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ceruark · 6 months ago

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ensnared. (yandere! prince! sunday x gn! royalty! reader)

synopsis: prince sunday invites you to dance the entwine with him. if you evade capture, he’ll finally leave you alone. but if you get caught, you’re his forever. cw: general yandere themes - obsessive & possessive behavior, implied stalking words: 3,991 disclaimer/inspiration: the dance “The Entwine” is not my idea! it's from the novel Entwined by Heather Dixon, an all-time favorite of mine :)

“The Entwine, also known as the Gentleman’s Catch, is an amusing and challenging redowa suitable for accomplished partners. [...] Similar to a trois-temps waltz, it is danced in open position with a long sash. The lady and gentleman each take ends of the sash, which their hands must not leave. In a series of quick steps (see below) the gentleman either twists the sash around the lady’s wrists, pinning them (also known as the Catch), or the lady eludes capture within three minutes’ time. STEPS. Twist (35), Needle’s Eye (35), Dip and Turn (36), Lady’s Feint (36), Bridge Arc (36), Under-Arm Swoop (37), Thread (37), Beading the Sash (38), the Catch (38).”

Excerpt from Entwined by Heather Dixon

It has been a year since the queen died.

You stand in the grand ballroom of your palace for the first time since your mother's death. It seems dimmer without her, lacking the light her laughter brought to it. Every shift of skirts has you looking for her, only to be disappointed when you catch yourself seeking out a ghost.

She ruled alone for nearly fifteen years. After your father died in battle when you were young, many other kingdoms tried to swoop in after she became widowed. They vied for her hand in marriage so they could expand their territory and get their hands on the lucrative gemstones that are excavated from your land's caverns. But the queen was unshakable, and she refused to remarry, continuing to keep her kingdom safe and opulent all on her own.

And she died last winter, an incurable sickness settling in her lungs seemingly overnight and stealing her final breath within the week.

You hardly had time to mourn her. With no one sitting on the throne, your mother's advisory court scrambled to find you a suitor so that you could marry and be crowned as soon as possible. There hadn't been a rush to find you one, but with the queen's sudden death, they need to get you on the throne before someone else came along to seize it.

Tonight, Welt— formerly your mother's personal advisor— had declared while you prepared for the ball. Tonight, we will find you a suitor. You will be coronated by summer.

You sigh as your gaze sweeps over the ballroom. Truthfully, you have no interest in any of the attendants. Most of them don't have anything noteworthy about their personalities, and those that do are individuals you've mentally decided are best kept at arm's length. You’re certain that more than half your selection pool were invited out of courtesy; none of them possess enough influence or value for your mother's advisory court to approve of a marriage between the two of you.

Except for one.

Penacony's beloved prince has been pursuing you for as long as you could remember. It started off innocent, a mere childhood crush. Long before you were adolescents, he would pluck flowers from the centerpiece vases on ballroom tables and hand them to you, ever the gentleman. You can still remember the sound of whichever court member was assigned to look after you cooing at the sight, endeared as you accepted the flower from his hands and spent the rest of the night at his side, discussing all the important matters that plagued the minds of young royalty.

And then, things changed.

As you two grew older, something about him shifted— you couldn't quite explain it. It made your skin crawl, the way his gaze trailed you throughout the ballroom, the way his fingers lingered just a little too long when he kissed your hand in greeting, the way anyone you shared mutual romantic interest with started avoiding you like the plague the second he heard of your budding relationship. There was something off about him— about his infatuation with you— and you distanced yourself from him as much as possible over the years.

Your mother's advisory court had been furious; they believed your eventual marriage to Sunday was set in stone given how taken you were with each other as children, and they planned for a prosperous future backed by Penacony's enormous and infinite wealth. They took your refusal to interact with him as rebellion and scoffed at your explanations, but luckily, you weren't alone in your suspicions. Your mother and Welt were also unsettled by the way he looked at you at formal gatherings, and your mother swiftly shut down her court's insistences on you trying to make amends with Penacony's prince.

We have no need for marriages of convenience. My child's happiness and safety will be valued above all else, she told them, and it was the end of the discussion.

Welt has upheld her and your wishes following her death, but the rest of the court are more willing to challenge him than they'd been to challenge the queen. Multiple court members have pestered you about marrying Sunday, stating that he would readily agree; you would get on the throne quickly, and the kingdom would prosper with his empire’s assets. Though they drop the topic the second you snap at them, you can tell they're still scheming, pulling at whatever strings they can to bring the prince back into your favor and push you into his arms.

And the undeniable proof of that stands across the room, piercing you with his golden eyes. Of course he's among the guests the court selected for you to choose your partner from. What else could you expect from them?

You sigh and swipe a glass of wine off a nearby table. It's going to be an incredibly long night.

As you sip at the bitter liquid and eye the blonde prince from Belobog, a familiar voice sounds behind you. "Something troubles you, Your Highness."

You turn around, relaxing at the sight of your faithful personal advisor. Veritas gazes down at you, face as neutral as ever.

"Someone," you respond, a frown tugging at your lips. "It appears the court is still refusing to let go of their little delusion."

He glances over your shoulder and hums noncommittally. "It appears so."

You swirl the red wine around in your glass, continuing your sweep of the guests. Certainly, Belobog's prince seemed like your best option right now. Albeit easily flustered, he was sweet and courageous— you would be able to fall for him given the time.

"Gepard Landau?" Veritas asks, his gaze having followed yours to the man standing beside his sister and her wife.

You look up, meeting his doubtful gaze. "Do you see any better options?"

He takes another glance around the room, then grimaces. You bring your hand to your mouth, covering your sudden laugh.

"Though he may be the most respectable of your options, there is not much Belobog can offer you." He tilts his head, still staring out at the crowd. "I suggest you reconsider."

You flash him a tight, sarcastic smile. "If that is the standard you suggest I go by, then my options are narrowed down to Aventurine and Sunday."

You get along fine with the blonde lord hailing from IPC territory, and he possesses charm like no other. He's gotten you more flustered than any other suitor has, but you know it's all fake. Something lurks beneath his picture-perfect exterior, and he keeps his cards too close to his chest for you to guess what his true intentions are. Someone like that can't be good news for you.

Veritas sighs. "I suppose Landau will have to do, then."

A flurry of movement and fabric draws your gaze to the dance floor. You light up as you watch two figures dance in the center of the crowd, one ducking and dodging out of reach while the other tries with fervor to capture them in their arms.

They've finally brought out the silk sashes used to dance the Entwine.

Your Entwine record is exemplary. When dancing as the gentleman, there were only a handful of people you hadn't been able to catch— Aventurine being one of them. Though your record dancing as gentleman is flawed, your skill when dancing as lady is unmatched and known far and wide.

In all your years, you have never been caught during a dance.

"Wonderful," you say, adrenaline rushing through your veins. You could already feel the exhilaration that came with successful capture and evasion. You turn to your advisor, eyes glistening beneath the lights. "Veritas, would you be so kind as to humor me with a dance?"

You think it's the light playing tricks on your eyes when he flushes red. Before he can respond, though, Welt strides up to the two of you and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"Perhaps you could get to know your potential suitors better through the Entwine, no?" The man you've come to think of as a father figure smiles down at you, the corners of his eyes creasing as he does. "You enjoy it so much, hopefully it can be used to bring you closer to someone— both literally and figuratively speaking."

Your smile matches his. "I think that's a great idea."

"Perfect." Welt turns toward the dance floor. "Allow me to announce—"

He stops dead in his tracks, freezing just in time to prevent himself from walking into someone. He backs up, and your blood runs cold at the sight left behind.

Sunday stands before you, pristine as ever, with a silver sash draped over his arm.

Welt finds his voice before you do. "Prince Oak," he greets, dipping his head into a bow. "A pleasure to see you again. We are very grateful for your attendance."

Sunday looks at him. The fond expression he had fixed on you smooths out into his perfect half-smile. He nods at Welt in acknowledgement. "Imperial Advisor Yang." He turns to your left, appearing less enthused to greet Veritas. "Imperial Advisor Ratio."

His eyes land on you again, and a chill runs down your spine. You force a polite smile onto your face, bowing your head slightly. "Prince Oak. An honor to see you again."

He sounds breathless when he responds. "The honor is all mine."

