#long post so obviously under a read more

[girlvinland]

I guess I can talk about the good stuff now, I feel like I’ve processed it a little bit lol.

If you’ve ever been a certain level of close to me, you would know that my biggest regret in life was not actually finishing my geology degree. Did it for three years and had to leave school because of an eating disorder. Stayed in the city where I was getting treatment and finished school at a college without a geology program. After that I went onto library school because at the time it just felt too hard for me to think about going back for some reason. Despite that, every job I’ve had for the past fifteen years apart from one has been geology-adjacent or in some way related to some form of earth science, including now. Idk it’s just a form of addiction for me lol. I know here I talk about fandom shit and my OCs all the time bc fun hobbies, but irl it’s a little different (as I’m sure it is for a lot of people).

My current job is kind of research-focused, and it started putting me back in the brain space of considering trying again, so I found a program that does an accelerated B.S./M.S. in geology (I have so much work and school background that it’s what made the most sense to me logistically). Applied and got in and start later this year. Excited is a word I would use. Encouraged? Hopeful? Bittersweet? Idk. I’m doing something I prevented myself from doing for a very large chunk of my life, so it feels like the next step towards reaching a goal I’ve had since I was a little five-year-old when my family began to really stoke the flames of everything by going fossil hunting and to national parks and natural history museums. If my parents did one thing right, it was helping those interests flourish and giving me room to explore them.

Speaking of my parents, I watched both of them get their Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in their 30s and 40s, so it honestly gave me a bit of an extra push to even apply for the program. I thought my mom might find it silly that I wanted to go back to school, but she just went on and on about how “just do it bc this is all you’ve talked about your entire life and I fully support you”. She and I have had a rocky relationship overall, so hearing that…idk it’s not that I needed her approval or validation, but I think it helped to hear words like that coming from her.

Anyway! As far as what I’m going to do with it, I don’t know just yet! My original education was heavily focused on (invertebrate) paleontology, but tbh, even though I still love paleo, I’m kind of wanting to move towards something that could help improve human life quality/infrastructure and that sort of thing. I’m probably going to be aiming towards geothermal energy or hydrogeology bc those are the other things that I find really interesting within the field, and I know the program has a track for hydro and that there is a professor who takes on grad students for geothermal, so it’s just something to think on for now and make a decision on once I have more classes.

I am. Very happy. I never saw myself getting to this point again and thought it would just be a dream and a lifelong regret, and I genuinely could not have even gotten courage or mental energy to apply had it not been for all of the changes that have happened in the past year. I’m at a point where things are much more stable and I am really ready for it, so I guess I will just continue moving forward. No time like the present to do anything you want!

[coralloid]

Some parallels I've noticed between Paris, Texas (1984) and Disco Elysium (2019)

[sayakxmi]

Saiouma Puella Magi AU, but Kokichi takes Madoka's role and Shuichi takes Homura's.

For one, Kokichi's too naturally distrustful to just hear "I can grant you any wish :)" and not think ok where's the hook. So he just does what no one ever has & essentially interrogates Kyubey, so he knows it all even before he gets to make a contract. So, some of his classmstes are MGs & he won't become one himself BUT he still ends up tagging along to just protect them in his Kokichi ways. (Though I'm entertaining Kokichi lying about being a magical girl, because, well, it's Kokichi).

(I also got a small idea of Gonta being a magical girls and Kokichi originally tagging along him into labyrinths, Gonta also makes him a magic gun from the toy one he had, and at some point witches out & Kokichi manages to kill him with that gun. So he always has that spare Grief Seed on himself, bc it's still his best friend & he can't handle the idea of just giving it away or using it himself (he does anyway in the end).)

Shuichi prolly ends up being a new kid & it isn't like MadoHomu, the ppl who reach him first are Kaede & Kaito, classic. Kokichi's there, too, but he's his usual sus self. He's actually discouraging ppl from making a contract when they find out magic and miracles are real, which absolutely includes Shuichi. He's very vocal abt it, but he won't explain stutf, bc 1) he's a liar, so who'd believe him? and 2) he doesn't want them to witch out upon finding out the truth or, idk, murder everybody Mami-style.

Anyway, fast forward, bad things happen bingo & by the end of the run most charas are dead, there's Walpurgis nachting, and he makes his wish to bring back the ppl who died notably not as magical girls. Contract signed, he fights & fails, rip. I also thought it was similar to how he thought he could end the killing game by himself - he though he could finish Walpurgisnacht by himself, too. And he failed in both times. Whatevs.

Shuichi doesn't actually make his time travel wish for Ouma specifically, he wants to save all his friends. Timelines are messy esp at first bc he either tells then or it backfires or just makes himself look very sus bc he's trying not to tell them. He also realizes why Kokichi hadn't told anybody aby witches at some point, bc, yeah, it messes them a lot, assuming they believe it.

Still, Kokichi ends up one of the few people who are nearly always giving him a chance, not necessarily out of belief, but out of pragmatism - bro can stop time & knows the truth, that's just too useful. So they often work together & Shuichi grows closer to him but still we ain't there yet. But the thing is, Shuichi's time travel still makes Kokichi more & more powerful with each timeline, bc Shuichi usually goes back after Kokichi dies, so the universe figured out this guy's life's important. Anyway, another notable thing is the iconic Homura kills Madoka scene, but it's Saiouma with guest stars of Kaito & Maki. It's Walpy, it's not defeated yet, but the training trio are spent & just kinda accept their fate of turning into witches together. And then, boom, Kokichi appears & steals their Soul Gems for a sec & he's like did u know you can cleanse your Soul Gem with a darkened one? But it's a lie & he quickly tells them so, he just had a spare Grief Seed after cleansing his Soul Gem & he needs them to do some stuff. Shuichi can travel back in time & fix things, and Maki & Kaito are needed to fight Walpy here. He actually questions what happens to the timelines Shuichi leaves behin, and ofc he doesn't know. There's a chance they remain, so Kokichi needs Maki & Kaito to fight Walpy here.

Kaimaki leave, and Shuichi finally looks at Kokichi & realizes sth is Wrong. Kokichi struggles to hide how he's trembling & grimacing, and it's Kokichi, so obviously it must be extremely bad. Shuichi dreadfully realizes something worse, and he weakly asks Kokichi why aren't his wounds healing. And Kokichi just falls, laughing weakly, and Shuichi catches him & searches for his Soul Gem and, God, he knew it. It's nearly completely black. Kokichi laughs & admits he lied abt having two Grief Seeds, he only had one he never wanted to use. But they'll have the second one soon, so no need to worry. He asks Shuichi to maybe destroy his witch form as it's hatching, so he'll have the Grief Seed without any fighting… and he admits that he hates fighting, he hates this magical world and all its violence. He says that Kaito was right in calling him a coward, even here he just can't handle the idea of fighting any longer, he's so sorry. And Shuichi tells him he ISN'T a coward. He was scared, but he always followed everybody, trying to help, and when push came to shove he would always make a contract for the benefit of others rather than himself. He's a lot of things, but a coward isn't one. Kokichi actually tears up hearing that, and Shuichi promises he won't let him fight ever again, and especially he won't let him turn into a witch and hurt anybody, because he knows it's the last thing he's ever wanted. Even now he only accepts turning into a witch to help them fight to keep others safe. So Shuichi won't let him. Kokichi probably apologizes and thanks him and then he dies.

Keeping Kokichi from fighting starts off as a side quest that gains importance with time, bc it's something Shuichi won't compromise on (ah, trauma), which leads him to occassionally neglect others a bit, which makes them more likely to get hurt & ironically Kokichi more likely to make a contract, especially since he gets more powerful & Kyubey is more interested in him with each timeline. And that also makes him witch out super quick. Shuichi's paying more attention to him & over time grows resentful of others for how they're treating him. To Shuichi it's no question that Kokichi cares & is just doing his best to help, but nobody realizes that.

But the biggest obstacle in keeping Kokichi from fighting is actually Kokichi himself, bc he's too smart and nosy, lmao. Even if he knows nothing, he will find out quickly. Doesn't help that Kyubey wants him to make a contract.

Also, obviously Kaito is Sayaka-coded and Maki could be Kyouko-coded, so that's a thing, BUT it's usually Maki that witches out. Kaito is usually pretty close, but Kokichi intervenes & he survives, but Maki later cracks on her own (and since in the new timeline Kokichi isn't there, Kaito's the one to die, so he's still the secretary). So it's Kaito who gets the dramatic sacrifice. I imagine he genuinely hoped you could bring somebody back if you tried Very Hard & Kokichi called him a moron bc obviously it's not possible. If it was there'd be far less witches that there are. But it's Kaito, he doesn't listen to reason. So, Kokichi follows him to the labyrinth. At first Kaito's mad cuz what if Kokichi being there ruins the plan? Maki hates his guts! But eventually he gets hit pretty hard, and Kokichi is near immediately by his side, trying to help him get up, which kinda makes Kaito short circuit a little bc wait Kokichi's trying to help? But witch!Maki attacks them & Kokichi pushes Kaito away & gets caught himself (and choked until unconsciousness, naturally). Anyway, Kaito gets him away, Shuichi catches Kokichi & Kaito makes up his mind about going down with Maki & asks Shuichi to tell Kokichi that he's sorry. He doesn't get him, but he got hurt trying to protect him, so he'll believe in that if nothing else. F.

As for The WishTM, in the last timeline Shuichi lashes out at Kokichi for his willingness to just become part of the system. In no timeline has his wish actually helped, it did NOTHINHG, which OUCH but it also makes Kokichi think out of the box more & he becomes the Law of Cycles. And Shuichi realizes what is happening & freaks out bc Kokichi's doing it bc of what he told him & like Homura they end up having a momentTM in space & Shuichi remembers. He feels a lot of guilt even tho he also questions whether anything was real, but if it was, he pushed somebody he far too realized he loved into erasing himself from existence.

[britneyshakespeare]

i have been working with kids for four years and i had to write my first ever note just now about a seventh grade boy being inappropriate towards me. i don't know what the hell this could possibly lead to or what. he was trying to feel my legs repeatedly to the point where i had to stop sitting next to him (and i was subbing for his one-to-one para!!!). he's got high support needs. in that kind of job, you're supposed to sit next to them all day and look over their work.

the teacher whose classroom this was happening in could also tell something was wrong. the whole class was acting kinda crazy because it was the day before school vacation week and there was another class coming in to share projects. so like, he was swamped with keeping order already. but we were sitting two feet away from his podium at the front of the room. the kid was giving him and me a hard time when he wouldn't take out his chromebook as he was instructed. and then when he did take out his chromebook, he immediately, for some reason, places it on my lap. he had been ogling my legs the whole time. he puts his computer ON MY LAP. and i'm just like, stunned, because what the hell? can you not keep it on your own lap, for some reason? i don't even know what to say, i just hold it a little above my lap while i'm thinking why on earth would this be happening? he would NOT do this to his regular para if she were here, would he? this can't be normal.

and the teacher sees this and within a minute places a stool in front of the kid for him to put his laptop on. and i'm like. oh ok. yeah. he notices exactly what's happening and that that's not appropriate. and then when the other class comes in to share projects he tells me "miss b——, you don't actually have to sit next to c—— this whole period if you don't want to." and he grabs me a chair for me to go sit with the other paras in the back opposite corner of the room. like he KNEW. and thank you mr. d—— for recognizing that because i was just kind of shocked and didn't know if i was overreacting in my head to all of this.

when there's a point in the class where the kids are discussing stuff, i privately mention what's happened to the para who's sitting closest to me. and she says that the thing about him calling me pretty is something he's been known to do, but the fact that he kept trying to touch my legs is new behavior. and that's a completely different class of behavior. i was telling him NO, don't do that, and he kept doing it. and the fact that he was calling me pretty repeatedly, even when i was giving him instructions that he wasn't taking. and this is the second to last class before the end of the day, so she says she'll take a walk with him before learning center and talk to him about it, and i'm grateful for that. she does. the kid apologizes to me as soon as i come into learning center. but like. WHAT the hell.

i'm STILL like what the hell. this is unfathomable to me. the other adults who i told about this or who witnessed it were supportive of me. but. what to do??? i wrote a long note to his regular para about this, because i knew she was going to hear about it at least from the first para i told. the second para i told about it after school had a kind of... i'm not gonna say enabling reaction, but i suppose since it had already been "taken care of" (or at least, he had been spoken to and apologized) she didn't really have much to add in the way of discipline. i told her what happened after school and she was just like... a little bit, laughing? like oh, yup, that dog. she at the very least confirmed he KNEW what he was doing, that that was not an accident. she said to me "i had a feeling he was going to develop a crush on you" (me and these other paras were together for most of the beginning of the day too). but it's like. it's not about that.

i have worked with children for FOUR years. children have had crushes on me before; i'm quite unfazed by it. boys from the ages of 5-to-15 have told me i'm so pretty before and asked me to marry them. i've never had them feeling up my legs before. i've never had them making me physically uncomfortable. it's NOT about this seventh grader having a crush on the pretty substitute. he is NOT unusual for that, at all. but i've never had a boy of any age or education level repeatedly touching my knees and thighs. THAT is problem behavior!!!

because what if i wasn't assertive enough with him to tell him to stop? what if i was a girl his age? worse, what if i was an adult who encouraged this behavior? i don't come to the middle school to be a seductress. i had no intention in putting on a pair of tights and a skirt this morning of being viewed as an attractive object, especially not by a pubescent boy. what if i did though? what if his interpretation of me wasn't so incorrect and offensive? what if i let him keep touching me inappropriately and saying flirtatious things to me? me, an adult in my mid-twenties, towards a middle school boy?

in no world would that be ok. if i had been feeling up and overly-complimenting a CHILD at my place of work, holy shit would there be reports about me. so a child acting that way could never be ok either. if it'd be firable for me to be reciprocating that action, then that action should not be happening to me. ever. and that child should never repeat that action again to any other adult again.

