrowed with a hint of suspicion. He was pretty sure you weren't a danger to Sam, at least, but that didn't mean he thought you harmless. He nodded slowly and lifted his microphone to his lips to report in even as he fell into step behind Sam as he headed back the way they'd came.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Sam said gently as he walked briskly back to the jet, "but do you know who is in charge of all of this?"

"Joseph." Your voice was a rasp with the tears that still shivered out of you, but all of the emotion had left your tone. "I don't think he survived."

Bucky glanced back at the clearing where they'd left a half dozen charred bodies and figured he knew how Joseph had met his end. When he turned back, you were peeking over Sam's shoulder at him, to his admitted consternation.

"I'm sorry about the dumb joke." The emotion was back, remorse in your eyes and tone as you looked at him. "I wanted to either make you laugh or scare you. I just didn't want to hurt anyone else." With that, you buried your face back in Sam's throat and started crying again.

Bucky tried to resist but his heart throbbed in sympathy, with understanding. He knew all about being forced to do things he didn't want to, both by cruelty and circumstance. He'd be the last to blame another for what they'd done to escape. He was concerned about your apparent propensity for bursting into flame, but he understood why you'd done so, since you could.

"He probably hasn't seen Ghostbusters, sweetheart." You lifted your head, a frown on your tear-streaked face to glare with narrow-eyed suspicion at Bucky, who was at a complete loss as to what the two of you were even talking about. Sam laughed when he saw your face and went on. "This is Bucky Barnes."

Your face cleared in understanding and Bucky wondered who you were that you recognized his name so quickly. "Welcome back, Sergeant," you said softly, with a shy smile that Bucky couldn't help but find charming even as he wondered who you were and how you seemed to know so much about him when he'd never heard your name before.

"At least now I know why we're here," Sam called back to Bucky, his voice cheerful as he tramped back towards the jet. "Nat's got a soft spot for this one; I'm willing to bet she had an idea we'd find Y/N."

Bucky murmured as he kept his eyes on yours from where they peeked over Sam's shoulder at him. "I didn't know we were looking for Y/N."

"I was part of the supply chain." You didn't like the wariness with which this man watched you, but you could hardly blame him, considering your introduction. You weren't normally so dramatic, but he couldn't know that. "Natasha would have noticed when I disappeared."

Sam shook his head with a smile and moved toward the edge of the forest, now in sight. "Why am I not surprised? Were you Nat's secret source?"

"Of course." You couldn't seem to stop looking at the man following you and Sam with such deadly grace and aloof readiness. You'd never seen anyone look so dangerously bored. You were damned if you didn't find it sexy as hell. "She asked me if I wanted to help and I said yes. The Accords are a human rights violation."

Bucky's eyes flicked to yours and warmed as the corner of his mouth lifted just a little. Your heart skipped in the first beat of attraction as Sam laughed out loud. The sound had you smiling even as he replied, "Like I said, not surprised." He turned his head to call over his shoulder, "Bucky, this is Y/N. She used to be support staff for the Avengers, was one of the researchers there. She helped me when Steve and I were looking for you."

Bucky bent his head in acknowledgement and smiled fully for the first time. Now that he had more of a handle on things, he could roll with them. And he'd ever been the sort willing to go the extra mile for a pretty woman. "Pleasure to meet you," he rumbled, and sounded like he meant it.

You thought about the sacrificial dress you'd been wearing when the fire had blown through and carried you out of the building, remembered the fear in the eyes of the henchmen sent to recapture you as they'd circled you like a pack of wild dogs. "Believe me. The pleasure's mine."

As Sam broke through the tree line where the quinjet that had brought them sat, the little bottle blonde assassin behind the controls, he turned to catch your eye. "So, Y/N, are you gonna tell me how you're a firestarter now?"

Natasha turned in her chair at the sound of his voice as they mounted the ramp into the jet. "Good, you found her," she said briskly with a gentle smile for you. You smiled weakly back as Sam set you down in one of the chairs. Natasha turned back around and continued, "Strap in. Steve and Wanda are almost back and I want to be in the air five seconds after that."