When his gaze starts to grow heavy on your shoulders, Welt clears his throat. He eyes the fabric hanging off of Sunday's arm. "I suppose you are here with... intent, yes?"

"Correct," Sunday says. He glances down at the silk, reaching up to pinch a part of it between his fingers.

He meets your eyes again, his face imperceptible. It's more terrifying than his openly longing and lingering gaze.

"I wish to dance the Entwine with you," he says, voice diplomatic and devoid of emotion. "If you are willing."

You clench your hands behind your back. "Will you be dancing gentleman or lady?"

"Gentleman." He pauses, voice lowering a bit. "I wish to try and catch you."

You smother a scowl before it can crawl its way onto your face. Of course he would want to dance as gentleman. How typical.

But there's something to his demeanor that tells you there's more to it than he's letting on. It's sitting on the tip of his tongue: his real intent behind asking you to dance with him.

"For what reason do you wish to dance with me?" In a quieter, harsher tone, you add, "Be honest with me, or I will refuse outright."

His fingers run over the fabric, smoothing out any wrinkles that snag them. He tilts his head to the side, and the desire that swims in his eyes leaves you shaking.

"If I catch you," he says slowly, "you will give me your hand in marriage."

Bile burns at the back of your throat, your anxiety clawing its way up and trying to escape. It's a bold declaration, especially when directed at someone who has never been caught before. Your faith in your skill is resolute, but the sheer desperation on his face is enough to make you hesitate.

Your voice trembles slightly when you speak. "And if you fail?"

He hums, flicking his gaze off to the side. "If I fail, I will never ask for it again."

You latch onto the statement like a moth to a flame. All you have to do is avoid capture— something you've done time and again— to get him to leave you alone. You've never seen him dance the Entwine, or show any interest in it; undoubtedly, your skill will lead you to successful evasion.

This is your chance to get him off your back, for good.

Before you can respond, a firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pulling you backward.

"Your Highness," Veritas whispers into your ear, barely contained urgency lacing his words. "Please consider this carefully. Is this a risk you are willing to take?"

You look up at him, eyebrows raised. "I have never been caught," you mutter back.

His brows pinch together. "There is a first time for everything, and you cannot afford to let this one be that time."

You clench your jaw and cast Sunday a sidelong glance. He stares back at you, his posture perfect and features serene despite the way his eyes drink you in, ravenous. There is, as always, truth to what Veritas is saying; you've never seen Sunday dance the Entwine, but that doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't know how, or that he isn't good at it. There's still a high chance you'll be able to evade him given your record, but the chance of him being able to successfully pull off the Catch, though small, is still a potential outcome that shouldn’t be overlooked.

After all, he wouldn't be asking you if the possibility was as slim as you believe it to be.

You bite your lip, hesitating. You look to Welt, pleading for direction. He locks eyes with you briefly, looking just as concerned as Veritas, before he steps forward and partially shields you from Sunday's view.

"Perhaps another time," he says, a polite grin finding its way onto his face. "We are just coming out of mourning, and though it is nice to be part of festivities again, perhaps dancing is still a bit too much for Our Highness right now— the late queen was very fond of the Entwine. Please understand."

Sunday's mask wavers, irritation seeping through the cracks at Welt's excuse. His sharp gaze cuts back to you, but you let your eyes drift back to the dance floor, refusing to meet it.

The tension is broken by the sound of clapping. You turn your head, frowning at the sight of a member of the advisory court approaching.

"Oh, how lovely!" She swoons, pressing a hand to her chest. Her face is flushed from the wine and she speaks loudly, drawing the ballroom's attention to the cluster of people around you. "Our Highness is going to dance the Entwine with Prince Oak!"

All eyes are on you. Your guests whisper to each other, their excitement tangible and filling the air with charged energy. A long time coming, they think to themselves, oblivious to the unfortunate predicament you've found yourself in. Sunday's affinity for you isn't a secret, especially not to the royal families who watched you two grow up at each other's side. To them, this dance is simply an age-old rumor finally coming into fruition, the first step toward solidifying your relationship with Sunday. And to the advisors scattered around the ballroom, watching you like hawks, it is their efforts finally paying off— the final nail in your coffin that will secure the future they envision for your kingdom.

Refusing him now, under countless pairs of hopeful eyes, would undoubtedly leave an ugly smear on your reputation and the integrity of your kingdom.

Your tongue sits dry and heavy in your mouth. You almost choke on it when Sunday's hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you toward the dance floor. He practically preens under the attention and pressure. It makes you sick.

Another hand catches your elbow in a bruising grip, and you jolt back, only barely catching yourself to make it seem as though you tripped. You angle your body in a way that prevents the crowd from seeing Veritas's vice grip on your arm.

"My Highness has not agreed to anything yet," he bites out in a low whisper, venom dripping off his tongue.

Sunday's eyes snap to him. His scathing glare does nothing to deter your advisor, who glares back at him in response.

When he looks back to you, the deceptively serene look has returned. With the arm not holding the sash, he extends a hand out to you, tilting his head to the side in question. The guests closest to you all coo fondly.

There's a hint of a smirk on his face. "May I have this dance?"

You place a hand over Veritas's, gently prying his fingers from your arm. You can't bear to look at him right now. "It will be fine," you murmur. "I promise."

You run your hands along your sleeves, wiping off as much of the sweat as you can. You inhale shakily, trying to keep the ballroom tile beneath your feet from swimming.

You look up, a practiced, graceful smile tilting your lips upward. You delicately place your hand in his, suppressing a shudder when he brings it to his lips and presses it to them. The steadiness and strength in your voice surprises you when you say, "Of course, Prince Oak."

The ballroom erupts into a mixture of chatter and cheers. Court advisors pester the crowd surrounding the dance floor, ushering them back and trying to clear a pathway for the two of you. You swallow thickly as Sunday closes his hand around your trembling one.

You turn to Welt and gesture at his pocket with your free hand. "If you would be so kind, Advisor Welt."

He nods stiffly, reaching into his coat and producing a golden pocket watch. "Of course, Your Highness."

Your heart hammers against your ribcage as Sunday guides you to the dance floor. A numbness settles over you, and you robotically nod and smile at the guests that you pass. Their eyes shine with an adoration that you could never possess for this supposed relationship— for him.

Sunday releases your hand when you two reach the center of the dance floor. His eyes are dark as he holds one end of the sash out to you. You take it into your hands and back away from him, toward the other end of the floor. Sunday does the same, and you both stop when the sash is pulled so taught that it tugs you a few steps forward.

The familiar fabric and set-up do little to comfort you.

The crowd shifts again, and Welt emerges from it, standing front and center before the dance floor. He holds the pocket watch up to his face, and your breath hitches with anticipation.

"Your three minutes begins..." His voice reverberates off the ballroom walls, resounding clearly over the jubilant tune the orchestra plays.

"Now."

Adrenaline shoots through you like lightning, and you fly into motion. Your vision sharpens, focused in on every movement Sunday makes as you analyze the arc of his arms and the force behind his tugs on the sash. With each under-arm swoop, you dip beneath his arms and twirl away from him with ease, the steps of the dance coming to you the way breathing does.

He's an adept dancer, you'll give him that. Perhaps if his partner was anyone else, he would have already caught them already, within the first minute of the dance. But you are untouchable on an average night, and on this one in particular, you push yourself past your limits, propelled forward by a fervor and desperation to evade his every attempt of entangling you in his arms.

Twist. Needle's Eye.

"Two minutes," Welt calls out.

Approaching another under-arm swoop, you glance at Sunday's face just in time to see displeasure flicker across it at Welt's announcement. As you glide away from him once more, unfurling the sash between you two, he gives it a sharp tug, causing you to stumble a bit and lose your footing. Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly recover, forcing your limbs to move faster and smoother and match the rapid tempo he has now set for the dance.

Sweat beads along your upper lip as you duck under Sunday's arms repeatedly. You're managing just fine, but you've never had to push yourself this hard before; keeping a close eye on his movements while making sure the sash doesn't get tangled around your wrists is a delicate balancing act, and you can feel yourself teetering back and forth, dangerously close to falling off.

He's a far more formidable partner than you could have ever imagined.

Dip and Turn. Lady's Feint.

"One minute."