like i am simply not there to be treated as an attractive young woman. i put on a skirt that shows too much knee and get paired with a boy, though, and that's apparently just a natural consequence. hooo-ly shit. like i don't know what to do. first of all, the more time passes since this has happened, the more i am just unable to stop thinking about it. i wasn't "hurt" or too emotional in the moment but i'm just still processing it and it gets worse. i'm just more and more disgusted.

i don't know what i expect to come out of this, or the email i sent to his regular para. like, am i gonna have to attend a fucking meeting? what is the precedent that this sets for him? WHY do i feel BAD for him about this? well, because he's a child, of course. a child who has done wrong he may not be able to understand. but he knows WHAT he did. he just doesn't know WHY it was wrong.

and i couldn't even say something to him that was like, "well, how would you like it if i was touching you like this?" because young boys do not understand how inappropriate it'd be. i'm sure this kid thought he was gonna get away with what he was doing at the very least. but probably not unlikely he (being a child with no concept of how wrong it'd be) thought he could get some sort of "positive" attention for treating me like this. either way he was simply doing what he wanted to do, with no perspective of how it would make me feel or that it could be classified as harassment. teenage boys think it'd be awesome if the older attractive woman would reciprocate their affections. they're wrong. i, as the older attractive woman of his affection, cannot be the one to convince him of that, though.

i don't know. i don't know. like it's just so not ok. but if i didn't tell another adult about this, he would've gotten away with it. he would probably do it again. and him being in trouble for it is not the same as him understanding that it was wrong. unless someone has a REAL talk with him about inappropriate attention and consent, it's not unlikely that he'll just repeat the behavior in a setting where he thinks he won't be caught or told on. THAT'S the problem. me, i could just never have to be this boy's para again. in my email, i didn't say that i would never be ok working with or around him ever again. he already knows i didn't like it and i'm not afraid to tell on him; as far as that lesson applies to me, individually, i think he's become too ashamed to repeat that.

i don't know. i don't know. i very much expressed that i, i guess, "forgave" him in the email that i wrote. i clarified that i was writing it for the sake of having it on the record. i think that could potentially be very important for the purposes of preventing further similar or escalating behavior from him in the future. i don't want him to be in trouble. i don't think i will be blamed for this, especially not with how promptly i acted, although i don't know to what extent this will be framed as me thinking i'm a "victim." i'm not... i don't feel victimized. i feel disgusted. i feel afraid for the sake of what could happen to or with him in the future, if he thinks behavior like his towards me today is ok.

i feel like if i end up having to further respond to this, this will be made about me. in a way it kind of was. is? in the moment it was happening, it was certainly about me. because i was the one this boy was giving all this unwanted attention to. but to make the consequences of this about me and to involve me any further, i also don't want. because i said what i said already, i don't care if a student has a crush on me. this isn't about me being the pretty substitute. i'm the pretty substitute all the time, to tons of people. that's not really something i've been concerned about up until now.

but do i have to reexplain my personal embarrassment? that i was wearing a skirt? that he was ogling my legs? really? what more do i have to gain from sharing that, other than having the adults at my place of work confirm or deny me in their heads as the pretty substitute? i don't know. perhaps that's REALLY overthinking it. but i don't want to be the substitute that caused a problem for this special ed kid. i don't wanna be the reason that he can't be around me anymore, the person people think of when they're monitoring how he's acting around girls and young women. i DON'T want to be the one people think of when they think of his past misbehavior. i'm NOT here for that.

that's just fucking humiliating. and in this being a thing that could follow him, i have to be ogled and touched over and over again in people's minds for this to be taken seriously. but for this to be swept under the rug would be even worse, no? i don't know. i hate this. the principal is a nice guy; i wouldn't be surprised if he and/or people from the special ed department reached out to me sympathetically about this. but i don't wanna be reached out to. i don't wanna have ppl i work with tell me "sorry that kid was just so attracted to you he couldn't help himself" like come on. if the kid himself doesn't change then i don't really care to remember this incident. and no one reaching out to me and saying they've talked to this kid will actually prove to me he understands. this is the kind of inappropriate behavior it takes years for people to understand why it was wrong, especially a child who has no idea. i mean come on.

[medicinemane]

You know, capitalism is another one of those words that sadly is like problematic in that it's functionally useless because people just toss it out and then everyone gets so hung up debating the meaning of the word capitalism that the whole point is lost

That's why I don't ever really use it. It doesn't really matter if it's capitalism or if it's cronyism or... whatever, I think it's bad when companies make record profits while prices go up up up

I think there's probably an issue and it probably needs to be solved (and I'm afraid you can't convince me less regulation is a magic bullet)

I like currency and exchanging currency because it seems like a good way of moving goods and labor around, but I also strongly support welfare and think that any group of more than 50 people is probably starting to get corrupt

Don't trust the government, but sure as hell don't trust corps...

I don't know, my original point is that sadly capitalism gets tossed around too much to mean anything anymore... but I just see too many argumentative people online so I'm tossing out my stances to avoid getting side tracked debating what I mean

What I really really mean is just fucking say what you're saying and don't bother saying capitalism cause you'll just make people argue and miss your point

[cocklessboy]

The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.

I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.

And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!

We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.

There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.

Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.

Except...

I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.

I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.

The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.

Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".

There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.

And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.

His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.

I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.

That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.

I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.

Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.

Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.

If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.

It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.

I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.

[silkentine]

Wha--?! Silk finally finished her fem Zoro design after (checks notes) literally 6 months since she made the canvas in procreate?

I'll break down design thoughts and share some fun bonus pics under the cut:

I LOVE long hair on Zoro, I think that was the first change I wanted to implement. Zoro in canon actually has a really interesting relationship with gender dynamics which (if for some reason you're reading this and you haven't watched One Piece) can seem out of left field for the "dumb brute" character. His rivalry with and reverence for Kuina suggests he doesn't adhere to the idea that women are weaker than men. Later on, however, during his confrontation with Monet and Tashigi during Punk Hazard, his hesitation to slash her down reveals that he's subconsciously over-protective of women because he thinks they're inherently weaker. I actually don't have any problem with this character trait, I think it makes him feel more real as a person and he obviously gets shit-talked enough about it in the story itself. But how did I want to reflect these beliefs if Zoro had been born a woman? Easy: internalized misogyny and applying value to herself via her appearance.

My version of Zoro grew up wanting to fight with swords but her only chance of entering the dojo was to work under the proprietress, Lady Shimotsuki to maintain the property, cook meals for the male students, and eventually be a good wife to the current heir, Kuina. She learns that, to get what she wants, she must be the ideal woman, even if she stays up all night training swordsmanship with Kuina when she isn't supposed to. He treats her love for swordplay seriously and treats her like an equal, which sparks a bond between them and eventually leads to Zoro's goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman after his sudden, accidental death.

After years of intense training (now that Lady Shimotsuki admits that she'll need a new heir and Zoro is the closest thing she has) Zoro's finally old enough to leave and begin her journey. She starts letting go of the idea that she has to look pulled together to be taken seriously because she can just kill anyone who looks down on her. Her clothing falls into disrepair, she wears outfits that help her move in combat, and she starts tossing her hair up into messy, knotted buns under her bandana. Even so, she keeps her hair long like rolling hills of grass. (At least during pre-timeskip. She lops off her hair to prove to Mihawk that she's serious about being trained.)

I've put her in a thin sweater that she stitches (poorly) back together after her first interaction with Mihawk. (I kept one sleeve because I was inspired by the santoryuu Nami that Oda drew that one time.) I also wanted to girl-ify the ubiquitous haramaki so I picked leg warmers for her because I think they're sufficiently "dated" enough to be kinda analogous with his old man belly warmer. I also love gyaru fashion, sue me.

Here is a screenshot of her as a blonde:

And here is a sketch of her post-timeskip where she's fully embraced her butch nature:

Hubba hubba, am I right?

Check out my tag "girl piece original design" to see more of my genderbending art! Next post, I'll put all my East Blue Crew designs together! I can't believe it's taken this long but I AM SO HAPPPPPYYYYY

[redflagshipwriter]

The Proposal

This mini fic was inspired by the anon prompt to @faeriekit linked here and all the development that Faeriekit did for the idea. This fic is perilously regional. I half expect angry yelling from other areas of the Midwest.

Original post

Word count: 2718

Masterpost of my Archive Down Fics is here.

Jason came to with cream cheese stuck under his fingernails and in the creases of his fingers. He looked around the room wildly, trying to understand the situation he was in. The kitchen smelled fucking weird. He sniffed the air. Meat? Like, ham and also vinegar?

He washed his hands really well, grimacing at the greasy texture. Then he reconstructed what must have happened by the debris. This was not his first post-blackout rodeo, but usually he was reconstructing a literal crime scene.

There was an empty pickle jar on the countertop. There were packets of deli meat in the trash.

There was some kind of abomination on his nicest plate, which was obviously made of cream cheese wrapped around pickles, blanketed by the meat, and sliced thin like sushi rolls. It was lovingly protected by a perfect sheet of cling wrap.

“The fuck?” Jason said, a little scared and pissed off.

He paced the kitchen for a while and then went to pace on the balcony, because he needed a smoke to process this culinary abomination but something in his gut wailed at the tragedy of ruining it with cigarette smoke. Which was absurd, partly because the plate was in the refrigerator. He sensed in his bones that it needed to cool until the cream cheese was as hard as it would get, so that he could safely transport it. Transport it fucking where? Was this an assassination attempt against Batman? That sappy motherfucker was probably the only man in the world who would choke that down to make Jason happy.

He had a long drag on his cigarette and tried to ignore the way his fingers shook.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing his free hand shut and opening it. Maybe stimming would prompt his brain to go brr and explain this. “Did I have a stroke? Maybe I was possessed?”

It was hard to tell. He ground out his cigarette and tossed the butt in the tray before venturing back inside. He was calm. He was more centered. He flicked on the kitchen fan to clear out the pickle stink and then he went and put on his coat and grabbed the plate.

Why was he doing that?

The compulsion led him three blocks before he realized where he was going.

Not far away from the safehouse he was in, some college freshman had wasted the Joker when the clown tried to drag him into a van. He had called the police, crying the whole time in shock about being a murderer.

Jason had not been on the scene. He had only heard through comms. He had been out of town when the Joker got out. He had been rushing back on his bike, heart pounding and sick with nerves at the thought of his family out there without him.

And then the fucker had failed to secure the first victim for whatever sick play he’d had in mind, and the poor out of town kid who had apparently never heard of the Joker was breathing a sigh of relief that ‘oh, this wasn’t like, a birthday clown? Whew, that’s alright then,’ previous guilt over ending a life all gone.

Jason liked that. It was hugely undignified that the Joker had been got by someone who didn’t even know who he was. If he’d known, it would have killed his ego. As it was, Jason had laughed himself nearly sick before barricading himself inside to read the file Timmers put together on Danny Fenton.

Well. If his gut said that he should deliver this horrific dish to Fenton as thanks for the murder, well…

Jason grimaced. He just wouldn’t be seen doing it. If Fenton thought it was an assassination attempt and called the cops, Jason would never fess up.

He broke into Fenton’s apartment, very glad that the guy was in class at the moment. He mourned the loss of his plate but honestly, this was the least destructive black out he’d had, so it was whatever. He put the pickle rolls in the fridge, looked around, and then left. He was done. He’d thanked Fenton, or whatever (maybe he’d attacked him, honestly, Jason didn’t know how he would react to finding that trash in his fridge.)

It could end now.

The next morning, Jason scrubbed away a yawn and realized that he had just scraped a mess of chopped snickers bars into a bowl that already had clouds of something white and -

He took out a piece and bit into it to confirm that it was perfectly cubed green apple.

“I am possessed,” Jason said in horror, looking around the counter to see what the Pit Madness had cooked up this time. Why did the fucking Lazarus Pit know these recipes?

The white shit was a mix of cool whip and vanilla pudding, apparently. There was an untouched bottle of caramel sauce waiting innocently.

“...Does that go in?” Jason wondered, vaguely horrified.

Well, maybe an evil witch was doing this to him. Bottoms up. He poured caramel in until it felt right, guided by what had to be someone else’s goddamn ancestors, and then mixed it all up with a spoon.

This looked a lot better than the last thing. Jason scraped it into a bowl and then stole a spoonful of it to try.

“Holy shit. It’s like eating a caramel apple,” he said, muffled around the food. He swallowed and genuinely considered taking more.

Nope! His gut said nope. This was another offering for–

“Hold up, offering?” Jason put it in the fridge, clingwrap on top, and let his mind be blown. He put his face in his hands and just reeled. He was making offerings for this motherfucker now. He opened his phone, intending to search the things he’d been blackout making and froze.

His lock screen was Danny Fenton’s police intake photo, looking pretty relaxed after he'd been told the booking was a formality.

“I don’t remember doing that!” Jason frantically changed it back to his old lock screen, a grimy alleyway with a hilariously shaped filth puddle and one of his favorite rats.

He snuck this dessert thing into Fenton’s fridge, collected his clean plate with some relief, and left. He didn't know if Fenton had eaten that shit or if he'd thrown it away, but at least he'd washed the plate.

“That was the last time,” Jason told himself, pacing around his room. He wasn’t– that was two days in a row now that he had a normal day, went out on patrol, went to bed, and woke up in his kitchen. It wasn’t going to happen again.

He chainsmoked all day to such a degree that Stephanie Brown saw him, whined “Dude,” in disbelief, and jumped off a building while holding her nose to get away from him. It was a fair reaction. He had a shower before patrol so that no one could make a connection between Jason, stinkiest man in Gotham today, and the Red Hood, a guy who owned a shower.

Patrol went fine. He caught himself veering past Fenton’s shitty apartment building twice but no one was nearby enough to call him out for it.

He went to bed and got a jumpscare because at some point of his most recent fugue state he'd gone out and bought a bunch of wedding magazines and made them into a nest. He made a roar of frustration and pushed them off the bed with only a twinge of interest in what that swan centerpiece was made of.