Bucky's eyes flicked to you in puzzlement at the sound of a soft hiss, like that of a snake, followed by a crackle or a popping noise. He may have looked elsewhere, but you'd made a soft shushing noise that drew his eye.

That shushing sound was followed by a tired sigh when Sam lifted a brow at you as he went about helping you rearrange the blanket so you could strap in but remain covered. "I wish I knew, Sam," you replied to that lifted brow and Bucky wished he knew why he didn't believe you.

You sat in the sand and watched the ocean crash against the shore, letting the sound soothe you. Feeling hot and itchy most days, thanks to your experience at the hands of the weird cult that had abducted you, this was often the only peace you could find. Most days saw you driving down from the house in the mountains to sit here and let the wind and the waves ease your mind and soothe the soul.

Today, however, you couldn’t seem to settle, upset by the conversation you’d had with Steve that morning. He’d wanted to apologize for overstaying their welcome, and assure you they’d be moving on soon.

After your rescue, they had come to stay with you in the house you’d inherited from your uncle. Tucked away in the heavily forested mountains of Oregon’s Coastal Range, it was big, secluded, and ideal for hiding five fugitives. You’d simply been happy to help, to give them a safe place to rest.

Now you were dealing with the fact that you didn’t want them to leave. You were chilled, sick at the thought of rattling around in the big house with nothing for company but your thoughts and the memory of what had happened in a house in upstate New York. You may have traveled three thousand miles to escape what had happened that night, but you couldn't escape what was now yours, whether you'd wanted it or not.

The soft hiss in your ear warned you that someone was approaching, but you were surprised when that someone flopped onto the cool sand next to you with a huff of irritation. "Huh. What a shitty day at the beach."

Damned if you knew why the surly bitch did it for you, but Bucky Barnes had charmed the fuck out of you by not being the least bit charming.

He wasn't mean, or rude, not by a long shot. He was unfailingly kind and polite and genuinely grateful for the shelter. You could see the good man underneath the pissiness, but Bucky was perpetually baffled and annoyed by most of the world around him. He never complained, really, but he regarded everything with a vaguely hostile skepticism. You could not understand why you thought him adorably sexy, the big, grumbly bastard.

"Good thing we’re not at the beach," you replied with a laughing sneer, your habitual attitude towards him as it prompted that ridiculous half-smile. You fucking adored that sly smirk. "We’re on a beach. We’re at the coast."

Bucky gave you his amused disgust face and made you melt. He picked up a handful of sand and held it up to let it run through his fingers in a rather accusatory fashion. You waved him away. "I would think a Broody McBrooderface like yourself would immediately get this."

You gestured at your surroundings, a lonely beach on a winter day in the Pacific Northwest. Clouds covered the sky and boiled over the sea, turning the waves into a stormy bluish gray that reflected in the eyes of the man that watched you with a reluctant fascination. The wind whipped around you both, tumbling his hair around his sculpted face and making you think of the covers of trashy romance novels from an earlier era. Moody and bleak, a cold winter day at the coast was made for Bucky Barnes.

A long, charged pause as he stared at your profile in disgusted astonishment.

"What?"

You couldn't stop the snort at the sound of pure stupified horror in his voice. You didn't know which part of what you said he found objectionable, but the insult of something clearly offended him. You didn't usually get this much reaction out of him, so you had to assume it was the new nickname.

"The beach," you replied snottily, "is where you go to relax in the sun or swim in the ocean." You tilted your head to fix him with an intense stare. "But we’re in the ring of fire, Bucky, and the ocean doesn’t play with the shore here. We’re at the coast, where the sea meets the land with force." You gestured out at the dark waves as they continued to crash and pound on the sand, curls of violent energy breaking upon the shore. "The beach is for fun; the coast is where you go to brood."

With that, you uncrossed your arms and placed your hands at your sides on the cold, dry sand behind you, bracing yourself as you leaned back, a smirk on your lips. You loved informing him of opinions as though you had just bested him with facts. The way his lips tightened when he was holding back laughter made your heart gallop.