Sunday furiously yanks on the sash mid-twirl, and you stagger forward. The sash wraps around your wrists once, twice— three times before you regain your footing and lean back, narrowly avoiding Sunday's sweeping arm that almost hooks around your own.

A chorus of gasps ripples through the crowd at your near capture. It worsens your fraying nerves.

You exhale with exertion, trembling on unsteady legs as Sunday raises the stakes yet again. The tempo he sets is merciless, and your body is jostled between the last of your will and the harsh tugs from the other end of the sash. You grit your teeth. The silk digs tighter into your flesh and sends pinpricks of pain up your arms with each snap of his wrists.

Bridge Arc. Under-Arm Swoop.

"Thirty seconds."

The speed at which you weave in and out of spins leaves you dizzy, nauseous. The ballroom melts into incomprehensible shapes and colors around you. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, a pitiful attempt to ground yourself so you won't trip up.

You do anyway; Sunday's movements are too fluid and swift to keep up with.

The sash binds around your wrists five more times, bringing you even closer to him— too close. You're not sure if it's skill, luck, or sheer force of will that allows you to continue to dodge his attempts at ensnaring you, but you know that you shouldn't be able to do it at this distance.

Frustration peeks through his graceful disposition. His golden eyes trail you, chasing after you as you elude his grasp once more.

Thread. Beading the Sash.

"Fifteen seconds."

You throw yourself into another dip, eyes locked onto the floor just beyond the arm obscuring your line of vision.

If you dodge this one, you'll be free.

Sunday lifts his arms suddenly and pulls, bringing the sash as far back as he can without letting go. Your arms twist in the air behind your back. A strangled gasp leaves you as you lose your footing. In a whirl of fabric, you stagger backward, away from the other side of his outstretched arm.

The Catch.

Your back slams into something solid, and before you can process what has happened, a firm arm snakes itself around your waist, pulling you flush against the body behind you. Your hands, still bound together, dig into your collarbone, suspended at an awkward angle from the sash held above you.

The crowd erupts into noise.

In front of you, a little girl pulls on her mother's sleeve and points in your direction. "Mommy, he caught Our Highness!"

Behind them, Veritas stares at you, petrified and speechless.

Snapping out of your stunned stupor feels like coming up for air after almost drowning. You suck in a shuddering breath and writhe, yanking your arms against the sash and leaning forward, futilely trying to escape. Sunday gathers the last of the fabric in his hands and gives it another sharp tug, keeping you in place against him.

He lowers his head, and his lips brush over your ear as he speaks. "Magnificent," he whispers. His voice rumbles with pleasure, almost to the point of purring. "You are truly a talented dancer."

"Let me go," you rasp out. You're physically exhausted, and your racing, panicked heart prevents you from catching your breath.

Sunday hums again, bringing the hand holding the sash to brush your cheek gently. "Why would I do that?" He chuckles softly, and it's so genuine— not the slightest bit mocking— that it leaves you all the more unsettled. "I caught you."

He brings his arm down, settling it around your waist. His fingers brush over your bound hands, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek.

"You're finally mine."

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feefivefoe · 2 months ago

Note

Something I think about when it comes to the batfam is what if they remember reader after a long long time? I’m talking 10+ years after leaving the family. Like what would that be like? Reader wouldn’t be a young adult but someone who’s established themselves in a career and most likely moved out of Gotham, got themselves a somewhat better apartment or maybe a small house, maybe gone through therapy and has decided that they are indifferent about the families existence, to the point that reader forgets about them sometimes. Except Jason reader would probably light a candle every birthday and holiday for him

I feel like the angst potential would be like an aged wine. Bruce Wayne forgot about his first born child their entire life, plus 10 years. Maybe the only reason they remember is a Gotham exclusive on the family, a “where are they now?” type story and half the family (Steph, Cas, Damian, Duke) discover reader existed and the other half is reminded of the forgot part of their family. Oh the angst for Jason! His favorite sibling, his friend from before his death, how could he forget them?? How could Bruce forget them??? And oh god it’s been such a long time where are they?? The story said that they couldn’t find a record in Gotham anymore, are they dead? He let them be forgotten, something he couldn’t stand happening to him, and now here he is, perpetuating it. The fight this would cause!! I feel like the fam would turn on Bruce demanding answers that he doesn’t have. Jason goes to readers room and finds nothing. Maybe reader wanted to cover their tracks? Maybe they didn’t want any trace of them in a manor that never cared for them in the first place? Who knows, all the fam knows is that this building feels so much colder now with this revelation.

Meanwhile reader is getting dinner with friends and work colleagues, having a good and fulfilling life, one outside Gotham, outside of the depressing influence of the Wayne’s, rogues, and owls of Gotham (sorry for making this so long!! Hope you’re having a great day!! Love your work!)

No bc how dare you come into my askbox and drop the most beautiful ask I've seen while I'm sick and brain fogged /affectionate

No hate to anybody else who has sent asks, ily all, but this one HIT MY BRAIN SPASMS AKDMELAK-

BECAUSE YOU'RE SO RIGHT???

The longer it goes on, the worse the inevitable realization is for EVERYONE. Including reader. Because while there's no record of them legally, that's just because they're doing too poorly to have records.

Once you leave Gotham and start settling, you have legal documentation that you just need, you know, for life. Your ssn, birth certificate, etc. Documents that Bruce thought he had somewhere, only to find out you had requested them from Alfred when you left home.

Alfred, being the enabler he is and always hoping you'd reconnect with them one day, just gave you legal copies. Or illegal copies that are good enough to pass, idk how that stuff works.

Point is, they can find you.

BUT.

That's after they get past the emotional turmoil that the discovery puts them through. Imagine if one of them is watching the special for laughs, members of the family snickering at how fake and put together they all are on camera, elbowing each other at how prim and proper some of them are.

Then, near the ending, it cuts to a city far away from theirs. Not Bludhaven, which confuses them. The rest of them stayed, at least relatively close. So where-?

"Y/N L/N, formerly known as Y/N Wayne, has not been seen in the public eye for over a decade. While our reporters were unable to make contact, some still can't help but wonder on where this mysterious member of the beloved family-"

*Snap*

That's Jason, snapping the remote in half while staring at the screen.

Where...when...?

Half of them are confused. Three of them are starting to get a dawning realization.

Jason is having probably the biggest traumatic breakdown he's had since coming to terms with his death and resurrection.

Which town was that? Was that their actual home? Is that just stock footage? Did the reporter lie, did they find you? No, they would have shown that. Fucking vultures wouldn't keep the drama to themselves if they had the chance.

Those are thoughts that don't hit until later, honestly. He's too fucking furious to think coherently for a while.

He wants to scream at Bruce, and hit him, and Dick, and Tim, and fuck it, Alfred too a little. (Unfortunately, they probably have lost Alfred by now. The man was already old.)

He wants to both trash and treasure what's left of your room, small enough to make him feel cramped. It's the size of his old apartment bedroom! Fucking moneybags couldn't give his second ever child a better room than this???

There's no diary left behind, or anything that would bring any sense of closure. Actually, the only thing of note is a scattering of ancient newspaper articles badly taped up on the wall, mostly peeling or on the floor by now.

"BATMAN BESTS POLICE ONCE MORE- RIDDLER IN CUSTODY"

"WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT THE BOY WONDER"

"NO MORE JOKES - CLOWN IN CUSTODY"

"BATMAN'S NEWEST SIDEKICK? ROBIN REPLACED!"

"A NEW HERO? NIGHTWING DEBUTS!"

Them. It's articles about all of them. Their hero exploits, at least. None of them past his...expiration date. It looks like his death is what made you stop idolizing your family so much. Honestly, the paper is old enough to make it hard to read anything but the headlines.

There are a few sticky notes amidst the papers. Clumsy, childlike handwriting.

03/16/XXXX

Richard and Mister Wayne saved people from a bank! Bad guys almost blew em up. That's why they had to miss the concert!

07/30/XXXX

Jason couldn't have dinner because the Joker broke out, and they had to stop him again. Stay in jail! My brother is hungry!!!! >:(

XX/XX/XXXX

I hoped Richard was in town because of my birthday...I guess it was superhero stuff. But Jay remembers! Next year?