Jason went the fuck to sleep, determined to walk this off.

He woke up the next morning in his kitchen. “Cream cheese, again,” Jason complained. He gave the bowl he was mixing a furious stir and then shoved it in the fridge.

Cream cheese, chopped meat, and chopped green onion. He searched the internet to identify the fucker. This was a cheeseball.

…He frowned, thinking of the fugly mess in the bowl.

It was the larval form of a cheeseball, he amended.

Why did he know this shitty recipe.

Stomach tight with dread, he looked up the other things. Day one was a pickle roll. Day two was snickers salad.

These were all real Midwestern potluck dishes. He hadn't made them up. Why did the pit know these recipes?

The Snickers salad offended him as a concept and he bitterly regretted finding it delicious.

“Salad,” Jason repeated in aggrieved disbelief. It was good but it was no goddamn salad. “I could just make him a real salad. Will this end if I bring Fenton good food?”

It wasn't the worst idea. He put a pin in it.

Grimly, as if he was going off to war, Jason researched how to shape the ball. If he was doing this, which apparently he was for no goddamn reason, he was going to do it to perfection. When he was done he wrapped it up tight, got an assortment of crackers, and left it at Danny Fenton’s apartment with a sort of tired resignation that this might as well be happening.

This time was different. This time, Fenton was home.

Jason barely avoided being seen by rushing out the window over the sink and hiding from the immediate line of sight. He was, however, close enough to hear–

“Holy shit, is that a cheeseball? Who loves me?” and then some truly ghastly, wet crunching as Fenton tore through the crackers and cheeseball like a wild beast. It felt like being in a horror film. Jason very badly wanted to leave. Jason very badly wanted to crawl back inside and present himself for a scrap of Fenton’s approval.

What the fuck? What the fuck!

He fled. And this time, he decided to take action. He was going get out of this sick mind trap and-

“Nothing wrong with you, it's not a curse,” Zatanna said, bored about it. “Whatever is going on is safe, sane, consensual, and none of my business.” She portalled away before Jason could argue that it did not feel sane. He was having an entirely new category of mental breakdown and when one of the Bats found out about it, he was going to be a case study.

Fine. He gritted his jaw. New plan. Maybe he could beat the curse by showing it up.

He called out of crime for the day and ignored the confused commentary in the background of his phone call– can he do that? Of course he can, he’s the friggin’ boss– and spent it furiously researching. He needed a crowning achievement. He needed to find out what was sacred in this culinary tradition, master it, and then tell the compulsion to suck on bricks.

Casserole. The answer was a casserole.

Jason scrolled through dozens of recipes, scowling fiercely. That was no good. That offended his senses. He just knew that would be bland. He-

“Do I want to make that?” Jason asked aloud, puzzled by his fixation on the old-fashioned goulash casserole recipe. Worcestershire sauce– he didn’t have that in this safe house for sure. Beef, pasta, tomatoes… yeah, okay. This was the one. For no fucking reason at all, this was the one.

He went out shopping like he usually went on life-or-death missions, full of grim purpose.

He got back and assembled his ingredients. It was not exactly a challenge to follow the recipe. Jason turned off the stove top and froze in place. “I don’t have an ancestral pan,” he said, horrified. Holy fuck. How could he dare to give it in a regular baking pan- he had to get one. Where the fuck does one acquire an ancestral casserole pan on short notice?

Panicked, he called the Manor, hands shaking as he packed the whole thing up and stuffed it in the fridge to keep it food safe until he could bake it.

Bruce answered, sounding a little choked up. “Hello, Jason, so glad-”

He hung up. He texted Tim. “I need you to steal something for me from the Manor.”

“You’re allowed in, you gigantic freak,” Tim wrote back.

Jason did some meditative breathing and resorted to outright pleading immediately. “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want. I just need an ancestral casserole pan.”

“I am NOT stealing from Alfred’s kitchen,” Tim wrote back. Which was fair. “Drake ancestral pan alright?”

Jason thought about it. It was still a family pan, sorta. By the transitive property, and that was a perfectly good property. He sent back a thumbs up, his GPS pin, and the word “Hurry.”

A while later, Tim dropped off a glass dish, loudly said “I don’t wanna know,” and slammed Jason’s door shut.

Fine. He was already moving his stuff from the now-cold frying pan into the casserole dish. It went into the oven from there. Jason spent the bake time trying to think of new coping mechanisms, because apparently smoking wasn’t up to this level of mental fuckery.

He waited out the bake time. He let it cool enough to be safe to travel with but hot enough to deliver warm. Jason grappled to Danny Fenton's apartment for the fourth time in four days, let himself in, and nearly jumped out of his boots when he realized that Fenton was in the kitchen watching him.

“Hey,” Fenton said. He was sitting on his counter in his pajamas, eating ice cream out of the bucket with a spoon. He was certifiable. Jason wanted to cross the room and kiss whatever Fenton would let him. Hands, face, feet, whatever.

Wow, weird.

“...Hey,” Jason said, way too late.

Fenton crunched down on his ice cream. “...That a casserole?” He said.

Jason nodded wordlessly, feeling very grateful that he had his hood on. He put the casserole down on the counter. He took a step backwards to flee.

Fenton pointed at Jason with the spoon, wholly unintimidated by the heavily armed man who'd broken into his house. “This is a proposal.”

Oh. Oh, motherfucking shitsocks. Jason felt weak through the knees. It was. Why was- why was he proposing??

Fenton took in his shock with a detached air. “Huh,” he said, like he'd learned something from this. “Um, it's nice of you and all. Have you been like, fixated on me for a while or- ohhh. I avenged you, didn't I?” He dropped the spoon in his ice cream carton and slapped both his palms down on the countertop. “He killed you? That sucks, man,” Fenton empathized. “I get it. I think if someone smashed the portal with a hammer I'd be down on one knee.”

Jason's brain was simply not running any program any longer. He gaped. He wasn't coherent enough to ask why Danny knew he'd been murdered by the Joker, but he had his shit together well enough to be fixated on the point.

“Um, it's not usually me being chased,” Fenton said. He made a face. “I… huh, I think I'm flattered.” He very obviously gave Jason a once-over. “I suppose this is your way of showing that you're a provider.” He heaved himself off the counter and went to investigate the casserole, sniffing and lifting the lid. “Oh, fuuuuuuck,” Danny groaned. He sniffed appreciatively. “Good demonstration of your husband material, t-b-h.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle him to the ground.

“That's the good stuff.” Fenton closed it back up, but not before giving his ice cream spoon a considering look.

Oh, yuck. This guy was so grungly. Jason needed him badly. He shuddered.

Fenton looked at him.

Jason looked back.

“Do you wanna try moving in and see how we get on?” Fenton offered. “Take it slow, no wedding just yet.”

“Absolutely.” Jason full-body twitched with just how eager he was. “How do you feel about swans?”

“Neutral,” Danny said, after a brief moment of consideration. “I like stars, though.”

Okay, so that would be their wedding theme.

Jason only realized he'd said that aloud when Fenton's eyebrows shot up. Mortified and really wondering what was wrong with him, Jason offered a weak smile.

Fenton made a considering noise. He crossed his arms. He looked Jason up and down. “...Can you grill?” He asked. “Like, beer chicken?”

[tbaluver]

When You Have A Baby- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader

genre: fluff fluff

a/n: writing these are so much fun <3 any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! if you have any more ideas for me to write my requests are always open! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He would be so smitten with his newborn. He won't stop internally and externally praising your strength for carrying and birthing his child. He would compare the size of your new baby's hand and his hand. "Their hands are so tiny" He would whisper. As he holds his new born so closely, he vows to make sure no harm came to the two of you.

Your baby room would have a couple plushies that either you won from the claw machines. He can put the baby to sleep so quick whether it was rocking the baby or reading them a bedtime story.

He's very protective but also very cautious. He'll make sure the baby would be all bundled up and comfortable before you two leave the house. Also very soft and sweet with the baby. Spoils the baby with so much love with forehead kisses and snuggles!

This man loves to cuddle the baby. When you come home and you don't see him anywhere, then he's probably in the nursery. He would sit on the rocking chair with the baby in his arms. He just wants to spend as much time as possible with the baby. Nothing in the world can compare to the happiness that brings him where his child is sleeping peacefully in his arms. One of your favorite moments is when you two would be peacefully asleep, the baby safely and comfortably in between you two.

Zayne:

He might not show it physically, but he's definitely in pain seeing you in labor. He'll be by your bedside, gently holding your hand and letting you squeeze his hand as much as you need too. It's all worth it in the end when he sees his baby with his own eyes. Inside he's melting but he keeps his cool.

Like I said in my pregnancy post this man is always ready. Ready whenever you were pregnant and ready when the baby is born.

When the baby cries when your both asleep, he'll assure you that he can do it and let you go back to sleep. He'll handle anything whether it's feeding the baby, cradling, changing the diaper, or helping put the baby back to sleep, as long as you get some rest. He would even be the first to wake up just to check up on the baby just so you can have a few more minutes of rest before you have to get up.

One of your favorite memories would be seeing him handle the baby so well in his arms in the nursery. You would snake your arms around him and rest your chin on his shoulder as he continues cradling the baby.

He handles his new responsibilities as a father so well. He can barely pull himself from the baby. It's like he had everything under control and nothing can affect him as long as you were okay. He made sure to validate any frustrations and anything you were anxious about. He was always there to reassure you.

Rafayel:

His eyes would be shimmering from glee as he cradled the baby. "They're so tiny!" He would whisper shout, carefully not trying to wake the baby. The first time he ever held the baby, he didn't think it would be possible for his body to let go of the small bundle of joy in his arms.

You are so strong for having to take care of two babies. The one you birthed and your husband, Rafayel. He playfully pretends to be your baby so you can also take care of him like you do with your new born.

You guys would have such a beautiful baby room. The room would have such warm lighting. He would have the walls painted with what he had envisioned and a mix of furniture that you both planned out. You guys would have a crib mobile that is obviously sea themed.

You would also walk in on him many times cradling the baby and encouraging his baby to say his first words would be anything of dad or the baby has to show him first when they learn how to walk.

He would def take so much memories of you and your baby. He'll put some baby safe paint on your baby's hands and stamp their hand print on a small canvas so when they grow up, you'll all remember the time they were so tiny. Finding you again was a miracle in itself and having this baby with you, he would need or create a different word to describe it all.

Sylus:

He would be right at your side during labor, wiping your sweat off your forehead and giving you reassurance. "You're doing so well sweetie. Our baby will be out soon."

He does everything that he can without protests. He would give warm baths and sweet kisses to your baby's head every moment he can.

He makes it all look easy and even handles any chores around the house himself or makes Luke and Kieran do it so you have time to recuperate. He would spend quality time with you any time he can to make you feel just as loved if not more with your growing family.

It would physically pain him to leave you and his newborn at home when he had to leave for business. Although neither of you would have gotten that much sleep in weeks, a part of him wished that it would never end. Even if it would be just for a few hours, he did not want to miss anything that happens. What if the baby laughs and he wasn't there to take a video of it? What if an emergency happened and you needed him? He would make you record everything you and your baby do because he doesn't want to miss any milestone in his baby's life.

Just like you, he would spoil the baby rotten. When he would come back from his business trips or meetings he would bring back gifts for you or anything that reminded him of you and your baby.

You would ban him from singing any lullabies to your baby but sometimes when you're already asleep he would secretly sing your baby a song. He would feel fully content in his life.

[kisses4reid]

understand? pt. 1 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you’re a polyglot translator assigned to work for the bau in a cross-national case, and there’s a doctor who wants to impress you.

genre - fem!reader, SHE/HER r, fluff, meet cute, you know more than spencer and he’s attracted to that

warnings - you're both awkward, mentions of gross case file photos, little research about polyglots actually done so there are inaccuracies, cliffhanger for part 2.

w/c - 1.4k

a/n - thank you for the req anon!! there was multiple parts to this but i really like the first idea so that’s what this fic is about, might keep the other idea for later hehe. i did change some aspects. love you, thank you for the support <33 there will be multiple parts!!! stay tuned!!!

req - hi pia 💞💝🩷💓 how r u? i hope you’re feeling wonderful! this is my first time requesting smthg i apologize if i get something wrong! i’ve been having 2 thoughts about spencer x fem!reader, where reader is a russian translator and idk they meet cute or she has to work with the bau helping them on a case. just wanted to give these ideas to you, obviously feel free to do anything with them! i really enjoy your work and your writing is incredible! i have your notifications on so i am always reading whatever you post! have a great day pia 💝 lots n lots of kisses for u!

This was not what you expected. 

You, a woman in your late twenties that spent most of her time in a room listening to voices and decoding foreign messages, didn’t know what you expected. But this: a scary boss, an italian old man, and a skinny college kid, was not it. 

“Y/n L/n? I’m Aaron Hotchner, the unit chief, and this is Agent Rossi and Doctor Agent Reid.” 

You nodded your head, thick hair covering your top eyelashes as you glanced at the men. Agent Rossi shook your hand, and Dr Reid simply stood and gawked at you. To be honest, it made you worried. You had been warned this was a close knit team, that they trusted each other more than anything and that you shouldn’t get attached to any of them as you’d only be assisting them for one case.

Maybe they just didn’t warm up to new people. 

“I’ll do your formal introduction to the rest of the team now, if you’re settled down.” He asks cooly. You like the way his voice rasps, it’s assertive yet comforting. 

“Yes, of course. I can’t wait.” You smiled reassuringly at the unit chief, not ignoring the raised eyebrow you received from the silent young man now behind you.

Aaron Hotchner, your new boss for the next week or so, lead you to a large room with a circular table sat in the middle. There were two other women, one blonde and one raven haired, and another bald man that glanced at you immediately after you entered. They smiled at you and trailed your steps to where you stood beside the unit chief in front of a large TV screen.