Your breathing joined your heart in its race and sped as well when Bucky's eyebrow quirked in addition to the happiness that gathered in the corners of his lips. "Broody McBrooderface?" he asked, doubt collecting in his eyes and his furrowed brow. His voice was still rich with the disgust that had characterized his earlier question. The combination made you sputter with mirth before giving up and dissolving into a fit of laughter. You fell back onto the sand to wrap your hands around your middle and hold on as you cackled and snickered.

When you calmed enough to look at Bucky, he'd shifted so that he was leaning on one arm, turned towards you to grin delighted at your laughter. He was so pretty, white teeth against the dark brown of his beard, thick hair tumbled in the wind around him. You hoped you didn't look as starry eyed as you felt. Some days it was harder than others to not bodily tackle the man, but it seemed tacky, not to mention gross, to accost a houseguest.

His satisfied smirk turned into a look so hot with promise you could feel it in your toes. "So you don't wanna go skinny dipping?"

You laughed even as you cringed, your body tightening at the memory of underestimating the Pacific Ocean's wilder moods on visits to your uncle during your childhood. You shook your head as a chill at the thought ran down your spine. "I double-dog dare you to jump in that water." Bucky crooked another brow and then surprised you by leaping to his feet in a move shockingly graceful in its deadly arc. He was off in a run in the very next second towards the waves. You sat up to shout after him but he was faster than you'd thought possible. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the FROSTBITE!"

If he hesitated for a second, you didn't see it. Fully clothed in the athletic wear he’d donned to run down to the beach, he leapt over a terrifying curving beast of a wave into the now dark gray and, you expected, freezing cold water. You got to your feet to follow him to the edge where the sea lapped at the shore, a little wary to find out how the grumpy super-soldier would react to the Pacific's bite.

The two of you argued all the way back to your car.

"The least you could do is give me a ride back to the house." Bucky didn't seem like the water had really fazed him beyond pissing him off. He wasn't shivering, his teeth weren't chattering, but his jaw was set in severe irritation and his eyes blazed with banked anger. He was so fucking hot it made you crazy.

"My seats will get soaked." You couldn't help it; he was so sexy when he looked like he wanted to murder the world. You didn't know what was wrong with you, but the way he was striding up the beach toward the parking lot where you'd left your car made you shudder with lust. You had to fuck with him a little more, irritate him just that little bit extra. Maybe it was because of what had happened to you, but you needed to toss a little more gasoline on the fire. "I only brought a towel for sand, not for swimming. Besides, I told you it was cold as fuck; you jumped in anyway."

"I can't run home like this, I'm fucking freezing." The look Bucky shot you was so vicious, your heart kicked in response, but in desire rather than fear. He was perfectly bristly and annoyed now, his bright blue eyes blazing and his sculpted cheeks flushed with temper. You could eat him alive.

"You should have thought of that before you jumped in an ocean that is obviously not into your shit right now.” You deliberately kept your tone and demeanor casual as you stopped at the water fountain at the top of the beach to rinse the sand off your feet. “It's not like I would have thought less of you if you'd stopped when I warned you about how cold it was."

Mostly clean and aware based on experience that mostly clean was the best you were going to do, you dropped the rubber flip-flops in your hand and slipped your wet feet into them as Bucky glared at you.

“I would have thought less of me,” he replied with a sneer that made you want to lean in and bite his plump lower lip. “I took a dare. I'll finish a dare.”

Unable to help yourself, you burst into delighted laughter, throwing your head back in the pure enjoyment of him as you nearly stumbled down the sidewalk toward your car. Bubbling and cheerful, the warm chuckles poured out of you until Bucky was grinning at you, albeit reluctantly.

You were somewhat calm by the time you got to your car. You turned to Bucky with a sparkling smile, the laughter still trembling on your lips and Bucky’s heart kicked in response this time.

“You’re fun, Bucky.” You leaned against the driver’s side door and grinned at him over the roof of the car. “A little bonkers, but fun.” Shooting him a sassy wink, you opened the door and slid in. “Fine, get in the car."

“I know this is a big ask.”

Bucky was sweating, but he was determined not to let you see that. He was asking a lot of you and he knew it. If he didn’t believe it was important, for you as well as himself, he’d never have had the courage.