XX/XX/XXXX

Not next year :( I made a cake with Alfred instead. Gave some to Jay after he patrolled. Not as good as Alfred's yet, but he still ate it!

Notes you wrote to yourself. To hang up, to show you that even if they aren't there for you, your 'family' is full of good people. That they're doing important stuff, and that's why they can't be there for you.

As a child, you hung up a wall to show yourself why you weren't important. Why you didn't matter.

And Jason breaks.

#bat tag #bat asks #neglected batfam

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hardly-an-escape · 3 months ago

Text

for @bucktommypositivityweek Saturday 8/17: nicknames and terms of endearment | naming conventions | 1300 words | rated T

Tommy wasn’t much of a nickname guy. He shortened names, of course – he wasn’t the kind of asshole who insisted on calling Hen Henrietta or Eddie Edmundo – but Howie was almost always Howie, not Chimney, even after they reconnected, and the handful of other firefighters they knew with goofy monikers were still almost always referred to by their given names.

Buck had asked him about it, once; he’d assumed that an Army pilot would have been all in on nicknames and callsigns. But Tommy had simply shaken his head and said something about how, in his experience, they always came from negative moments.

Haven’t you ever noticed that? He’d said. They’re almost always based on something bad. A mistake or a close call. I don’t know, I just don’t think people should be known for something they fuck up when they’re a probie, or a raw recruit. When they’re still learning.

And Tommy wasn’t wrong; most nicknames did stem from some kind of fuck up. Usually something funny or ironic, but not always. To Buck it seemed almost like a kind of hazing ritual – maybe rite of passage would be a kinder term – like, can you really join the club if you can’t handle a little joke? But Buck also saw Tommy’s point. Saw how the loss of a name could mean the loss of agency, loss of identity, loss of control over one’s own person in a context when so much control had already been willingly given up. To service, whether that meant the military or the LAFD or just being the guy always willing to step in and do something.

Buck saw that, even if he didn’t feel it himself. For him, getting a nickname had been freeing – had been an opening up, a door to an identity he’d wanted for a long time without being able to name.

Becoming Buck instead of Evan had been – it was hard to describe. He’d always secretly wanted a nickname, wanted something cool and casual and jocular, something to show that he belonged somewhere. But Evan didn’t exactly lend itself to shortening or rhyming, and nothing he’d done in his youth had ever set him apart. Not in a way that mattered; not in a way that stuck.

He’d lived more than twenty five years of his life being Evan and feeling vaguely uncomfortable about it – until the fire academy, when someone had called him Buck and he’d just run with it, made it happen, finally carved out his own little niche in this world that suddenly meant so much to him.

And that’s how it had been – he’d just been Buck – until Tommy came along.

He hadn’t meant to introduce himself as Evan, when they met in the hangar. In fact, he hadn’t introduced himself at all; Chimney had been the one to make introductions. “Tommy, allow me to introduce you to your flight attendants for this evening’s little jaunt: Evan Buckley and Eddie Diaz. Boys, this is Tommy Kinard, formerly of the 118 and currently probably regretting picking up my calls.”

They’d all shaken hands, faces serious. The weight of the moment and what they were about to do was heavy on their shoulders, despite Howie’s wisecracking, and it hadn’t even occurred to Buck to throw out his usual line about his nickname. And later, during his tour of Tommy’s station, it hadn’t really registered for Buck until they were halfway through that the other man had exclusively referred to him as Evan. It felt too late to correct him by the time he’d noticed.

And besides, he’d realized – much later – how much he liked the sound of Evan coming out of Tommy’s mouth.

Neither of them were big on pet names. Tommy would throw out the occasional sweetheart, which always made Buck melt a little inside, but it wasn’t a regular thing. Buck sometimes went for baby in intimate moments – babe, with what Tommy called “a tone,” if he was being a bit of a brat – but it was often as much for comedic effect as anything else.

They mostly just stuck to names. For Evan, the novelty of murmuring Tommy as he kissed his boyfriend’s Adam’s apple or his stubbly cheek or down the line of his happy trail never seemed to wear off. The masculine body under his hands and lips. The masculine name on his tongue.

He asked Tommy, once, after explaining his own weirdly complicated history with his name – and his parents, and his dead brother, and his long unwitting search for an identity – why he went by Tommy, not Tom or Thomas.

“I guess it sounds a little juvenile, doesn’t it?” Tommy said. “For a guy in his forties.”

“I mean, I don’t think so,” Buck said. “I think – I don’t know, I think it fits you. Like, I’ve heard other people call you Tom, but if I called you Tom, I feel like that’s a different person, almost. Someone I don’t even know.”

“I feel the same way about Buck,” Tommy admitted. “Hen says it, I don’t even blink. I know it’s you. But if I say it? It’s like, who is that.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy shifted a little on the couch. Plucked at his jeans, wrapped an arm around Buck’s shoulders and then immediately shifted again so he could run his fingers through Buck’s hair.

“I’ve told you a little about my dad,” he said eventually. “About how we don’t… get along. Never did, really, even when I was just a kid.” He paused, for long enough that Buck looked up enquiringly, only to see Tommy staring off into the middle distance.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I was named after him,” Tommy continued eventually.

“Wait, really?”

“Really. I am technically a junior. Thomas Edward Kinard, Jr. He actually wanted my birth certificate to say “the second,” but my mom put her foot down.”

“Wow. I had… no idea.”

“I stopped using the junior a year or two into my stint in the service. Dropped it completely when I came out to Los Angeles. Changed my driver’s license and just… didn’t put it on the paperwork. I’m sure that won’t come back to bite me in the ass someday.”

Tommy laughed, short and sarcastic, and Buck frowned. He’d only heard that laugh a couple of times, but he didn’t like it. He wormed his way out from beneath Tommy’s arm so he could take one of his broad hands between his own, petting over hairy knuckles and a calloused palm.

“Have you ever thought about changing it? Choosing something new?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. Never. He took enough from me, over the years,” Tommy said harshly. “He doesn’t get to take my name, too, even if it did come from him. Besides, it pisses him off enough that I went by Tommy past the age of sixteen. Changing my name would feel like… would feel like giving in.”

“I get that,” Buck said thoughtfully.

He squeezed Tommy’s hand one more time, then put it aside and climbed carefully into his boyfriend’s lap. Tommy let out a soft grunt of surprise as Buck wound his arms around his neck and tipped his face up for a kiss.

Buck obliged him. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he said softly, lips brushing against Tommy’s, “I love your name. I love how it sounds when I say it. Tommy,” he murmured, and Tommy swallowed hard. “It fits you. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s you. And I – I love you. So I love your name.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words, but it was still new enough that they tasted fresh and exciting.

“I love you, too,” Tommy said quietly. “Evan,” he said, and kissed him again.

this was supposed to be something fun and silly based on this post but then it developed emotions and that's why it's a day late.

#bucktommy #911 abc #my writing #bucktommy positivity week #names #pet names #this got so much longer than I intended lol #might clean it up and put it on AO3 tomorrow #evan buckley #tommy kinard

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reasonsforhope · 1 month ago

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"As communities across Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee reel from the devastation of Hurricane Helene, federal agencies, aid organizations, and everyday volunteers have stepped up to help provide urgent relief.

But with unfathomable loss — including a rising death toll — rebuilding includes more than providing food, shelter, and power.

It also includes confronting the toll these disasters take on survivors’ mental health.

“It’s normal for hurricanes to cause people to experience emotional distress,” the Substance Abuse & Mental Health Services Administration explains on its website.

“Feelings such as overwhelming anxiety, constant worrying, trouble sleeping, and other depression-like symptoms are common responses before, during, and after these types of storms.”

That’s why SAMHSA created the Disaster Distress Helpline.

The DDH is the first national hotline dedicated to providing 24/7 disaster crisis counseling to all residents in the U.S. and its territories.

It is toll-free and offers multilingual support in over 100 languages, as well as services for Deaf or Hard of Hearing callers.

“The helpline puts people in need of counseling on the path to recovery. When you call or text, crisis counselors listen to what’s on your mind with patience and without judgment,” a DDH web page explains.

“DDH is staffed by trained counselors from a network of crisis call centers located across the United States.”

Callers can find crisis counseling related to any natural or human-caused disaster, information on how to recognize distress, referrals to local crisis centers for additional follow-up care, and healthy coping tips.