“Everyone, this is Agent Y/n L/n. She’ll be assisting us with the Becker case you’ve all been informed of. She’ll mainly be our translator and interpreter, but she’ll also be useful for cultural identifiers and anything that we wouldn’t notice otherwise.” 

You nodded along, never being a fan of introductions since you moved to America as a small child. 

“This is JJ, our liaison, Agent Emily Prentiss and Agent Derek Morgan.” 

The ladies smiled at you, in fact all of them did. They were surprisingly open to the fact you would be joining them, the fact made your shoulders loosen and a breath to be let out discreetly. 

Next, you were on a long plane flight to Maine with Agents you had known for little under two hours, conversing about victim profiles and motives. The table in front of the ladies and your boss was strewn with victim files and gruesome photos. And while you weren’t a stranger to the dangers and violence the job brought, you had gotten comfortable with only hearing about it and not seeing it. So you opted to hover around the table and stay silent, you weren’t a trained profiler after all, just a translator.  

There was a wave of cologne that disrupted your senses, causing you to angle your head back, only to be greeted by the tall doctor. 

You smiled softly, assuming the closeness was due to the aeroplane's arrangement. Also because you got the vibe that Spencer didn’t like you. 

“Are you okay? You seem uneasy,” he asked. It was the first time you heard his voice. And it was as adolescent as you imagined for someone so young, but it had a sophisticated edge to it, with a honey-like undertone. Finding things in voices as if they were perfumes was something you unconsciously started to do since working as a translator.

“I’m fine.” You grinned reassuringly, turning back to focus on the team’s findings. 

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows slightly and stepped away, sitting down beside Morgan who had taken a seat at the back. Morgan squinted at his friend, noticing the rare confusion splayed on his face as he stared in your direction. 

“What’s up? Pretty girl got your tongue?” Morgan removed his headphones with a cheeky smile displayed on his handsome face.

“For someone who specialises in languages she doesn’t talk much.” 

Morgan smirked, “Maybe not to you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong though.” Spencer ripped his gaze off the back of your head.

“You’ve been staring at her since she walked through those doors. You were so distracted you didn’t even greet her this morning.” Morgan pointed out. Spencer tilted his head confused, a small blush creeping up his neck. “I watched the whole thing from the conference room, so did JJ and Emily.” 

The tall boy slumped in his chair and forced himself to look out of the plane’s window, avoiding a reply to Morgan as he knew it would only result in more teasing. You were physically attractive, everyone could see that, but the thing that caught Spencer’s attention was your intelligence. He was no stranger to being a polyglot, he learnt languages for fun, but you were simply next level. Morgan studied Spencer’s face for a second before raising his attention to your hovering state. “Agent Y/n L/n.” Morgan called, causing Spencer to widen his eyes and immediately adjust his slumped position in his plane seat. You turned your head in surprise, slightly confused why you would be needed anywhere else than the files you had been translating for the past two minutes. Your heels were silent against the carpeted floors, but Spencer could sense your presence anyways. 

“How many languages do you speak?” The stoic man asked, his eyes darting between you and the doctor below you. You were not short, your genes didn’t allow for it, but you had noticed you were only taller than JJ and Rossi in the team and it felt foreign to not tower over everyone. “Um, I speak 8 languages fluently, and 4 languages semi-fluently.” You stated, readying to turn back to assist the team before Morgan spoke up once again

“Did you know that pretty boy can speak Spanish and German?” 

Before Spencer could help himself, he corrected the man, “And Latin and Russian,” Spencer turned his head up to you, “But I can understand more.” 

You smiled, genuinely impressed and confused on how a man that young could learn that much. But to be fair, you were in the same boat. The nickname got your attention, locking it in the back of your mind to remind yourself that the people you were working with did in fact have senses of humour, and weren’t just heartless officers. There wasn’t any reason to think that though, as you had been cared for with respect and even Prentiss made a funny remark beforehand. It sort of felt like a family dinner you were intruding on. “That’s impressive, Doctor Reid.” You reply genuinely. 

“I mean it’s nothing compared to you though,” his voice was pitched slightly higher and his hands started motioning to nothing in particular, “your brain is constantly changing from high activity to low activity when you're translating from one language to another. Your language network, the lateral frontal lobe, is constantly lighting up and dimming down depending on what language you hear, ordinary people’s language networks only turn on and off.” 

Morgan smirked and glanced up at your intrigued and surprised expression. You nodded, a small blush coating the tips of your ears as you responded, “Thank you.” You didn’t really know what else to say, which is funny for someone who understands so many languages, so you simply smiled and turned back to the table. Spencer slumped again, watching you walk away and asking himself why he would inform a pretty girl about her own brain, when she most definitely already knows about it. 

“Don’t worry too much, Reid.” Morgan called, grabbing Spencer’s attention. The boy raised a brow, not understanding. “She digs it, I can tell. But she’s just like you, knows how to speak in a million ways and still doesn’t know how to small talk.” 

You landed without any more awkward interactions, and got introduced to some sheriffs in Maine, one of them giving you a tighter handshake than the rest and a stare that could only mean unpleasant things. It wasn't something sexist or creepy that lingered in his eyes, it was more like hatred. Spencer took the sheriff's attention away from you after noticing what the whole team did, and asked him to show him the records they kept at the precinct.

Emily Prentiss came up behind you and placed a hand on your upper arm, squeezing it like she understood what you had thought you'd seen. Out of everyone else in the team, she would understand the most.

taglist (open!!): @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld

[artficlly]

sweetpea [one-shot]

post-apocalyptic marvel au

retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, p in v, against tree sex, outdoor sex, no protection, vague primal vibes, very consensual, kissing, underwear ripping, if you squint, there's some plot, teeth-rotting fluff, it's so cute, bucky barnes is the sweetest, beefy bucky, yelena meddles, steve rogers is horrified, spring festivals, paganism, masks, drinking, mentions of past violence, death and war, mentions of readers previous relationships, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.9k

A/N: hello! it's nearly my birthday so heres a treat for you all. i've been sitting on this idea for AGES. i've been working hard on the daughter of the rotsál first draft, so i decided to take a break from the angst for some fluffy, cute smut!! please let me know if you enjoy and your thoughts! sorry for any typos - not proof read. permanent tag list: @globetrotter28

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Being fucked over the table was not unwelcome but rather surprisingly pleasant, even if it derailed your breakfast plans. 

Leif had always been a rather attentive lover, skilled at pulling orgasm after orgasm out of your needy cunt. He possessed stamina and a hint of roughness that stirred warmth within you, yet something still felt absent. This elusive quality lingered throughout your year together—an unexpressed awareness that simmered between you. Leif was kind, diligent, attractive, and strong. He was considerate, often surprising you with gifts and regularly praising your looks and cooking. Your friends approved of him.

So even if that brief and passionate session had been perfect, him thrusting into you from behind so intensely that your toes curled and you had to press your face against the wooden surface to keep from screaming—you realised it was all somewhat melancholic. The thing that was missing between you and your Springbond was that fabled spark.

The decision to part ways had hurt, but you both knew it was right. A week before you had made the decision, on Mayflame he would move out, and the both of you would be single once more. The morning sex had been a goodbye of sorts, in typical Leif style. Even if you aligned perfectly, you inevitably amassed a long list of differences that broke the perfect illusion. You desired to settle down, concentrate on your work and home, and build connections with those nearby.

In contrast, Leif craved adventure and excitement—obviously, the Bleeding Age hadn’t brought enough danger and activity into his life. He later confessed that he was eager to sleep around more, as he was still a young man exploring his possibilities. This revelation didn’t necessarily shock or hurt you; you had captured his attention for the entire year, far beyond your predictions. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder... were you boring?

After years of undue stress, survival, and several near-death experiences, you were eager to take advantage of the calm that followed the defeat of the Riftborn and the end of the Bleeding Age. You had to remind yourself—somewhat bitterly—that Leif was not the first and would not be the last. 

“Did you see who that was?” Yelena exclaimed from beside you, her hand gripping your forearm tightly. You nearly leapt in surprise, abruptly pulled from your thoughts. Your head turned as you looked back, tracking Yelena’s gaze. “I swear to the fucking gods that was Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes—”

You squinted at the backs of the two men who had passed you by. 

They walked like soldiers—steady, assured, their movements streamlined but commanding. No hesitation, no wasted motion, just the certainty of men who had spent years on battlefields, who had fought and bled and survived when others hadn’t. They were massive, even under their coats, their broad shoulders and thick arms unmistakable beneath the heavy fabric. Towering over the people around them, they carried themselves with the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but took it anyway.

“The captain and the sergeant?” You shot back, doubt curling around your words as your brow furrowed. “I thought they were stationed in Stonebrook until the village was built.”

“They were… but last I heard, Stonebrook’s finished.” Yelena’s voice had an eager edge; her gaze locked onto the two figures even as they disappeared around a street corner, swallowed by the cobbled streets. “They were invited back for the Mayflame celebrations. The word is that they want to retire from the soldier business now the war is over.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at her arm with a huff. “Come on, we’re going to be late—”

“But do you think they’ll run in Mayflame?” Yelena pressed, barely budging under your pull. 

“I mean, gods, can you imagine if Steve Rogers was your Springbond?” She exhaled, almost breathless at the thought, her fingers tightening around your sleeve as if the mere idea was enough to set her heart racing.

You grit your teeth, heat rising in your face—not from excitement but from secondhand embarrassment. A group of older women lingered outside your destination, snickering between themselves at Yelena’s loud ponderings. With a sharp yank, you pulled her off the street and into the village hall, the heavy wooden doors thudding shut behind you, sealing away the crisp morning air and her starry-eyed ramblings.

“There you two are! I need all the hands I can get!”

A flustered-looking Pepper Potts intercepted you and Yelena before you could fully step inside, already ushering you towards a large pile of decorations. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, auburn hair pinned haphazardly at the nape of her neck, a sure sign that she had been running herself ragged in preparation for the festival.

“I’ve got half the boys working on the course and the bonfire,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Can you please cart these down and get started on the flowers?”

“Of course,” you replied with a quick nod, already sizing up the pile, considering how best to carry everything down in as few trips as possible.

Yelena, however, had other priorities. “Pepper, are the captain and sergeant joining the Mayflame?” She asked shamelessly, barely masking the anticipation in her tone.

But Pepper had already turned, swept away by the tide of arriving villagers, barking orders as she moved—clearly too busy to entertain Yelena’s curiosity.

You scoffed, sinking your hands into a collection of freshly cut flowers, their stems already bundled neatly for easy transport. You had grown and picked them yourself, much to Pepper’s praise. In recent years, you found comfort in your gardens and flowerbeds. The scent of wild blooms filled your nose, the petals soft against your fingers as you began sorting through them. “Yelena, stop meddling and help me.”

“Fine, but you are no fun!” Yelena groaned, throwing herself down beside you with dramatic flair. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, she added with a wistful sigh, “I know you’re upset about Leif, but at least let me dream of a raunchy, hero-filled Mayflame.”

Her voice carried farther than she likely intended. Several nearby villagers—some heaving chairs, others hauling tables—stopped mid-task, casting curious glances in your direction. 

Mortified, you didn’t dignify her with a response. 

—

“I mean, you keep saying you’re not upset about Leif, but you’re obviously upset.”

Yelena’s voice drifted up from below, thick with scepticism. She was not taking her duty of stabilising the ladder very seriously. The wooden rungs wobbled beneath your feet, shifting with every careless movement she made. A quick glance down confirmed your suspicions. She was barely gripping the beams, more occupied with craning her neck up the hill, no doubt hoping for another glimpse of the fabled Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes.

You sighed, your arms burning from the strain. You had foolishly volunteered for the painstaking task of weaving flowers through the towering wooden archways that framed the festival’s entrances. The Mayflame decorations were meant to be intricate and beautiful—braided vines, bundles of wildflowers, bright ribbons fluttering in the evening breeze—but at this rate, you’d be lucky if you made it out of this task without breaking a limb.

“I’m not upset,” you grumbled, though your voice lacked conviction. You worked the soft stems of sweetpeas and baby’s breath into a sturdy braid, securing them with twine against the wooden frame. “We made a mutual decision. It wasn’t working. Just a Mayflame fling...”

Yelena snorted from below, unimpressed. The ladder swayed as she shifted, and you tightened your grip, heart stuttering. “You two lived together for a year. I think it was a little more than a fling.”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around the flowers. “If he wants to run off, sleep around, and travel, who am I to hold him back, Lena? He wanted something different than I did. It never would have worked.”

“I just…” Yelena hesitated. “I just don’t like thinking about you living up on that farm by yourself.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you reached for another bundle of flowers. “Then come visit me more often instead of spending all your nights at the tavern, bothering Nat. I need all the help I can get wrangling those weeds—”

The words barely left your mouth before the ladder jerked violently beneath you.

Your stomach lurched as you wobbled. You instinctively reached for the wooden arch to steady yourself but overcorrected. The shift in weight sent the ladder tilting dangerously, its legs twisting beneath you. The basket of flowers on your hip slipped free, tumbling towards the grass below in a flurry of petals.

“Yelena! The ladder—!”

“There’s a bee in my hair!” Yelena shrieked, her grip altogether abandoning the wooden beams as she flailed wildly. “Gods, if it stings me, I swear—”

You had no time to process her nonsense. The world lurched violently as the ladder lost its precarious balance, tipping sideways with terrifying speed.

Air whipped at your cheeks as you plunged downward. Your arms shot up in a feeble attempt to protect your head, your entire body bracing for the inevitable collision with the earth below.

But the pain never came.

Instead, you collided with something solid—something warm.

A pair of strong arms locked tightly around your middle, yanking you against a broad, muscled chest. The force of your fall sent both of you toppling over; your breath knocked from your lungs as your saviour twisted to absorb the impact. The two of you crashed into the grass in a tangled heap.

A startled squeak escaped your lips as you landed atop them, hands splayed flat against their chest. Their sheer size was dizzying—hard muscle beneath the thin fabric. The steady rise and fall of their breathing made you acutely aware of how firmly you were pressed against them.