“I’m really more confused.” Bucky made himself stop watching the way your lips shaped the words when you spoke, your eyes wary and your brow furrowed. “If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you want to go with them?”

He didn’t think you’d noticed how he watched you, fascinated by the curving whip of your movements, like flame had become part of you. He couldn’t help but focus on you, obsessed with both the magic and mystery of you. How could he stop himself when he could also hear your mutters under your breath? He was concerned yet intrigued by the admonishments to behave yourself.

He’d had numerous fantasies about misbehaving with you.

Bucky’s attention moved to the way your fingers fidgeted with the book in your lap. He couldn’t explain why, but he loved to watch you move. There was a grace and beauty there that he’d rarely seen and always treasured. He’d seen too much ugly and cruel to take anything as pretty or as kind as you were for granted. He'd made a study of you because it soothed him somehow to do so.

Your hands weren't fidgeting in agitation, concern, or fear; all of which he'd seen and memorized. Through trial and error he'd learned how to distract you from whatever had you picking at your cuticles in anxiety and, sometimes, something that looked perilously close to panic, but he could see that wasn't necessary now. You were fidgeting absently, the same way you had been for the entire conversation, not in response to his request.

Bucky was still a little struck by his daring in asking if he could stay when the others moved on. He hadn't known if he'd have the nerve when he walked to the little library where you often sat in the window seat so you could read with your face to the mountain air coming through the open window. But when you'd looked up with a smile when he'd poked his head in and asked for a minute, he'd known even if you said no, he could trust you to be gentle.

"I don’t want to fight anymore."

By the way your eyebrows flew up and your lips parted before you paused, Bucky could see that you were as surprised by the blunt honesty of his answer as he was. But he was asking a lot of you and he knew it. Harboring an international fugitive was only the least of it. You knew his reputation, and that it was based on fact, yet you'd welcomed him into your home. He had to be honest with you if he was going to ask anything more than that already unimaginable kindness.

He smiled at you, but he couldn't stop the sadness, the exhaustion of a century's worth of years from quivering around his mouth. Your eyes, scanning his face under those expressive eyebrows, softened and your lips twisted with wry sympathy. "Of course you don't. Why would you?"

Bucky relaxed back into the plush little sofa where he'd taken the seat you'd offered when he started this conversation. He now knew it was going to be reasonably painless. Something about you almost always put him at ease within only a few minutes in your company. Maybe it was the way you listened to him, both the things he said, and the things he could only speak around.

Somehow he always ended up saying more than he'd intended.

"I didn’t volunteer, you know." You tilted your head in question, so he continued, not sure where the words were coming from. "Not like Steve, who wanted in so bad he kept trying to get past the physical. I was drafted." Bucky laughed a little and lifted his hands to rub them over his face, dragging them through his hair before threading his fingers together behind his head. "I just wanted to settle down to a normal life and try to keep my best friend from dying from one of the thousand things trying to kill him. Instead…" As he trailed off he shrugged and noticed your eyes drop to his chest in what he would swear was appreciation.

The corner of Bucky's mouth was lifting in a crooked half-smile when your eyes flicked to his. Bright and intense, he felt pinned by your gaze as the still forming grin fell from his face. "Instead you got to be a prisoner of war for sixty-odd years," you said, your voice full of the wry sympathy that still lived in the slight curve to your lips, "only to discover that things are still trying to kill your best friend?" In the next instant, that searing stare was gentle with understanding, your eyes warm with concern. "You're a little fucking tired?"

Bucky huffed out another of those little laughs, the only kind he really had these days. A little fucking tired was an understatement if he'd ever heard one, but the fact that you saw that so easily explained why he was even asking this of you. "You get it," he said, that half-smile coming back in a sweeter form. "That's why I'd like to stay here, actually." Your lips had started to curve in response to the little half-laugh, even that much heard only occasionally, when the warmth in his face sparked an answer in yours, charming you with the little glimpse of sweetness under all the salt.