Many in regions like Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee still lack access to cell service, power, or Wi-Fi. Anyone impacted by the storm and in need of counseling is encouraged to call or text 1-800-985-5990 whenever they are able.

“The helpline is open to anyone experiencing emotional distress related to disasters,” the DDH web page continues. “This includes survivors of disasters; loved ones of victims; first responders; rescue, recovery, and relief workers; clergy; and parents and caregivers. You may call for yourself or on behalf of someone else.”

Crisis counselors do not require any identifying information from callers, though counselors may ask a few general questions at the end of their session to help improve the helpline’s services.

“If you or someone you know is struggling to cope emotionally with the effects of Hurricane Helene, you're not alone,” DDH posted on X (formerly known as Twitter). “Help is just a call or text away.”

Those who are seeking more information about disaster-related evacuations, shelters, relief distribution, volunteer opportunities, and more are encouraged to call 211 for more information."

-via GoodGoodGood, September 30, 2024

For anyone who's struggling in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene.

#hurricane #hurricane helene #natural disaster #united states #samsha #climate anxiety #good news #hope

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visenyaism · 4 months ago

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I just saw people on instagram theorizing that Alys Rivers is actually Melisandre and I think I might cry. Even with only show!canon it makes no sense

this is THE “this person is actually someone else in disguise” series but I get so mad when people suggest that specifically Melisandre and Varys are secretly very important previously known people because the whole point of them is that they are random formerly enslaved essosi citizens who resort to putting on this perpetual performance of the trappings of power in order to survive in westeros. there are thousands of people like them and at the same time there is no one like them. that’s really important

#asoiaf #hotd

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thebisexualwreckoning · 2 months ago

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Armand's backstory and how I, your local bengali vampire fucker and armand's 24/7 defence lawyer, am going to make him bengali and muslim while still keeping it showcannon accurate

(Note: this is not meant to be taken seriously and is very much just written because I was bored and had time on my hands and if i have gotten anything wrong please correct me)

One thing that always annoyed me about IWTV showcannon is the fact that armand pre-marius days were either left majorly unexplored or made absolutely no sense to the time period. Which, I find pretty surprising considering the care and sensitivity Louis' new backstory was handled with by the same creators and show writers.

We know 3 things about Armand and who he is as a character in regards to his ethnicity:

His birth is Arun

He is Muslim

And that he was taken from Delhi somewhere around the early 15th century

For the purposes of this essay, we are going to assume all of this is true and not something Armand made up to get sympathy from both Louis and the audience.

Armand's birth name being Arun, while incredibly lazy, does make his identity as a bengali man much easier to confirm. My own full blooded formerly bangladeshi grandfather has the name Arun and Arun continues to be an incredibly popular bengali name for boys to this day. The problem arises when it comes to his religion.

The thing about the name Arun is that it's an incredibly *Hindu* first name, given that it is quite literally one of the names for the Hindu god of the sun (Source: I'm Hindu and confirmed with my mom who is sitting beside me scrolling on facebook). While muslim people can have the name Arun, given that Bengal was still an independent kingdom around the time which Armand would have been born in, his parents being hindu would have been likely.

However, around a similar time, the Mughals were setting up shop in, you guessed it, delhi and the surrounding region. Now, my proposal is as such: During the same time period, many parents sold their children to zamindars (land owners) for money or food or land. Young Arun's parents did the same thing. Now, this zamindar either sells armand to someone else immediately after who takes him delhi or takes young arun to delhi himself where he either sets up shop with him or once again sells arun to someone else.

Seperated from his parents and newly immigrated indenture (because yes, mughal era punjab and bengal were different kingdoms and as such this would count as immigration) to a kingdom which had just gone through a major political upheaval and had a new ruler forcibly converting people to islam, arun, who has no ties to hinduism given that a. he is a child and b. his hindu parents very much just sold him into slavery, converts to islam as well as a safety tactic.

Thus child arun grows into teen arun and he has never known anything of his life before delhi but those first few years that he spent in bengal and has definitely had no contact with hinduism and has been a devout muslim for the vast majority of his life. Here is where things get a bit iffy. There are two ways how the rest of this can now go.

Route no. 1, armand's indenture is sold to the portuguese, the portuguese take him to europe, marius buys him, everything proceeds as it must.

Route no. 2, the overly complicated, book and show canon accurate version which requires some significant suspension of disbelief and handwaving to accomplish but i like it so i'm still writing down this crack theory. Also we're doing this in dot points now because i'm getting tired:

We know armand speaks crimean because daniel mentions it after he catches fake rashid praying

crimea was part of the ottoman empire during this time period.

the ottoman empire had relatively friendly relations with the mughals because they were afraid of babur.

crimean ottoman merchants buy armand's indenture

armand ends up in crimea

crimea and kievan rus, book armand's original homeland's complex relation means armand ends up in kievan rus.

Things proceed as they did in the books for how armand goes from kievan rus to under marius's hold

and that's all i have, this has been your local crack theorist on tonight's armand show. see you next time.

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #amc iwtv #armand #tvc #vampire chronicles #the vampire armand

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allisondraste · 1 year ago

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I’ve seen various different posts on the website formerly known as Twitter and this one right here, discussing Gale’s behavior in romance as obsessive, possessive, and possibly codependent. And while I support everyone having their own interpretations and opinions, I do disagree, so I want to talk about it!

First— it’s so important to acknowledge that Gale is strictly monogamous. He is not someone who is comfortable with a partner having other partners. This is fine, and not inherently indicative of any unhealthy attachment styles. Wyll, Karlach, and Lae’Zel are also monogamous in a relationship.

Gale does struggle with some insecurity that at times bleeds it’s way into his romantic relationship, but isn’t a product of the relationship itself. His biggest insecurity is feeling like he isn’t enough (in general, not just for a romantic partner). Mystra had a way of making him feel like nothing he did was ever enough, he always needed to do more, to be more, and when he tried, when he made mistakes, she abandoned him.

Those are wounds that do not heal quickly, and so he needs quite a bit of reassurance from both friend and lover PCs that he’s fine just the way he is and that he doesn’t have to try so hard or pretend to be fine when he’s not.

He’s lonely. Due to his condition, Gale, who is an incredibly social person, had to hermit himself away from his friends and colleagues for over a year. Mystra was no longer interacting with him, and he was afraid to be around his mother because he didn’t want her to worry. His only company was Tara, and as much as he loves her, shes not a replacement for human or humanoid connection. Usually with folks who struggle with codependency and insecure attachment, there are long patterns of each of those things in all of their other relationships, but Gale seems to have had pretty healthy relationships, the Mystra situation being the exception, not the rule.

It excites him when he gets to travel with a group, have friends. It’s even more exciting to him when he finds someone who makes him forget the hurt Mystra has caused. Yet he still has to withdraw from even that because he does not want to put their life in danger. It is not until act 2 after Elminster has cast the incantation to calm the orb that Gale feels comfortable enough to give in to his feelings. And yeah! He comes in strong because he’s been holding it in. He’s been pining away, sad that he can’t let himself so much as kiss Tav or else he quite literally explode.

When you talk to Gale after his romance scene in act 2, you’re able to confront him about his feelings for Mystra, and he is very direct, stating that he does still have complicated feelings for her. Which makes SENSE. The game and Gale himself try to minimize Mystra as just his ex, but she is more than that. She is his groomer and abuser. Gale is traumatized, and it will likely take him the rest of his life to get over that. It’s not something that more time alone is going to heal. He needs a support system to help him. He needs his mom, his friends, and maybe even his new partner.

You can also ask him if he meant it when he said he loved you, and his answer is “I am many things to many people, but I am never one to throw the l-word around lightly.” He didn’t just say it on a whim. He thought about it, probably extensively. Judging from the dialogue we get, he’s aware that he is rushing to say it, and admits that it’s because he’s scared that he’s going to literally die tomorrow. It’s not a love bomb. It’s an “I need you to know this, just in case something happens to me.”

Once he doesn’t die in act 2, he simmers down. He becomes more concerned with curing his condition, he faces Mystra, he accepts that he doesn’t need to have godly power to be worthy of love and respect.