For a long second, neither of you moved, your heart pounding as you processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, the arms around your waist loosened. A deep, low voice rumbled beneath you, quieter than you expected yet laced with a restrained amusement.

“Careful, angel. Keep this up, and people will talk.”

Your breath hitched, pulse stuttering as you realised who lay beneath you. Bucky Barnes.

A cold rush of realisation hit like a shock to the system. Your eyes widened in alarm as you took in the situation. Your hands braced against the solid plane of his chest, his body beneath yours, broad and unmoving. Worse, your legs were hooked around his hips, the warmth of him seeping through your clothes—oh gods, were you sitting on his—?

Panic jolted through you. Without a second thought, you scrambled off him in a flurry of movement, heat rushing to your face. Your hands shot up instinctively as if you could wave away the mortifying situation.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky didn’t move immediately. He remained where he was, lying on the ground, one arm bent behind his head. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees cast shadows on his face, highlighting the defined angles of his cheekbones and the depth of his blue eyes. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky remark—just a quiet, lingering patience.

Finally, with a slow, fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, his expression unreadable. 

“It’s fine,” he assured, his voice smooth but low, edged with something thoughtful. Just a quiet confidence that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You took a hurried step back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the erratic beat of your heart refused to settle. You’d always known of Bucky Barnes—the colder one, the quiet one. The man whose name carried a reputation as cutting as winter’s first frost. Yet now, looking at him, the weight of that reputation felt at odds with how he carried himself.

There was something measured about his movements, deliberate and careful, as though he were wary of taking up too much space.

The silence stretched between you until his voice, softer this time, broke through. “You’ve got a little something…”

His hand shot up before you could reply—quick yet remarkably gentle. His fingers delicately moved through your hair, his careful touch igniting a familiar warmth in your gut.

You froze.

He plucked something from your hair and turned it over in his fingers. A single sweetpea, its delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Bucky studied it with quiet intensity, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Sweetpea,” he murmured, as if the word carried weight, his gaze flicking back to meet yours. How he looked at you—calm yet piercing—made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, the world felt impossibly still.

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Something flickered across his face, subtle but there. Not quite a smile, but something close, something softer than you would have expected from a man with his reputation.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter: “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

It was such a small thing. Barely even a kindness. You were glad the hero couldn’t sense the throbbing between your legs. Maybe this break-up with Leif had indeed done a number on you, lusting after the first man who showed you kindness... but there was something rather magnetic about the sergeant you couldn’t quite understand. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus and gather the scattered remnants of your pride. Your gaze turned to the abandoned basket of flowers at your feet, a welcome distraction.

 "Right, well, thank you,” you muttered. “I should probably—” 

You motioned vaguely toward the half-finished floral arch, eager to redirect the moment into something less intense. But before Bucky could respond, a sharp, frantic voice shattered the moment.

“Oh, gods! I’m so sorry, there was a bee, and I just—are you okay?” You barely had time to brace before Yelena was upon you, hands gripping your shoulders, her wide green eyes scanning your face as if she expected to find a gaping wound. You squirmed under her touch, cheeks still burning.

“I’m fine, Lena,” you mumbled, trying to pry her hands off you. “Really.”

“Yes, of course! This gentleman saved you—” Yelena cut herself off mid-sentence, her entire body freezing as she finally got a good look at him. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in unfiltered shock. “Wait. You’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, barely, but you caught it. A flicker of something. Not quite discomfort, but something close. His posture stiffened, his fingers flexing once before settling back into stillness.

He didn’t confirm or deny it. He just gave a slow, short nod. You saw the way his throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the way he held himself—not defensive, exactly, but closed off as if he had already braced for whatever reaction was coming next.

Yelena’s gaze darted between you, her sharp mind working fast. Too fast. There was a feral glint in her eyes, one you knew well. You could practically see the cogs turning in her mind, a meddling scheme already in action. You held back a groan.

Before she could say something truly insufferable, a sharp, shrill voice rang out from across the unlit bonfire.

“There you are! I need more flowers—can you believe it? I thought we’d have enough with all that you grew. Please tell me you have more in that garden of yours!” You blinked, grateful for the interruption, and immediately turned towards the sound of Pepper’s voice. 

“Yes, of course,” you called back, relief flooding through you. “I grew extra just in case. I had a feeling this might happen.” 

“Wonderful! Oh, you’re a lifesaver today,” Pepper’s voice rose in excitement. “Leave the floral arches for now. I’ll have one of the girls help finish them up. If you could just run up to your garden—” 

You didn’t need to hear the rest. 

“Of course!” You cut her off a little too eagerly, desperate to get away from Yelena’s looming interrogation. It was almost like an escape route had opened, and you weren’t about to hesitate. Pepper barely seemed to notice your enthusiasm as she continued.

“Oh, but you won’t be able to carry them all alone, will you? Yelena, you’ll help her, won’t you? And, oh, Bucky, I didn’t realise you were down here already. If I send you and Steve up as well, can you help these lovely ladies?”

You turned towards him instinctively, almost uncertain of what to expect. Bucky, who had been silent throughout the exchange, lifted his head slightly. His eyes jumped towards Pepper, then towards you. His blue eyes were unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Yeah.”

That was it. No unnecessary words, no wasted breath. Just a quiet, steady answer, the same way he seemed to carry himself, like a man who only spoke when it was worth speaking.

Yelena, on the other hand, was already on you like a hawk, latched onto your arm, nails digging through even your clothing as she grinned in excitement. Instead, you held back any protest that wanted to bubble to the surface, donning a hesitant smile. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon was about to take a turn for the absurd.

There was no way out of this now. 

—

The sun sat high in the sky as the four of you climbed the hill towards the garden. The path was uneven, the dirt packed down from years of footsteps, the scent of wildflowers and earth thick in the warm air. You focused ahead, gripping the empty basket, determined not to meet anyone’s gaze—especially not Bucky’s.

Of course, Yelena had no such reservations. She walked beside Steve, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of feigned innocence. You could feel the question brewing before she even opened her mouth.

“So,” she began, her tone laced with a familiar mischief. “You two were some of the great heroes of the Blooded Age.”

Steve huffed a small, almost bashful laugh. “I wouldn’t call us heroes.”

“Really?” Yelena raised a brow. “Because I’ve heard plenty of stories that say otherwise. You fought monsters, saved villages, built armies—sounds pretty heroic to me.”

Steve glanced at Bucky as if expecting him to jump in, but the other man remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Steve sighed and shrugged. “We did what needed to be done. It wasn’t about being heroes. People were dying, and the world was falling apart. We just... fought to keep it together.”

Yelena hummed, unimpressed with his humility. “And now you’re here. Retired.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You must be very tired.” She smirked. “All that fighting. Saving the world. Carrying such a heavy burden on those broad, broad shoulders.”

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing into your hand as warmth flared in your cheeks.

Steve cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was time to put the war behind us.”

Yelena turned to Bucky, who had been walking a step behind, silent as ever. “And what about you, Barnes? Tired of fighting too?”

Bucky finally glanced her way, his expression unreadable. 

“War doesn’t leave much room for a future.” His voice was low, quiet, but firm. “Figured it was time to start thinking about one.”

Yelena tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. “And New Fernwick is the place to do that?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His attention turned to you—brief and mysterious—before he looked back at the trail. “Seems as good a place as any.”

Yelena smirked, but you reached the garden before she could push further.

“Here we are!” You announced, a little too brightly, desperate to change the subject.

You set your basket down and knelt to gather the flowers, focusing intently on the task. Yelena crouched beside you, plucking a few stems with ease. Steve busied himself as well, his hands surprisingly gentle as he worked.

Bucky, however, remained standing with his arms crossed as he surveyed the field of blooms. After a brief pause, he crouched, reaching for a flower near your basket. You watched as his fingers brushed over the petals carefully and deliberately.

Yelena noticed too. “Didn’t peg you for a flower guy, Barnes.”

Bucky plucked the stem and twirled it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “You learn to appreciate the small things when you don’t see ‘em for a long time.”

The words were simple, but they settled in your chest, something unspoken lingering beneath them.

Yelena, for once, said nothing.

The silence stretched as the four of you worked, the baskets gradually filling, until until Yelena, as always, shattered it with a single sentence—one that made your stomach drop the moment it left her mouth.

“So, are you two going to do the Mayflame Run?”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate stems of the flowers in your hands, nearly crushing them. Heat flared up your neck, and you snapped your head towards her. “Yelena.”

She only grinned, tilting her head in mock innocence. “What?”

 She batted her lashes. “It’s a fair question.”

Bucky and Steve glanced up from where they were crouched, picking through the wildflowers. The question had caught them off guard. Steve’s brow furrowed, curiosity laced with hesitation.

“What exactly is the Mayflame Run?” he asked.

You parted your lips, scrambling for a way to downplay it, but Yelena was already launching into her favourite pastime—oversharing.

“It’s a spring festival all about welcoming in the new season... new life... fertility and all that.” She wiggled her fingers for emphasis, an impish smirk tugging at her lips.

Steve blinked, his expression shifting into one of wary understanding. “Right…”

The mischief in Yelena’s eyes deepened as she continued.

“The main event is the run. We call it the Springbond Run, but let’s be honest—everyone knows what it’s really about. See, after the Blooded Age, people kind of… forgot how to date. Or just didn’t bother.” She waved a hand as if brushing aside years of devastation. “War, famine, monsters—it put a real damper on romance. And, well, people aren’t exactly repopulating at the rate they should be, so...” 

She shot Steve a pointed look. “The elders decided to encourage things.”

Steve still looked uncertain. "And how does it work?”

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your basket.

“The women carry torches and run through the dark forest,” you explained, keeping your voice even as possible. “The goal is to reach the clearing on the other side and light the bonfire.” 

You hesitated, dreading the next part. “The men chase them.”

Steve’s brows lifted. “They chase them?”

You nodded stiffly, but Yelena was the one who answered.

“If you get caught,” she said breezily, “you have to date the guy who caught you for a week. You’re now each other’s Springbond. After that, you decide if you want to keep seeing each other or go your separate ways. Most end up sticking it out. Either for marriage or, at the very least, some fun.”

Your stomach twisted as Bucky’s gaze flickered towards you. He hadn’t spoken yet or reacted outwardly, but you felt the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like an unspoken question.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, clearly processing the information. “And what happens to the women who manage to light the bonfire?”

“Oh, then they get to choose who they spend the week with,” Yelena said. "Which honestly makes the whole thing even more exciting. It’s so dark, you don’t always know who’s chasing you until they’re right on top of you, pinning you to the ground—”

Steve choked on his own breath, shifting awkwardly. You clamped your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Yelena.”

“What?” she said, all false innocence. 

“It’s true. And let’s be real, some people don’t even wait until after the run to start celebrating.” She smirked. “All that adrenaline, all that tension, out there all alone in the woods—”

Steve made another strangled sound, and you wished, for the first time in your life, that you had the power to smite Yelena where she stood.

“And this is normal?” he asked weakly.

You let out a long breath. “Yes. It’s… tradition.”

Yelena’s smirk stretched wider, and a pit of dread opened in your stomach just before she delivered the final blow.

“Oh, she would know,” she said airily. “She’s done it three times.”

Silence.

You felt the shift in the air before you even looked up. Steve was already glancing away politely, but Bucky—Bucky’s gaze was steady, unyielding, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that made your pulse stutter.

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—yeah.”

Yelena cackled, delighted. “And she had quite the reputation for it, too. She and Leif turned it into a year-long one-night stand."

Your stomach dropped. Heat flared at your ears, mortification wrapping around your ribs like a vice. Steve coughed into his fist, visibly uncomfortable, but Bucky—Bucky still hadn’t looked away. The weight of his silence pressed against you, heavier than any words could be. He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t even raise a damn eyebrow. He just watched as if waiting for you to offer something. An explanation. A reaction.

You swallowed hard.

Yelena, meanwhile, had absolutely no shame.

“Some people take the week actually to get to know each other,” she continued with a smirk. “Others treat it like a festival fling. A week-long one-night stand, if you will.” 

She turned to Bucky then, eyes glinting. “You seem like the type who’d do a Mayflame run.”

Bucky finally exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You get that from watching me pick flowers?”

Yelena leant in. “No, I got it from watching you look at her.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. He just held her gaze for a long moment before standing, dusting the dirt from his hands with deliberate ease.

“We should get these back,” he said.

That was it. No denial.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears as Yelena shot you a triumphant look, nudging your arm with her elbow. You shoved her back harder than necessary, grabbing your basket with too much force.

—

You had braided sweetpeas into your hair, their delicate petals—a cascade of soft pinks, purples, and whites—woven carefully through your strands. The fragrance clung to you, sweet and fleeting, barely noticeable except when the wind stirred just right. You didn’t know why you had done it. Maybe it was a whim, an idle distraction while you got ready for the Mayflame. Maybe it was some quiet hope you refused to name, a foolish sentiment born from the strange afternoon. Or maybe, worse than all of that, it was the loneliness of returning to an empty house.

Leif had left while you were gone. You hadn’t seen him pack or even heard the door shut behind him. Just silence, so much silence. His absence had been waiting for you like a ghost when you stepped inside. No trace of him remained, save for a few scuff marks on the wooden floor and a half-finished bottle of cider in the kitchen. You had stared at it for a long time before scrubbing the house clean in a fit of confused energy as if sweeping away the dust might sweep away the ache in your chest.

Did you even want to run tonight? If it always turned out this way?

Leif had been inevitable—his leaving, even more so. The one before him barely lasted the week. And the first... gods, the first. You didn’t let yourself think about that one.

Yet here you were, standing in the dark forest, a burning torch in your hand.

The other women huddled together, whispering in excited clusters, their laughter soft and secretive beneath the trees. The firelight flickered over their masked faces, catching on the gilded edges and painted symbols of the goddess of spring. Yelena was causing trouble somewhere in the throng, as always, her voice carrying through the dark.