Bucky's breath caught a little at the look on your face, the way the movement of your hands had smoothed as you absently toyed with the hardback still in your lap. He could see you relax by degree in his presence and wondered if you were as soothed by his company as he was by yours. "I don't want you to think you have to say yes," he heard coming out of his mouth, more honesty he couldn't help, but he didn't want you to feel pressured. "I'd rather stay here in the States, but I'm not homeless if it doesn't work for you. If it's a no, I promise, no hard feelings. I have another option lined up. I understand if you don't want to stay alone with a man you barely know."

He was starting to worry based on the soft, gentle look that remained on your face. You normally smirked and teased him, poking at his gruff exterior with a playfulness that had charmed him completely. You may not have known it, but you had him firmly wrapped around your fingers. This tenderness made him afraid you were about to let him down easy. He braced himself for rejection.

"Alright," you murmured thoughtfully, your eyes kind if shrewd as they rested on his face. He wondered what you saw when you looked at him, how much you saw beneath the surface. "If you wanna stay, we'll have to have a few ground rules, a couple of understandings."

Bucky's face lit up in surprised delight as his heart began to pound. He hadn't really expected you to say yes, and so hadn't prepared for the rush of excitement and satisfaction that ran through him at the prospect of getting to know you without feeling like he was being watched by his friends. His heart speeding a little, a hot shudder of anticipation working through him at the prospect, he shot you a bright and reckless grin. "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

Something dark and hungry moved in a flash over your face. Bucky's heart raced in answer despite his uncertainty that he'd even seen the lightning fast emotion. He wanted to be your friend first, but he couldn't deny he'd found inside himself a well of desire for you so deep he'd yet to find the bottom. He could only hope you felt some fraction of that for him.

"First and most important understanding," as you spoke your eyes flattened and your mouth tightened, your gaze on his face reminding him of the first time he'd seen you, "I am not afraid of you." The words were a warning, not a threat, but the hair on the back of Bucky's neck stood up. "If you're going to live here for the foreseeable," you continued, your face softening again into something lonely and sad, "I need to be clear on this point. I have no reason, whatsoever, to be afraid for my own safety. Not anymore."

The hollow tone to your voice was a chilling counterpoint to the fingers wrapped in white-knuckled terror around your book. Bucky could see you were trying to tell him that you were still dangerous, despite how deceptively harmless you looked when not bathed in flame.

"The fire?" Bucky didn't know he still had that much tenderness inside him for anyone, but he could hear the gentle sympathy in the two words clearly. By the tentative smile teasing the corners of your mouth, you could hear it, too.

"I would tell you if I thought you weren't safe." You looked sick with worry that he'd reject you and Bucky could see that he was right; the two of you needed each other. You went on in a little rush, your eyes dipping to your hands still clutching the book in your lap. You frowned as you spoke and he watched you deliberately uncurl your fingers as though you were carefully calming yourself. "I don't believe you're in any danger here. I will absolutely tell you if that changes."

Bucky always preferred when people were matter of fact in their questions about him and his issues. He figured he should start there and see how you responded. "Can you control it?" he asked, his voice unconcerned, his posture unchanging from his easy sprawl against the corner of the couch.

Apparently, you also liked plain speaking as you smiled a little more, this time with a wry exasperation that piqued his interest. "Some. More persuade."

Bucky's heart throbbed as he asked the question he knew you'd least like to answer. He wished he didn't feel like he had to, but he needed to know how not to incite the blaze. His voice soft as a whisper, as tender as a touch, "What set it off that night?"

The look on your face sent a chill down Bucky's spine, your eyes empty and cold and nothing like the warmth he'd come to expect and adore. Your voice as hollow as he'd ever heard it, you answered with just enough information to somewhat explain. "Joseph was going to hurt me."

Upon your recovery from the forest surrounding the house in upstate New York where you'd been held against your will, it had become clear that you'd been snatched up by one of the occult offshoots that often split from HYDRA. As HYDRA was itself founded as an occult offshoot of the Nazi war machine, it wasn't really a surprise that it so often shed more of the same. The one that had taken you, however, had apparently been particularly weird and cultish, the leader, Joseph, convinced of his own superiority and seeking the power he believed to be his due. You hadn't spoken much of what had happened to you while held captive by them, by him, but Bucky could recognize pain and trauma when they were right in front of him.