At the end of the game, he asks you if you’ll come back to Waterdeep with him, which is his way of proposing more or less, but its more that he wants to be home and he wants the person who has become so important to him to come with him, to meet his mom, to see his hometown. He wants them to want that too.

He’s a grown man, mid to late 30s, not a naive young person. He knows what he wants. He’s thought about it, extensively.

In my opinion, there’s nothing possessive, obsessive, codependent, or unhealthy about any of that.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #meta post

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fablepaint · 1 year ago

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I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask anything here, but I wanted to know something. How is it like being a director of an animation? What’s your ideology when it comes to directing?

Messages anytime all the time

caffeinecaffeinecaffeine

body exhausted, enforces its own breaks

hard to go out, ever

STRESSSSS

MAAATHHH

wheredidmybraingo?

*smashed body part* thatll heal up finnnne. i dont have time for doctor!

ohgoddontfuckitup dontbeTHATguy ohfuckohshit

i love my partner i cant believe he puts up with this

hug every pet. theyre my emotional sponges.

manic creative spurts followed by sheepish anxiety.

PaPERWORK

hurry up and wait, times a thousand.

hope you like data sheets!

delegateDAMMIT

And thats when it's running smoothly!

otherwise my approach is to try and reflect the best examples of leadership and guidance IRL ive experienced. Mostly, from quality college professors Ive known. Tom Sito in particular exemplified a lot of what i strive to be. He was also formerly guild president and i think teaching your crew to view themselves as a collective that supports each other is vital to ensuring not just that they work together well, but also should anyone try to take advantage of them, they'll curbstomp them. I want them to be capable even in my absence, beyond the project, and able to run their own projects competently in the future.

i should be the one who guides and educates people into giving what's needed for the shot. Pain and blood are unwanted elements in that recipe. Theyre distractions and energysappers, red flags of a problem not a badge of honor.

Ideally, i barely have to do more than gently steer the work. And if ive communicated what im looking for effectively, theyre all plenty good at doing the work without me hovering over them.

if the work needs more guidance than that, then i roll up my sleeves and dive in as well. And figure out what the problem was, log it, and let that educate everyone else too (good documentation is essential).

i try to exhaust every option i have before blaming the person working on it for all the issues. Sometimes that is the problem, but even then i need to approach it neutrally and ask what human solution is required then. Do they need a break? was this not the right shot for them? is their way of processing the communication different than i expected? is there a translation problem?

in which case give people space to figure out some of that without judgement. Sometimes that means leaving for a bit, or permanently. But dont chase them. Just let them have their own life.

The only things i cant abide by are lack of communication that results in putting stress on the rest of the team. Consistent lying about availability and ball dropping despite constant outreach means someone has to pick up the slack without enough time or energy stocked up to take on the extra work. Anything that ends up exacerbating stress makes me upset.

But even then, it's still my job to spot the signs of this and make necessary adjustments before it becomes a problem. Including identifying where I made a miscalculation in hiring.

The buck always ALWAYS stops with me. I have the power to adjust the system to make it better, which means i gotta have a good grasp on that system.

#lackadaisy #life #question #answer

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gatorbites-imagines · 1 year ago

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Kinktober day 5

Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader + uniform kink

I’ve been a Darth Vader fanboy (dickrider) for so long, I’m amazed I haven’t written smut about him before. This is loosely based on a plot idea I’ve had for a long time but never sat down and wrote.

This is the longest thing ive written for this kinktober, the spirit of star wars itself must have posessed me.

Kinktober 2023 masterlist

You were an imperial officer, you hadn’t always been one of course. Before the empire rose you had been your average war general under the republic working closely with the jedi and their clonetroopers, most of all you worked with the 501st lead under Anakin Skywalker, a name not even allowed to be murmured anymore. You had always carried some sort of candle for general Skywalker, the hero with no fear, but everyone knew jedi weren’t allowed to be in relationships, and even if they were, you could never imagine Skywalker being interested in you.

For some reason, after the empire rose you had joined their ranks. What else could you do? You had lost everything in the war, and even though you didn’t believe in their propaganda, you knew the republic had been just as corrupt, they just hid it better. Your old coworkers had never liked how easily you switched sides for credits, but since you had no one to tie yourself too it was easy to put on a new uniform and kill under some randos orders. It was what had made you so useful during the clone wars and for the empire afterwards, you were quick and smart and had little mercy in your soul.

Of course, your heart gave a squeeze when you would see the formerly lively clones be reduced to mindless flesh droids, or when you saw the few remaining jedi being dragged away for re-education or to be gotten rid of. But under the emperor you were paid handsomely, more than most other officers you learned, why though you could never tell. Maybe it was the fact that you were the longest lasting officer under Lord Vader, as the sith had a tendency to snuff out the life of anyone who got on his nerves. Anyone but you.

For some reason, Vader seemed to like you, at least to the degree a sith could like somebody. He kept you around, at least. And at times you were sure he was staring at you longer than was appropriate, but you weren’t gonna say anything, especially to the guy known for snapping necks of anyone who got in his way.

Your status as Vader’s personal officer came one day in the form of a special uniform. It looked like your average imperial officer uniform, except for the fact that instead of black or white, the top part of your uniform was now a dark deep crimson. The color reminded you of dried blood. The pants were pitch black, the same shade as Vader’s cloak. If you looked deeper into your outfit, you would see the stitches were done with a red thread, almost like Vader’s saber. It was clear you were Vader’s, whether you wanted it or not.

Being Vader’s personal officer was isolating, more than usual. You had always been known as cold and tough, because you had to be to have lasted as long as yourself standing so close to Vader and the emperor. But after being so visibly marked as someone under Vader’s terrifying eye, all new officers and troopers seemed to avoid you or walk on eggshells around you, as if fearing your wrath would be Vader’s wrath itself. You had gotten used to the loneliness a long time ago, but as more and more officers and crew from your time were replaced you ended up having just yourself and your thoughts.

And your thoughts somehow always ended up back on Anakin Skywalker, that jedi general you had fought beside many years ago now. You wondered how he would have felt if he knew who you had become, how much blood was on your hands, how many innocents you had doomed. You knew deep down it was stupid, he had never truly known you, you had been nothing but coworkers, fellow generals. But for some reason, his handsome face, beautiful eyes, and strong body would appear in your dreams and in the recess of your mind.

Even as you stood behind Vader in the cockpit of the large ships he would parade around in, you would find some of your attention sliding to memories of Skywalker. For some reason his clothes had always fascinated you, the dark robes had been so unusual for jedi, but they had been perfect on him. Maybe it was because of this that small twinges in your mind had started feeling a pull to Lord Vader of all people.

Maybe it was his height, his presence, or just the black clothing he wore that seemed to light something in your mind. Maybe it was fear mixing itself with lust, as you had noticed how he seemed even more tense than usual. Others would be unable to see, but you had stood behind him since the moment the emperor brought him forth. You could see it in the way his fists tightened, and his gloves creaked, or how his breathing just became a lad louder from what you could under imagine was frustration.

You were sure you were going mad from your isolation when your dreams were starting to become filled with not only Anakin Skywalker but Darth Vader, their gloved hands pulling at your body, Vader holding you up as Anakin had his way with you, or Anakin’s mechanical hand twisting and torturing your length as Vader made you choke on his fingers or cock, depending on if your dream thought the cyborg sith even possessed privates.

Normally you would be able to release the tension these dreams brought you, but Vader had seemed to call you to his personal quarters late at night. This night your dream had been stranger than usual, there had not been just Anakin or Vader, or even both at once, instead Anakin and Vader had been on. You had been in your imperial officer garb as well, something that rarely happened in your dreams featuring Skywalker, and the Vader Anakin amalgamation has pulled you apart. His heavy breathing still rang in your ears as you hurried towards your lords’ quarters.

The halls were empty, or as empty as they could be as you passed a couple of troopers patrolling, whom all saluted you as they were supposed to. You were sure you looked a mess, the call from Lord Vader had been urgent, and you hadn’t had time to pick up your newly pressed uniforms yet and had to put on the one you had worn all day. Outside the door of Vader’s quarters, you took a deep breath as you collected yourself, before knocking.