“I swear, I can pick them out. I just need a second,” she was saying.

You sighed, already knowing exactly what she was up to.

“It’s a useless pursuit,” you had reminded her earlier. “They’ll be masked, everyone will. That’s the whole point.”

And yet, she was determined. You caught a glimpse of her through the shifting bodies, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate crown braid behind her fox mask, taunting the gathered men. They stood on the opposite side of the clearing, a sea of darkened figures illuminated only by flickering torchlight. The line between hunter and hunted might have blurred if not for their masks.

You fiddled with the edges of your own mask, adjusting it once more against your face. Each mask bore the likeness of a creature of the forest—the women had prey animals: deer, rabbits, and foxes. You had chosen a wide-eyed doe, its carved wooden surface smooth against your fingertips. The men, in contrast, wore the guises of predators: wolves, bears, and great hunting birds.

A shiver trailed down your spine as you scanned their ranks, the shadows swallowing their bodies.

This was fate, they said. A tradition older than the Blooded Age. The goddess of spring would take the helm, guiding her children together. 

Destiny, not choice.

You weren’t sure you believed in fate anymore.

Still, you craned your neck, searching for Yelena again before the race began. Some women had already lined up at the start, their torches raised, waiting for the signal. You pushed through the crowd, weaving past a group of masked rabbits, your torch casting long, twisting shadows over the forest floor.

Yelena stood at the edge of the men’s group, utterly unbothered, her fox mask tilted slightly as she studied them. The smirk you couldn’t see was undoubtedly plastered across her face.

“Lena,” you called lightly.

She turned towards you, still distracted. “You’d think we’d be able to recognise them even with the masks, right? They should be massive, but it’s so hard to tell in the dark—”

You grabbed her wrist, pulling her away. “Come on.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled.

As you turned, your torchlight swept over a lone figure standing at the edge of the men’s group. Half-shrouded in shadow, his wolf mask glinted in the firelight. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet there was an unmistakable intensity in his standing and watching.

You swallowed hard and averted your gaze.

Tugging Yelena along, you stepped towards the start line.

The time was near.

You gathered your skirts with one hand, feeling the rough fabric in your fist. The cool night air licked at your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Around you, the other women shifted in anticipation, their torches flickering like stars in the dark. Somewhere beyond the trees, the men waited. Watching.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Then—

The drum sounded.

The tension snapped, and you ran.

Flames bobbed wildly as the women surged forward, feet pounding against the forest floor. Laughter rang through the night, breathless and high, voices calling to one another before being swallowed by the trees.

Yelena was gone in an instant, lost in the chaos.

You barely had time to register it before you were weaving between trunks, torchlight bouncing wildly in your periphery. Your skirts whipped around your legs, the rough fabric catching on twigs and undergrowth, but you didn’t slow. The forest stretched wide before you, vast and shrouded in shadows.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, heart hammering against your ribs.

It was exhilarating.

You could hear the others somewhere to your left, their laughter spilling through the trees, echoing their footfalls blending with your own. And behind you, somewhere in the dark, the men had begun their pursuit.

The sound of movement grew. Leaves rustled, and twigs snapped. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t dare look back.

Instead, you pushed forward, your torchlight slicing through the thick night. The distant hum of music reached your ears, the festival, just beyond the treeline. You were close. So close.

Then—impact.

A weight slammed into you from the side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your torch flew from your grasp, landing somewhere in the brush, its flame sputtering but not extinguished.

You hit the ground hard, back pressing into the cool earth, the scent of moss and crushed leaves filling your senses. Above you, a broad figure loomed, breathing heavily from the chase.

The dim torchlight barely illuminated him, casting jagged shadows across the carved wolf mask that stared down at you. The smooth, wooden surface gave away nothing—no expression, no hint of who was beneath it.

Your pulse thundered.

Around you, the chase still roared on. Footsteps pounded the earth, laughter echoing as others darted past, unseen but near.

You swallowed hard, your breath coming fast, your chest rising and falling. You had been caught.

But gods, it was thrilling.

The figure above you didn’t move, as if waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. His hands were braced on either side of you, caging you in, his breath still heavy from the chase. Yet he didn’t press his advantage or seize you like the others would have. Instead, he lingered, watching.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, he reached for your hair.

You barely breathed as his fingers tangled into the strands, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. Slowly, he plucked one of the deep violet sweetpeas from your braid, twirling it between his fingers before your masked face. The petals fluttered slightly with the motion, fragile between the ridges of his calloused fingertips.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, finally, his voice, low, deep, rough with exertion.

“Hey, sweetpea.”

The nickname sent a shock through you, something warm curling in your chest even as your breath hitched. Recognition dawned, sharp and sudden.

“Bucky?” You murmured, stunned.

Even if surprise coursed through you, it made sense. The sheer size of the body hovering above yours, the weight of him pressing into the earth, the controlled stillness…it was him. A reversed echo of your earlier position that day.

“How did you—”

“Your hair,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You put flowers in your hair. I recognised it.”

He reached up, fingers catching the edge of his mask, and in a smooth motion, he pulled it free. The last flickers of the torch beside you cast just enough light to reveal the sweat beading on his brow, the shadows cutting across his sharp features—and the unmistakable, almost feral gleam in his eye.

Something deep inside you clenched at the sight.

You exhaled a breathless laugh, your hands instinctively sliding up his broad shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck. Beneath your palms, his skin was hot, his pulse hammering. “I didn’t think you were running.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He hesitated, head tilting slightly as footsteps dashed past, followed by an excited shriek from one of the other women. The sound faded into the trees, leaving you in perfect darkness, only the two of you remaining in the silence. “But—”

He trailed off, his voice thick with something unspoken. His weight above you was solid, immovable, and gods, you liked it.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, you twisted your arm, pulling your mask off. You weren’t sure he could see the grin curling your lips in the dark, so you let your actions speak for you. Tugging him closer, your chests collided, heat blooming between you.

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was molten, searing through your veins like wildfire. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t uncertain—he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for far too long, like the chase had only wound him tighter, and now he was unravelling against you.

You gasped into his mouth as he shifted, his weight pressing down on you, one hand sliding to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you to him. His other hand tangled in your hair, gripping just enough to make your head tilt back, giving him full access. He took it eagerly, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, devastating stroke.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your legs shifting beneath him, but then—

With shocking ease, he moved.

For a brief second, you were weightless, a startled sound escaping your lips as he lifted you effortlessly from the ground. You barely had time to react before your back hit rough bark, the solid tree trunk now bracing you. His hands were firm as they guided your legs around his waist, pinning you in place. You could already feel his cock growing hard, pressed into one of your thighs as you squirmed beneath him.

A shudder wracked through you at his sheer strength, the way he handled you like you weighed nothing. The last remnants of your composure shattered when his lips found your throat, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over sensitive skin. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sensation overwhelming and utterly intoxicating.

"You run fast, angel," he murmured against your skin, his voice dark and teasing. His lips trailed lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. "But not fast enough."

A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him look at you. In the darkness, his blue eyes burned.

“I didn’t want to get away.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he just looked at you for a moment. Then, his grip on your waist loosened, fingers slipping beneath your skirts. He let out a deep groan as his digits navigated past your underwear, sweeping through the wetness already gathered. “You’re so wet already.”

You threw your head back at the small act of friction, your skull pressing hard into the rough bark as your chest heaved. He did one final pass, stroking through your folds. In the close distance between your faces, you could see a smirk lingering as your hips rocked involuntarily, begging for more. 

Bucky brought his fingers to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he pressed them flat against his tongue, dragging them slowly past his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly, his breath coming heavier as he tasted you, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest. “Mmm.”

Heat coiled in your stomach at the sound, something deep and electric winding tight inside you. 

“Bucky—” The whine clawed unexpectedly from your throat, raw with desperation.

He smirked, his expression both teasing and dark, his hand slipping between your bodies.

“I know, sweetpea,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers fumbled blindly with his belt, metal clinking softly in the hush of the forest. You could feel his hunger in the way his body pressed against yours, restless, taut with restraint he was barely clinging to.

You rolled your hips against his hand, a breathless sigh spilling from your lips as friction sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. He inhaled sharply, his head tilting slightly as if savouring the way you reacted to him.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, his voice lower now, almost commanding.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, nails digging in. Your head tipped back against the tree's rough bark, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your lips parted around the words.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

Something snapped in his expression.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his fingers hooked into the delicate fabric of your underwear. His patience was fraying. No careful undressing, no gentle peeling away. His grip was rough and decisive, a growl slipping from his throat as he gave one sharp tug. The fabric tore effortlessly beneath his fast fingers, the sound lost beneath the hammering of your pulse in your ears. He didn’t even bother pulling them down—too impatient, too consumed by need.

You could practically feel your wetness dripping down to your thighs as he blindly lined himself up, cock pushing into your needy heat. Your head dipped, your mouth finding the top of his shoulder as you bit down lightly with a soft cry. The world beyond this moment—the festival, the music, the laughter—blurred into nothingness. The only thing that existed was the feverish press of his body, the way his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you to him as if he never wanted to let go.

“Fuck.” He hummed low in your ear. His voice strained as he slowly rocked in and out of you. You could tell he was restraining himself, his muscles taut along his back. You hooked your legs around his waist tighter, pulling your bodies flush. 

Bucky tilted his head, his lips ghosting over your jaw before finally finding your mouth, desperate and all-consuming. His pace faltered for a moment, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as you tightened around him.

“Gods, you’re so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ perfect—” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. Your breath was hot against his neck and ear as you whispered. “Then don’t stop.”

Any type of restraint the hero had been holding snapped, his hips immediately jerking into action, beginning a relentless pace, withdrawing from you only to slam back inside. Each thrust sent sparks through your body, pleasure coiling tighter, overwhelming in its intensity. One of his hands roamed, sliding down your thigh to where you connected.

You let out a gasping moan into his shoulder as his thumb found your clit, the added circling motion sending a spike of pleasure up your spine. You felt your cunt tighten around him again as you jolted from the sensation, back arching inward. 

“Bucky—” You groaned into his ear, head tilting as you laid hot, sloppy kisses that were all lips and tongue along his neck. You could taste salt on his skin, sweat beginning to mist both of you. The squelching and slapping sounds of your connected bodies echoed through the dark forest,  the both of you barely holding back the pleasured moans and gasps. 

“You gonna cum for me, angel?” Bucky growled against your throat. Your toes curled in delight. His strokes were already growing frantic and sloppy. You pushed yourself back against the trunk, chest heaving as you used your grip around his waist to grind yourself upon his thumb further. A coiling sensation grew in your gut, a knot beginning to tighten. You closed your eyes with a gasp, chasing the sensation. 

“Y-Yes.” You stammered through your pants, nails digging into his shoulders as your body began to shudder around him. Bucky let out a dark chuckle, straining through his grit teeth as he continued to plough into you. His thumb circled once more, gentle but practiced. You felt your back arch involuntarily—

You moan his name as every wave of pleasure washes over you. Your hips buck and your thighs shake, but he doesn’t let up. His cock strokes inside of you at a continued relentless pace, and he moans right along with you. Bucky’s hand began to roam along your legs, gripping your flesh tighter as he chased his own release. There would be finger-shaped bruises all over your hips and thighs by the time this was over. 

You’re panting above him. Eyes closed, the grip on his shoulders slackening as ropes of thick, hot cum fill you. His cock throbs, each pump releasing even more, only stopping as his hips stutter and his heated moans in your ear fade. 

The two of you panted in the aftermath. Bodies still pressed together as the sounds of the forest slowly filtered back into your ears—the distant thrum of festival music, the rustling leaves overhead, the occasional laughter of those still running through the trees. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Bucky shifted first, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of your throat, his lips warm and soft against your sweat-dampened skin. His breath fanned over your collarbone as he slowly and carefully lowered you to your feet. Your knees nearly buckled when they touched the earth, your legs trembling with exhaustion. A startled gasp left you as you clung to him for support, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Easy, sweetpea,” he murmured, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest as he steadied you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. His touch was grounding and reassuring, though the heat in his gaze told you he wasn’t entirely done with you yet.

You huffed a breathless laugh, tilting your head to look at him. 

“You know we have to go to the dance now, right?” Though amusement laced your tone, you could already picture the knowing smirks Yelena and the others would shoot you when you finally emerged.

Bucky smirked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Even better,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “All I’ll be able to think about is those little noises you make... and that mess between your legs.”

Your breath hitched, a shiver rolling down your spine despite the lingering warmth in your limbs. You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly once more at the thought of his hands on you again, the way he had unravelled you so easily.

He tilted your chin up with a single finger, pressing a teasing kiss to your lips before stepping back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 “Come on, sweetpea,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with mischief as he laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s go dance.”

—

By the time you and Bucky arrived, the festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and the smoky tang of bonfires. Laughter and music filled the clearing, the rhythmic beat of drums and the sweet hum of strings carrying through the night. Couples swayed to the music, feet shuffling against the packed earth as villagers danced in loose circles, the warmth of drink and celebration evident in every movement.

You barely had time to take it all in before a chorus of knowing smirks and raised brows greeted your arrival. Yelena, seated at a long wooden table with a tankard of something strong in hand, nearly choked on her drink when she spotted you—your slightly dishevelled hair, the flush still clinging to your skin, and Bucky’s possessive grip on your waist.

“About time,” she called with a grin, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Did you get lost?”

Bucky, unbothered, merely smirked and tugged you towards the dancing. “Something like that.”

You shot her a look, but it was impossible to ignore the amused glances and hushed whispers behind you. You tried not to think about the wet mess—a combination of both your fluids nesting between your thighs. Bucky had offered you a handkerchief to clean up, but the small square of fabric had done little against the wetness dripping down your thigh. What didn’t help was the thought of that handkerchief he casually tucked back into his pocket before you could protest. Your lips parted, ready with some half-hearted excuse, but Bucky spun you into his arms before you could respond.