"Since I won't be hurting you," he said gently, the words both reassurance and promise, "it shouldn't be a problem." When your eyes, blurred with memory, focused back in on his face, Bucky's lips curved slightly, the smile sweeter than any he'd given you yet.

Your lips curved in response as a soft sigh that didn't come from you whispered at the edge of Bucky's hearing. His ears perked even as he kept his eyes on yours, his expression betraying nothing but the warm appreciation he always had for you. The next moment, however, his attention was caught and held by the grin you flashed, sparkling and friendly. "That's what I was thinking," you chirped and looked happier than he'd ever seen you.

The sight had his body tightening in lust even as his heart squeezed. Bucky had always been a romantic with a love of making a pretty girl smile. Being able to make you smile like this made him feel like he was getting another piece of himself back. Still, he wanted you to know that you could trust him with more than just your physical safety.

"Do you wanna tell me about it?" he offered, his voice gentle again.

"Maybe," you said, and Bucky cursed himself when your smile dimmed. You shrugged and looked back down at your hands where they'd tried to tense around the book. "I might need to. You gonna tell me about you?"

"Some." He answered quickly, without hesitation, though he grinned sheepishly when your eyes lifted to his in suspicion. "Probably."

When your eyes remained narrowed on his even as the corners of your mouth twitched with suppressed humor, Bucky narrowed his eyes back at you. To his surprised delight, that sparkling smile came back. You stretched the denim clad legs you'd had curled under you out and relaxed into the pillow at your back.

"Then rule number one," you said cheerily, an interesting heat in your eyes, "is that you continue to be your usual hostile self. It revs my engine." The cheer on your face took on a darker edge, your smile more like a dare. Bucky's eyes narrowed once again, but this time his gaze glittered with desire, with the urge to take that dare.

"Does it?"

You bit your lower lip as his voice rumbled through the air and into you. Bucky could swear he saw goosebumps erupt over the skin of your arms when he spoke, the desire riding him clear in that quiet question.

You laughed, a little breathless, and grinned at him, a cheeky taunt all over you. He was dazzled by the flash of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes, the whipping movements of your hands as you gestured while you spoke. "Rule number two is that you make yourself at home." You pointed a mock stern finger at him and made him smile. "Don't be a houseguest or stand on ceremony. I want you to be genuinely comfortable. If you have to stay under house arrest for now, you should be able to do so as painlessly as possible."

There you went being sweet and kind in addition to being sexy and adorable. Bucky didn't know if he could take it. He was beginning to think he was in over his head but he couldn't find a thing not to like about it.

"Steve keeps me in line." Bucky smirked as he teased. "Once he's gone I'll make you regret that."

You looked delighted with him and Bucky could have wept with gratitude. Spending time with you was helping him remember parts of himself he'd thought long dead, like the boyish flirt he'd once been, but he was equally grateful that he seemed to be good for you, too.

"Okay," you purred as you smirked back at him, "in case Steve has kept you in line in other ways, rule three is you clean up after yourself. I will be very annoyed if you start leaving dirty dishes or clothes around once he's gone." One eyebrow lifted in mock warning and Bucky could have cuddled you.

"He’s the slob, actually." Bucky huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "You're making this too easy, doll."

He couldn't be sure, but for a moment you looked shy and a little vulnerable. Bucky's heart squeezed again as he quivered with the conflicting desires to both ravage and protect. When you glanced at him from under bashful lashes, he felt torn between.

"Am I?" The murmur of your voice was rich with something dark and exciting, something that lit up his ear and made his stomach tighten.

Bucky's voice was husky on his reply as he offered both clarification and escape route. He wanted everything on the table before the negotiations came to a close. "Any other rules?" His face spread in a hot, almost feral grin, one that left no doubts as to what rules he was asking about. "Any other lines you don’t want crossed?"

The corner of your mouth lifted in a grin equally hungry, equally reckless. "Nothing comes to mind." Your eyes reminded him of sultry whispers, heated words. "I think we can play it by ear from there."

Bucky felt his heart race in exhilaration and wondered what he'd gotten himself into. He couldn't wait to find out. "I’m happy to dance to your tune."

Part Two here >>

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