When you were welcomed in you almost choked at the sight before you, for a moment you were sure your lord was suffocating you with the force. There had never been a bed in Lord Vader’s room, as he had no need for one, but now there was. It was large, big enough to fit maybe three or four beings Vader’s own size, and the sheets were blood red and looked so expensive even your high salary felt a hit.

“Sir” you stated, straightening your back as you tried to not let your thoughts run haywire as Vader sat upon the bed like a king on his throne. Maybe it was leftovers from your dreams, but the spread of his powerful thighs and slow deep breathing leaving his respirator had your palms going clammy under his gloves. You cursed the fit of your uniform, as you were sure your halfchub caused by your dream was still visible as you stood straight.

This was it, Vader was gonna get rid of you for daring to show up looking so disheveled and uneven. “Officer” he rumbled in his deep voice, and you clenched your teeth and shut your eyes, ready for what you were sure was gonna be your death. Instead you felt your body being lurched forwards with what you knew was the force, falling to your knees as the force seemed to pull your feet out from under you.

As you opened your eyes you found yourself on your knees between Vader’s strong thighs, his gloved palm coming to hold your chin as he seemed to look you over with a critical eye, even under his helmet. You gulped, your halfchub filling up faster than you could dream of suppressing, and the scoffed exhale that left Vader made it sure you knew that he knew just how affected you were.

His other hand came up and adjusted the collar of your uniform, his strong mechanical fingers lingering around the vulnerable flesh of your neck. “Your dreams, officer. Are so very loud” he spoke in that deep voice of his, you were sure you heard it wrong as it felt like he had purred out those words. You face became hot, and so did your entire body, at the mention of your dreams. You knew force users could read or sense thoughts, but some innocent hopeful part of yourself had hoped your dreams would stay secret.

“Your uniform is out of order” he rumbled, the blank lenses of his helmet forcing you to stare at your own reflection. You tried to force yours mouth open to speak, to apologize for your appearance and your dreams, maybe to beg for mercy. But your lord seemed to have different plans, as his booted foot pressed against your crotch where you were hardest, a surprised moan leaving you.

“Remove your coat, officer” he rumbled, the fingers gripping your chin tightening until you followed his orders almost desperately. This had to be a dream, you were sure of it, why else would lord Vader be letting you rut against his boot like some kind of dog. “Your room is just below me own, did you know? You broadcast your dreams loudly” he kept going, grinding his boot harder between your thighs, making you gasp and grasp as his leg.

“You must make it up to me” Vader rumbled, and all speculation if he even possessed privates left your mind. In your dreams he had always been large, as he was so tall, but seeing it did it no justice. His strong grip knocked your hat off your head, another part of your uniform, as he pulled you forwards. You barely had time to prepare before your mouth as filled, and the tight fabric of your uniform pants became unbearable as you found yourself arching at the act.

Vader didn’t moan as he fucked your face, or rather pulled your head back and forth at his whim, but his breathing shook and that was enough for you. Your mind was a jumbled mess of Darth Vader and Anakin Skywalker, for some reason you had grown hooked on the combination. If you weren’t so out of it, you might have noticed that Vader would thrust down your throat extra hard whenever images of the jedi appeared in your mind, but you could barely keep focus.

There was no warning as he came, just an extra deep exhale and him bottoming out, forcing your nose against his hairless pubic area. His shiny boot rolled against your crotch, and you were almost sure he must have done something with the force as you found yourself finish, even as he made you swallow all he gave you, you stained the inside of your boxers and uniform pants.

It took a moment to clear your thoughts as Lord Vader finally let you pull back, your throat sore in the best way and your eyes teary. You must have looked a mess, as Vader wiped under your drooling mouth with his large thumb. “Go fix up your uniform, officer” he rumbled, the force pushing you to your feet even as you almost buckled at the knees. Maybe you were still high on your orgasm, but you swore his tone was softer than normal, and that his touch was more careful as he put your hat back on your head and you tucked your jacket back on.

“I will call for you in the morning” Vader spoke, his tone meaningful in a way that had excitement brewing in you once more. “Sir” you replied in affirmation, trying not to shiver at how raw your voice was. As you hurried back to your quarters, Vader exhaled loudly as he ran his hand over his helmeted face, for once wishing he still possessed his old face so that maybe he could have indulged you in that so powerful dream of yours.

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crimethinc · 3 months ago

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The French government has arrested Telegram CEO Pavel Durov, while the Brazilian government is going ahead with a ban on the platform formerly known as Twitter.

Both platforms have been central to far-right organizing—for example, publicizing targets during the recent wave of fascist attacks in Britain.

Telegram claims to provide encryption, but unlike Tor and Signal, refuses to expose its model to public scrutiny, which suggests that someone—whether Vladimir Putin or someone else—has a backdoor.

The white supremacist billionaire Elon Musk bought Twitter in order to return Donald Trump and various neo-Nazis to the platform. While Musk pretends the conflict with the Brazilian judiciary is about "free speech," he enthusiastically complies with orders from far-right governments such as the government of India to suspend the accounts of grassroots organizers. He banned us at the explicit request of a well-known fascist as soon as he took control of Twitter. His priority is to promote fascism—not protect speech.

But letting state institutions clamp down on these platforms sets a bad precedent, which could endanger other means of encryption and communication in the future. If we let the state fight our battles for us, they will use the same approaches to repress us, too. It would be better to abandon, undermine, abolish, and replace Telegram and Twitter ourselves.

Until we build the capacity to accomplish such things, we will remain at the mercy of the state and all the billionaires it serves, not just specific far-right tech billionaires.

https://crimethinc.com/TwitterCanary

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derekhighwaytf · 1 year ago

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InstaCub

I loved the Cha Cha Room. It was as exclusive as it was expensive, but hey that’s the price you pay when you’re a social media sensation. Being Trey, the sexy instagram model wasn’t without its downsides, however. The worst thing was when guys who should’ve known that someone of my caliber wouldn’t be interested in them tried to hit on me. Sure, I fucked my fans regularly, but only the ones that shared my dedication to beauty. I couldn’t help that I was born gorgeous.

My entourage, an aesthetically curated group of other models (all only slightly less attractive than myself) walked into the Cha Cha Room, ready to be gawked at, each of us oozing beauty and charisma. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, their eyes filled with awe, desire, and, my favorite, envy.

But amongst that sea, there was one guy that forced me to do a double take. Doug, rounder and balder than anyone else, didn't fit the usual demographic that came to Cha Cha. It was a mystery how he must’ve slipped his way in when security wasn’t looking, because there was no chance they’d ever willingly allow someone who looked like that to enter such exclusive premises. And, to make matters worse, when he caught me staring at his odd appearance, he began to make his way toward me, a small, devious smile playing on his lips.

"Can I buy you a drink?," he asked. I raised an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk. Sure, he was far beneath my standards, but I loved teasing my inferiors, especially when it comes with a free drink. "Well, aren't you a sweetheart," I replied, trying to hide my disdain for his smelly, musky demeanor.

As we talked and I pretended to listen, he must’ve farted at least three times, but I wanted to be nice, so I held my breath and counted the seconds till I could rejoin my way cooler group of friends. However, when Doug began flirting, I couldn’t help it. A chuckle bubbled up from my chest and I shook my head, saying "Doug, was it? No amount of drinks in this club could make me think you're anything but fat, smelly, and bald."

“And what’s wrong with that?” he said earnestly. “This is a bar for fat, smelly, bald guys after all.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. Just as the words escaped my lips, I noticed something strange. As my eyes scanned the crowd, I realized that everyone, even my formerly flawless friends, looked just like Doug. They’d grown beards, their hair on their head was gone, and they all had guts the size of bowling balls. I felt a chill run down my spine as I started to walk away.

“I must be in the wrong place. I don’t belong here,” I said, just barely missing the door. But before I could free myself from this hellhole, Doug stopped me and said, “Yes you do. I think you fit in perfectly.”

Suddenly, my Gucci shirt felt tight around my midsection, and my once firm arms now felt doughy. As I turned to leave, a full-length mirror on the wall revealed a shocking transformation. I reached up and where once were lush and thick chestnut locks, was now greeted the cold, bare skin of a rapidly receding hairline, retreating with alarming speed, creating an expanding dome of skin I’d never seen before.