The moment he pulled you into the dance, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into the background. His hands found your waist, guiding you through the steps with ease, music thrumming beneath your skin. Everything was intoxicating, with the warmth of his palm against the small of your back and the gentle pressure of his fingers as he led you.

His lips dipped close to your ear as you moved, swaying to the rhythm. “So, who is this Leif guy?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but then sighed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. “Oh—just… my last Springbond.” 

The words felt foreign on your tongue now, distant. “It didn’t really work out in the end.”

Bucky hummed, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your hip. “Why not? Sounded like you lasted longer than a week.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head back slightly to meet his gaze.

“Well… we just had different paths. He wanted to explore, adventure, sleep around…” You trailed off, gaze flickering to the firelight dancing in his blue eyes. “I was looking to settle. I’m just tired after everything. I feel you would understand that.”

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his gaze dark and steady as he murmured, “I understand you completely, angel.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest ache, warmth curling in your stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or the wine or the exhilaration of the chase. He understood.

You held his gaze, the firelight dancing over his face. There was something ancient in his eyes, something heavy, worn by time and battle. You had known, of course, what he and Steve were before they arrived in New Fernwick—everyone did.

And yet, when the war ended, when the Riftborn were vanquished and peace finally settled over the world, they had simply walked away. But peace was a fickle thing, and you often wondered if it had truly found them in return.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your waist, grounding you back in the present.

“You ever think about it?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement curious. “Think about what?”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “The way things used to be. Before.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“Sometimes.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I don’t miss it. But it’s hard to let go of something that shaped you.”

You nodded, understanding. The past had a way of clinging to people, no matter how far they ran.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Steve took to peace like it was always meant for him. I think he’s been waiting for it his whole life. Me…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a faint line. “I think I’m still figuring it out.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. He deserved peace just as much as anyone else.

As the music slowed, your hands slid from his shoulders, fingers tracing the length of his arms before settling over his. His grip tightened instinctively like he knew what you were about to say.

“Come home with me.” The words were quiet, tentative, but certain.

Bucky stilled for half a beat, and then his lips parted, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he had been waiting for you to ask.

—

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, stepping inside with Bucky close behind you. You moved awkwardly through the space, glancing at the walls, the furniture, anything but him, as though it could distract from the knot forming in your stomach. The house felt both too small and too big now, the empty rooms amplifying the tension in the air.

Bucky stepped in after you, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor as he glanced around. His gaze lingered on the fire's warm glow in the hearth, he seemed at ease. His eyes scanned every corner of the space, taking in the simple comforts of home. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You shifted nervously, breaking the silence with an anxious laugh. “You don’t actually have to do the full week if you don’t want to... I mean, most people just use it as an excuse to get off work—” Your words stumbled out, and you cut yourself off, realising how ridiculous you probably sounded.

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes dark with amusement but softened with something else, a quiet intensity. He was silent for a long moment, focusing entirely on you. Finally, his lips quirked up, and his voice was low and deliberate.

“Sweetpea, I love the sound of your beautiful voice, but just shut up... and kiss me.”

Before you could respond, his hands were already pulling you close, his mouth slanting over yours in a searing kiss that left no room for hesitation. You melted against him, your body pressing into his with a soft urgency, both of you stumbling as you navigated the space towards the bed. His grip on you was firm and reassuring, yet there was a rawness to it, an unspoken need that made your heart race faster.

You fumbled through the room together, bumping into furniture. Your hands sought purchase on his broad chest or tangled in his hair as you kissed desperately, blindly. The dim light from the hearth barely illuminated the path ahead. His lips were warm and hungry, pulling at yours with an intensity that made your pulse spike.

There was a quiet reassurance in how his hands roamed over your body, the steady pressure of his touch as though he wanted to anchor you in the here and now. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t treating this like a fleeting moment. You laughed softly against his lips as you stumbled into the bed, falling together in a tangled heap of limbs and tangled sheets. For a moment, all that mattered was the warmth of his skin against yours, the unspoken understanding that this was something different, something real. 

Something that could last.

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Art the Clown x Reader | SMUT | CW: reader is married to an abusive husband | reader uses drugs/alcohol to cope with her abusive marriage | murder/killing mentioned

This story is extremely explicit and deliciously fever dream-ish imo. Hope you enjoy it, my fellow clown fuckers ❤️

What the ever loving fuck is wrong with me?

That’s what you were thinking as your common sense peeked out briefly from the fog of alcohol and weed in your system…a moment of sobriety just long enough to make you question what motivation you could have for the decisions you were now making.

He smelled. Like dried blood and sex, the kind of sex that hurts you, but doesn’t stop you from wanting more. Maybe it would have been enough to stop you, under any other (sober) circumstances. But as it was, you were already sitting in this strange man’s lap, in the middle of an empty mall after closing. And what made the situation even more surreal? The fact that he was dressed in a goddamn Santa suit and wearing gaudy black and white clown makeup all over his face.

Yeah, you really needed to stop sneaking into the mall bathroom and getting fucked up. Swiping a pack of edibles and two travel-sized bottles of cinnamon spice vodka from the gas station had been a bad idea to begin with. Using the privacy of the bathroom to get wasted and scroll through your phone for two hours would have been considered strange behavior by most people. But most people (in fact, no one) knew the reason why you avoided home like the plague.

Your husband was abusive, in every way possible. He controlled every aspect of your life, to the point that sometimes, you worried he could even read your thoughts. Where you went, who you spoke to, your finances, your diet, your sex life; everything about you belonged to him. It was suffocating. And while your habit of stealing from the gas station and hiding in the mall bathroom was an unhealthy coping mechanism, you were coping. Even if eventually it bit you in the ass, like tonight. When you got a little too high, a little too drunk, to notice the time, or the fact that the mall outside the bathroom stall you were locked in had grown quiet…

The mall was closed. Fucking closed, with you locked inside it. You’d staggered out of the bathroom like a fucking zombie in what looked to be a post apocalyptic scene. The mall was empty, devoid of life. Everything was eerily silent, apart from your footsteps shuffling across the tile floor as you took in your empty surroundings. The mall was dimly-lit, the only light source coming from high above, moonlight streaming in through the big panel windows on the mall ceiling.

You found one of the exits, and tried the door. It was locked, or maybe you were too high/drunk to figure a way out? It didn’t matter because regardless, you weren’t going anywhere for awhile. Either you’d sober up and figure out how to get out, or you’d be stuck waiting till security came by in the morning and let you out. A pleasant thought tickled at the back of your mind: your husband had no idea where you were. It felt good to be so far beyond his radar that his ability to oversee your every move was completely fucked. What did scare you, however, was the thought of confronting him in the morning. How would he react to you staying out all night? Obviously it wouldn’t go over well, and just imagining what your husband’s punishment might involve had your stomach twisting.

So instead of ruining your high by worrying about the inevitable, you decided to finish the last of your vodka, yelling “fuck it!” into the empty void around you. Your voice echoed back at you off the walls of the empty mall. It was creepy, and a little exciting, being unsupervised and alone with this kind of freedom. The excitement you felt only heightened when you noticed him. Your mouth twisted into a grin of disbelief, because how fucking high WERE you that you were literally seeing Santa Claus in front of you right now?? You took a step towards him, still unsure if he was even real.

He was sitting in an ornate wooden chair framed by two massive Christmas trees. The strands of lights decorating them weren’t on, just like all the other lights inside the mall. Above him, a sign written in ridiculously large print read “SANTA,” as if the scene itself would have implied anything other than the jolly old elf’s presence. You forced your gaze to focus on the man/hallucination in front of you, the smile on his face as big as yours. And he was a…clown, too? You laughed out loud, the absurdity of it all becoming too much. Your laughter was tinny and soft, like the sound of jingle bells, and it seemed only fitting considering you were standing mere feet away from the man, the myth, the legend himself: Santa Claus.

He patted his lap, encouraging you over. The fact that he apparently didn’t speak made the vodka-soaked dreamworld you were currently wandering feel even more like a dream. As you approached ‘Santa Clown,’ the possibility of him being a figment of your imagination became less believable. When he reached for your arm and tugged you onto his lap, you were certain. He was absolutely real.

You gasped, a surprised giggle spilling from your lips. The clown seemed to enjoy your amusement, bouncing you on his knee just to hear the string of excited giggles that tumbled out of you. He was playing with you, and you were loving it. His hair, or the wig he wore, spilled over his shoulders in off-white waves, flecked by bits of red. It took you a few seconds to register that the red bits were actually dried blood, and that the same blood was caked onto the beard that hung loosely underneath Santa Clown’s chin.

Should you have been alarmed? Probably. But instead of sensing danger coming from the clown, you felt oddly protected, safe. Whoever that blood belonged to, whoever he may have hurt, the clown didn’t seem in any hurry to hurt YOU. In fact, based on the stiffening pulse of his cock under your ass, it seemed like the clown was enjoying your company very much.

To test your theory, you decided to tease him a little and see where it led. Shifting intentionally on his lap, you reached to smooth the blood-crusted strands of hair back from Santa Clown’s face, revealing his sharp cheekbones and smooth, painted-white skin. He was oddly handsome, attractive in a dark kind of way. The way villains are always more appealing than heroes, or more philosophically, how Eve must have felt when she was seduced by the serpent’s persuasive tongue. There was something forbidden about the clown, something instinctively, inherently wrong about wanting him. And yet, that wrongness was precisely part of the reason you did want him.

His smile faded slowly to an expression you couldn’t name, his eyes going dark. Had your flirting upset him? A chill ran through you as even the air around you both seemed to go colder. A sudden sizzle of electricity made you flinch, and you watched as around you, the lights on the Christmas trees were illuminated. You smiled, a pleased chuckle of surprise leaving your lips, and the clown smiled with you. He seemed to enjoy making you feel good; and perhaps the dark supernatural forces that followed him came in handy in times like these, when manipulating electricity could be used to impress a pretty girl?

The rest of the mall remained in darkness, with only the Christmas lights illuminating the festive scene. “It’s so pretty,” you said, and you realized it was the first time you’d actually spoken to the clown. He nodded, feigning a kind of bashful grin, and extended his index finger toward you, tapping lightly against your breasts. Your eyebrows lifted at the sweet gesture. It had been a long time since anyone had called you ‘pretty,’ and somehow, even in the absence of words, the clown had said everything right.

“Me?” you asked coquettishly, feeling emboldened by the vodka thundering through your system. “You think I’m pretty?”

The clown nodded vigorously, his big, toothy smile returning. “Well y’know what?” you asked through a giggle. “I think you’re pretty handsome, Santa.”

The clown’s mouth made the shape of a surprised ‘O,’ and he pointed to himself, his lips forming the word ‘me???’

“Yeah,” you replied. “And, as a matter of fact-.” You leaned in so your lips were at the clown’s ear, the coppery scent of blood stronger by his face. “-I’m ready to tell you what I want for Christmas…”

You didn’t expect to feel his hand on your chin, turning your head to face him. His expression had shifted back to the one you’d been unable to read earlier, the look you’d mistaken for him being upset. Now, as his thumb tugged your bottom lip downward and his dark eyes studied the shape of your mouth, you realized his expression was one of lust.

You sucked in a breath, extending your tongue to meet his thumb. The metallic tang of old blood met your tastebuds, melting over your tongue as the dried blood under the clown’s thumbnail was wetted by your spit. You didn’t care whose blood it was, because in this strange new reality, nothing beyond this space in the empty mall mattered. His eyes followed his thumb as it pressed deeper, your lips closing around its base, sucking lightly. You shifted again on the clown’s lap; it was so bumpy now that he was fully hard, his erection making it difficult to sit still.

His gaze was fixed on your lips, the space his thumb had disappeared between. You backed your head away slowly, letting his thumb slide out of your mouth with a wet pop. Your hands closed over his thighs to balance yourself as you slipped off his lap, locking your eyes with his as you settled between his boots on the ground. Resting your head against his right thigh, the heady smell of piss and sweat filled your senses. His hand was on your head, fingers laced through your hair and guiding you, inward. Closer. Closer to the space he wanted your mouth, where he needed it to be.

You wet your lips with your tongue and watched as the clown worked the large buckle of his belt undone. He tugged the waist of his pants lower, just enough for his cock to spring free, smacking against his stomach, pre cum clinging to the white fur trim of his jacket. Your mouth fell open at the sight of his member, its impressive length only half as striking as its girth. He closed his gloved hand around himself, pumping up and down his shaft in a few slow, unhurried strokes. The look in his eyes was almost wicked; he knew the thought of him filling your throat intimidated you, and he liked that fear.

With his other hand locked in your hair, the clown pulled your head closer, till your mouth was poised at his tip. He pressed the fat bulb to your lips, admiring the way they parted obediently for him. Urging his hips forward, the clown pushed his cock inside your mouth. The salty taste of his skin on your tongue was unpleasant at first, but you quickly forgot about any discomfort once he’d established a rhythm back and forth inside you. The head of his cock pushed the salty taste to the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down. From there, the only challenge you faced was opening your throat enough to take him. The clown’s hand on your head continued to guide it, pumping your mouth over him like a sleeve. You needed to breathe, to swallow the air his cock was denying you. Just when you thought you might be sick, the clown removed himself from your throat, allowing you the chance to breathe, a long line of saliva trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock. He grinned down at you approvingly, patting your head as if to say ‘good girl,’ before lifting you once again by the hair, and shoving himself back between your lips.

He leaned forward and closed his other hand around your throat, feeling his cock fucking you from the inside out. Your cunt was dripping, a pearly string of your wetness slicking the ground between your knees. You squeezed your thighs together as the clown used your throat, desperate for some kind of stimulation. He could sense your desperation, and offered you his boot as a relief, wedging it between your legs to give you something to grind on. You humped it gratefully, rocking your swollen cunt against the clown’s shoe. He stilled inside your throat, buried deep, his fingers tightening in your hair to the point your scalp was stinging. A gush of semen washed down your throat, followed by another. You struggled to swallow it all, your throat constricting as the clown’s cum filled it to capacity. You gagged and choked, and he pulled you off his cock just as vomit began creeping its way up the back of your throat. His wild eyes and wide grin beamed down at you, his chest rising and falling quickly in the aftermath of his climax. Semen you hadn’t been able to swallow dripped down your chin in a thick line. When you attempted to wipe it away, the clown stopped you with a swat of his hand against yours. He wanted to see the results of his work in and on you, his work of Art.