Clumps of my hair began to detach themselves from my scalp, falling gently to the club floor. Each strand felt like a piece of my identity, a piece of Trey, falling away to reveal the bald truth underneath. I watched in frozen terror, feeling each follicle detach until all that remained was nothing but a smooth, shiny surface. I was as bald as an egg.

And then I farted.

Pffffffft.

I was disgusted with myself for only a moment, until I started to let a hearty chuckle much deeper than my old voice.

I looked in the mirror again, my face so much more different than it was ten minutes ago—familiar, but not the one I had painstakingly maintained for the world to admire. Suddenly, the world seemed to shift as a flood of memories washed over me. I wasn't Trey, the Instagram sensation. I was Tom, a twenty-something, bald, overweight man who didn’t shower, farted every five minutes, and fucked anyone who’d have me. This was my bar and I was gonna make sure all my fellow cubs had a good time

As the rock music blared and the crowd at Tommy’s Den started to become increasingly alluring to me, I was suddenly hit with a wave of unfulfilled desire, a need for cock. So I pulled Doug aside to the bathroom and…well you can guess what happened next.

I was Tom now, and, honestly, my life was so much better…

Pffffffffft.

#bald #bald tf #male transformation #tf #gay tf #mental change #tf story #twink to bear #bear tf #bearification

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genoskissors · 3 months ago

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Analysis and Theories of Jataro Kemuri’s Mother

I break down sentences of the letter written by Jataro Kemuri’s Mother and interpret their meaning as well as attempting to understand her feelings. Just to clarify, I acknowledge she is an awful person. This is an attempt to understand her, not defend her.

And, to address the elephant in the room, the reason I am writing about a character no one cares about as opposed to my beautiful and wonderful beloved is because if I wrote about her, we’d be here all year.

Also: The note contains four paragraphs, but I have them broken up to make this easier to understand and comment on.

Title: “I Shouldn’t Have Had Him”

Little commentary here, but just note how she is saying “him”, meaning she is addressing herself or another, not Jataro directly.

“There's so much I can do if my son didn't exist. So much I could have done if I never had him.”

The clear things we can make out from this are that Jataro’s mother views him as the sole obstacle in her way. She doesn’t say she wants to kill him, but rather, she wished he never existed at all. Keep this in mind for later. It’s less clear what the circumstances are behind his birth.

While you can interpret this as Jataro being a mistake, it is also possible she wanted Jataro, only for events to lead her to regretting him. Personally, I’m inclined to believe the latter. When she says she “shouldn’t have had him”, she’s specifically referring to giving birth to him, not conceiving him. She doesn’t say she shouldn’t have had sex or shouldn’t have gotten married, she says had him. It implies that Jataro was conceived on purpose, only for his mother to realize it was a mistake afterward. She also named him Jataro, meaning “snake son”. We don’t know if this is a name she liked or if she named him this out of hatred.

There’s no mention of Jataro’s father from either him or his mother, so it’s safe to assume he’s completely out of the picture or not present enough. It’s possible she was formerly in a better situation and something happened. She says something that can be used as a clue, but that’s not until the next lines.

Another thing, she doesn’t just blame Jataro for existing, she blames herself for allowing him to exist. She could have said “So much I could have done if he didn’t exist”, “So much I could have done if he wasn’t here”, “So much I could have done if he died”, but she inserts herself into the blame here. Jataro’s mother says if “I never had him”, meaning she accepts responsibility for being the one to ruin her own life.

“I could have obtained qualifications and licenses, taken lessons, worked more.”

Now here’s that clue I was talking about. Of course, anyone can take lessons, but the combination of these things sounds, to me, like she was fairly young when she had Jataro. These all sound like her youth, which includes twenties, was cut short. She still had time to be something bigger. Jataro’s mothers starts this off saying there much she “can” do, but follows that up with saying there are somethings that are now in the past that she “could have” done. I’ll stop with my theories for now.

It is also known that his mother is likely a workaholic. On top of this sentence, Kotoko refers to Jataro as a “latchkey kid”, which is a child who returns home from school to an empty home because their parent(s) are working.

“Instead, my entire life is just a platform for my son's life.”

Jataro’s mother says that she now has no life separate from her son. There is no time for herself. This further implies that she is now a single parent. She previously stated she wanted to work more, but it was for her own goals. She wanted to work and have her own achievements, but now she feels her purpose has been reduced to merely providing for someone else. She can’t go back and get an education because now she is too busy providing for Jataro. Why can’t she get an education after he’s out of the house? Because at that point she feels like her life is done. She now exists only to care for Jataro, which is why she cannot imagine a future in becoming something greater.

“I think about it every night before I go to sleep. If I woke up in the morning and my son was dead, how splendid would that be?”

Here’s where it’s clearly starting to get to her. She thinks about it every night. She desperately wants to wake up and see that she is free again. If Jataro dies, she now has one less person to keep alive and gets back her personal life.

She also sees his death as nothing but good news. But, like I mentioned earlier, she hasn’t expressed any desire to kill him. She just wished something else would come in and fix her life for her.

“But every time I wake up and see him, I sigh. Why are you still alive? Why do you have a normal life?”

Now, this isn’t really important to her character, but the way Jataro’s mother phrases this could mean that Jataro gets up earlier than she does. She says “see him” but if he was dead he’d still be visible. She could mean it as “seeing living”, she doesn’t wake up and go to his room, she wakes up and sees him at some point.

She asks herself a question that is obviously towards Jataro, but she’s not asking him this. Jataro says his mom hates him, but only says what she told him, never what she asked him.

“Why do you have a normal life?” Holds two statements in one. First, she��s showing jealously. She’s asking how come he has a normal life, but I don’t? Why is he living as if he isn’t ruining her life. Second, she thinks his life is normal. Rather than acknowledging his toxic environment and his mask, I think she says normal as in happy. She knows she mistreats him, but wonders why he still wakes up and lives another day, because to her, it’s exhausting.

“I yearn for the day he stops being healthy and stops growing and just disappears. That's all I want. Why can't you just do something that simple for me?”

Another example of Jataro’s mother wanting him gone but not saying she’s going to harm him. The term yearn also cranks up the desperation tenfold. She then acts like his death or disappearance wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Personally, I think it’s apparent she still has a sense of responsibility towards her son. While being outright abusive, she still never attempts to physically hurt him. She is the provider of his food, but doesn’t attempt to stop him from being healthy. She just waits for it to happen someday.

It could be feelings of weakness. She feels like it’s her sole purpose to provide for him, so the idea of killing him never even crosses her mind.

“I want him to die so badly it makes me cry. And the fact that he has such a worthless face just makes me even more sad.”

At this point, she’s overworked and tired. She’s become depressed from how badly she craves a new life.

Notably, she still doesn’t mention his father. Her hate for his face comes purely out of hate for him and it’s because he looks happy. When she tells him that he’s ugly and all these terrible things, it’s because she can’t handle the idea that he could have any success in life. The idea that he could have a good life after being what ruined hers.

Another thing not commonly known is that Jataro actually made his mask himself, but his mother is the one forcing him to wear it. It’s a bit unclear how this happened but my ideas are that she forced him to make something covering his face. Jataro is genuinely convinced there’s something wrong with his face and asks why she would make him wear the mask. The only way I can think is that he made it at her request and wore it.

“It makes me think I'm the one who's wrong. I shouldn't have had you.”

When his mother looks at Jataro’s face, she shows empathy for a second. She looks at his innocent face and thinks that she’s the bad guy for hurting him. However, she quickly ignores that thought. Again, she says I shouldn’t have had you. Despite addressing him previously, this “you” feels more direct. She isn’t asking rhetorical questions, she’s asking outright. Now, it still might be a secret from Jataro, but it’s clear she had a piece of her that wanted him to see this.

She closes this off with calming down from talking about him dying and reverting to simply seeing him as a mistake she made. She shouldn’t have given birth to him.

Conclusion (with Theory)

I think Jataro’s mother is someone who had a relationship and got pregnant when she was fairly young. Eventually, the father became absent and Jataro’s mother realized the life she had ahead of her if she didn’t have a child. She started to crave this dream and it led to her resenting her son, but also herself.

Thanks for reading all this. Sorry if it makes no sense, I’ve never been too good at writing.

#danganronpa #jataro kemuri #danganronpa ultra despair girls #ultra despair girls #i wrote this at 3am #literally

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