He jerked his boot where it was wedged between your thighs, bouncing you on top of it. You whimpered at the sensation, your neglected little cunt aching and engorged. You needed to come, so badly that it hurt. The clown watched as you stayed knelt at his feet, straddling his boot and humping it like a bitch in heat, grunting and panting, no more than an animal. Your orgasm shook you to your core, your muscles gripping and sucking around nothing, clit throbbing against the clown’s boot as you rubbed yourself into it, moaning and spitting a string of obscenities into his pants leg, where your face was buried.

After your body ceased shaking, you looked up to see the clown still grinning down at you. He offered his hands for you to take hold of, and helped you back into his lap. An hour passed, and then another. You couldn’t say for certain, but you think you must have fallen asleep in the clown’s arms for an hour or so, because at some point, you noticed that the stars were beginning to fade in the sky. Morning was coming, and that meant going home. To your husband. To your abuser.

Fear roiled in your stomach, along with the alcohol and cum filling it. You despised this feeling of dread, of being scared by a shit stain of a human being like your husband. If only you could live free of his tyranny, you imagined. How much better would the world be without the influence of such a toxic man as your husband…?

���And then, the idea formed in your mind. You tilted your head to the clown’s face. Studying the blood on his hair and skin once again, you decided to ask a favor of him. “Santa,” you began, because you didn’t know what else to call him. “You’ve killed people before…haven’t you?”

The clown feigned an apologetic expression and raised his hands as if to say “guilty.”

You nodded your head, a hopeful smile on your lips. And then, you asked him: “How would you like to kill my husband?” 🔪🩸🤍

PART TWO

@arts-bloody-gloves

[kathaynesart]

Frankly Sir, the whole procedure was a joke.  For all their power they’re just a bunch of undisciplined runts.  The leader was the only one halfway decent at lying to my face and he broke upon seeing the Key.  

Were you able to gather any further information in regards to the Key’s whereabouts?  

None yet.  However, it’s obvious that these mutants were involved somehow…

…Do you suspect they had a hand in acquiring the Key for the enemy?

I… can’t say for certain yet.  However, I doubt any sort of intentional collaboration occurred. 

And what of their origin?

Obviously falsified.  But to what degree I can’t say.  The DNA samples however have been far more enlightening. 

How so?

They’re different from other mutants, human or animal.  They’re completely free of the usual abnormalities.  It’s almost as if… they were designed to be what they are. Instead of just some freak accident.  

…Your final assessment, then?  Given the information you’ve gathered it appears they should be immobilized and transported for further testing.

With all due respect, Sir, I wouldn’t dare hand them over to the labs.  I’m not about to let those coats dissect the only edge we now have against the Krang.  Frankly I don’t care if they’re turtles or humans or even more aliens. They’re the best chance we have at winning this war.  Given the state of things I feel they will side with our cause.

…Then, so long as they prove useful, I shall defer to you, Agent Bishop. Keep in mind that it is EPF‘s job not only to protect the people of Earth from threats such as the Krang but from those within our own walls.  It will be your job to keep them under constant surveillance.  And should they step out of line in the slightest…

I understand, Sir.  

~~~

I wasn't going to post this, but I have been receiving a number of questions in regards to the interview / interrogation. While I don't think this scene is necessary reading material, it does shed some light on what to expect for the Holiday Special and the boys' place within the Central Park Colony. I have way too much stuff in my head that will never see the light of day, so here, have a snippet.

NOTE: also... I may have realized that I accidentally put the wrong colony name in the interview comic >_< It should be the CENTRAL PARK COLONY that's interviewing them, NOT the LIBERTY COLONY (which is the better, less racist one that they create years later). 5,000 likes and reblogs later and it has now been corrected, oops. Ehehe I apologize for any confusion this may have caused.

[irawhiti]

while everyone's rightfully talking about oppenheimer and its flaws regarding the erasure of japanese and native american voices regarding nuclear testing and detonations, i'd like to bring up the fact that pacific islanders have also been severely impacted by nuclear testing under the pacific proving grounds, a name given by the US to a number of sites in the pacific that were designated for testing nuclear weapons after the second world war, at least 318 of which were dropped on our ancestral homes and people. i would like if more people talked about this.

important sections are bolded for ease of reading. i would appreciate this being reblogged since it's a bit alarming how few people know about this.

--

in 1946, the indigenous peoples of pikinni (the bikini atoll) were forcibly relocated off of their islands so that nuclear tests could be run on the atoll. at least 23 nuclear bombs were detonated on this inhabited island chain, including 20 hydrogen bombs. many pasifika were irreversibly irradiated, all of them were starved during multiple forced relocations, and the island chain is still unsafe to live on despite multiple cleanup attempts. there are several craters visible from space that were left on the atoll from nuclear testing.

the forced relocation was to several different small and previously uninhabited islands over several decades, none of which were able to sustain traditional lifestyles which directly lead to further starvation and loss of culture and identity. there is a reason that pacific islanders choose specific islands to inhabit including access to fresh water, food, shelter, cloth and fibre, climate, etc. and obviously none of these reasons were taken into account during the displacements.

200 pikinni were eventually moved back to the atoll in the 1970s but dangerous levels of strontium-90 were found in drinking water in 1978 and the inhabitants were found to have abnormally high levels of caesium-137 in their bodies.

--

i'm going to put the rest of this post under a readmore to improve the chances of this being reblogged by the general public. i would recommend you read the entirety of the post since it really isn't long and goes into detail about, say, entire islands being fully, utterly destroyed. like, wiped off of the map. without exaggeration, entire islands were disintegrated.

--

as i just mentioned, ānewetak (the eniwetok atoll) was bombed so violently that an entire island, āllokļap, was permanently and completely destroyed. an entire island. it's just GONE. the world's first hydrogen bomb was tested on this island. the crater is visibly larger than any of the islands next to it, more than a mile in diameter and roughly fifteen storeys deep. the hydrogen bomb released roughly 700 times the energy released during the bombing of hiroshima. this would, of course, be later outdone by other hydrogen bombs dropped on the pacific, reaching over 1000 times the energy released.

one attempt to clean up the waste on ānewetak was the construction of a large ~380ft dome, colloquially known as the tomb, on runit island. the island has been essentially turned into a nuclear waste dump where several other islands of ānewetak have moved irradiated soil to and, due to climate change, rising seawater is beginning to seep into the dome, causing nuclear waste to leak out. along with this, if a large typhoon were to hit the dome, there would be a catastrophic failure followed by a leak of nuclear waste into the surrounding land, drinking water, and ocean. the tomb was built haphazardly and quickly to cut costs.

hey, though, there's a plus side! the water in the lagoon and the soil surrounding the tomb is far more radioactive than the currently contained radioactive waste. a typhoon wouldn't cause (much) worse irradiation than the locals and ocean already currently experience, anyway! it's already gone to shit! and who cares, right, the only ""concern"" is that it will just further poison the drinking water of the locals with radioactive materials. this can just be handwaved off as a nonissue, i guess. /s

--

at least 36 bombs were detonated in the general vicinity of kiritimati (christmas island) and johnson atoll. while johnson atoll has seemingly never been inhabited by polynesians, kiritimati was used intermittently by polynesians (and later on, micronesians) for several hundred years. many islands in the pacific were inhabited seasonally and likewise many pacific islanders should be classified as nomadic but it has always been convenient for the goal of white supremacy and imperalism to claim that semi-inhabited areas are completely uninhabited, claimable pieces of terra nullius.

regardless of the current lack of inhabitants on these islands, the nuclear detonations have caused widespread ecological damage to otherwise delicate island ecosystems and have further spread nuclear fallout across the entirety of the pacific ocean.

--

while the marshall islands, micronesia, and the surrounding areas of melanesia and polynesia were (and still are) by far the worst affected by these atrocities, the entirety of the pacific has been irradiated to some extent due to ocean/wind currents freely spreading nuclear fallout through the water and air. all in all, at least 318 nuclear bombs were detonated across the pacific. i say "at least" because these are just the events that have been declassified and frankly? i wouldn't be shocked to find out they didn't stop there.

please don't leave the atomic destruction of the pacific out of this conversation. we've been displaced, irradiated, murdered, poisoned, and otherwise mass exterminated by nuclear testing on purpose and we are still suffering because of it. many of us have radiation poisoning, many of us have no safe ancestral home anymore. i cannot fucking state this enough, ISLANDS WERE DISINTEGRATED INTO NONEXISTENCE.

look, this isn't blaming people for not talking about us or knowing the extent of these issues, but it's... insidiously ironic that i haven't seen a single post that even mentions pacific islanders in a conversation about indigenous voices/voices of colour being ignored when it comes to nuclear tests and the devastation they've caused.

[soursherbat]

LAMB X BISHOP MASTERPOST YEAAAA!!!

(original template link)

this genuinely took me so long but i needed to explore my ship dynamics with ramzi and his bishops! more details under the cut if you want to know more- warning this post is LONG!!!:

[edit: i was obviously rlly sleep deprived while writing this so im editing it for better readability, including using more consistent pronouns for everyone bc reading it back this post. was very hard to parse 💀]

in order, just adding notes and addendums :3c im super sleep deprived so im trying my best but i need to yap about them

ramzi's pronouns are it/he/they!

narinder;

initially a very slow burn relationship, this sheet shows them at their peak. it takes a very long time for the lamb to forgive narinder, and vice versa, but once they're over their differences they're committed.

notes;

he/they for narinder :3c he's bisexual with a preference for masc presenting people! (using he/him for this post)

prefers to be the big spoon but will allow ramzi to take that spot if it really insists on it

reaallly loves to wear the lamb's fleeces and cloaks (the only clothing of theirs that will fit him) but is too proud to directly ask for them

narinder really does not like most people- the only ones he usually socializes with are ramzi and his siblings, possibly a follower he can tolerate for a few minutes. if ramzi is talking to others while narinder is shadowing him he tends to just flick his tail and sulk quietly until his lamb gives him attention again

narinder isn't great with words, he prefers to show ramzi his love with physical affection (in private) and acts of service, while ramzi is more than willing to shower narinder with loving words and acts of devotion

ramzi refuses to confess its feelings to narinder first, full stop. narinder waits and waits, but eventually gives in and tells ramzi how he feels first- ramzi is still feeling bitter and betrayed by narinder, not appreciating them snatching it from its peaceful death to be a tool in his games. they're both incredibly conflicted, it takes a long while for them to work their differences out. its not something that can be solved with a single conversation, but eventually they come to terms with everything that's happened and make amends

ramzi wouldn't actually squash the bug- it'd prefer to just grab it and take it out of whatever space its invaded, narinder will just smack it and be done with it

im just applying the driving one if i ever make a modern au lmfao

narinder cannot cook to save his damn life after being locked up for so long- ramzi had to learn quickly being raised by ratau, i'll be real i dont think that rat knows how to cook

that prickly cat would prefer not to show his love for the lamb in public, but he might sneak a kiss while no one is looking... ramzi however doesn't care, though it does like to fluster narinder a little by flirting while others are around

these two would kill for each other, narinder is practically begging the lamb to let him do so actually- nari is described as the lamb's shadow (affectionately) by most because of how often he's seen just following it around the cult. god help you if you confess your love to the lamb while he's around- though ramzi does get pretty jealous if it sees anyone making eyes at his special kitty...

nari is 4,000 years old virgin to me lmao. ramzi has had a few relationships before narinder, it actually marries shamura before nari- they're not beating the toxic yaoi allegations any time soon they were still battling their resentment around that time

i'll touch on the spicier dynamics in a dedicated post sometime >:3c that'll apply to the rest too-

i wouldn't describe narinder as being awkward, but moreso stoic and lost really. he's also just incredibly pissed off with ramzi, feeling robbed of his rightful status as a god and feeling jealous of everything its built for itself in such a small amount of time- later on he's more flustered than nervous or awkward because that damned lamb wont stop flirting with him

gods help you if narinder even sees you making eyes at the lamb. he's incredibly possessive over his former vessel, its perceived rejection of him made something in him snap and they want to possess it, even if he knows that's not exactly plausible... he's normal, i swear (<-lying) ramzi returns some of that energy, it really does not like followers flirting with its favorite cat- i'll be the first to admit that they've got some toxic codependency going on

-

leshy;

leshy uses any pronouns! he really just don't care that much, same with his sexuality (using he/him for simplicity for this post)

these two fight over who gets to be the big spoon, since they're nearly even in height (leshy tries to argue his branches make him taller) it makes it easier for them to trade big/little spoon positions- but theyre so competitive they end up wrestling over it

leshy can't even see the clothes he's wearing, but he likes the idea of ramzi matching with him, even if he won't directly admit that

ramzi is rarely called by name when leshy is around, it's always 'lambzi', 'lamby', 'cottonball', or any other seemingly sarcastic pet name he can come up with for it- meanwhile ramzi often calls him 'wiggler' or 'wormy'

compared to leshy, ramzi is a little less outgoing. leshy loves to be the center of attention, he loves to pull pranks and cause mischief whenever he can.

ramzi's quick to let leshy know he is loved through any means, though surprisingly leshy is a bit more inconspicuous about showing his affections for his lamb through old traditions it clearly has no clue about but leshy gets a bit of joy watching its confusion (shamura tells it later-)

these two have a pretty easygoing relationship, at first leshy is upset about his lost godhood but he quickly begins to like staying with the lamb when he learns how accommodating and, frankly, extremely chaotic it is- they get along very well and have a teasing, poking and earnestly soft relationship rather early on. leshy admits his feelings first, mainly getting fed up that ramzi hasnt confessed that it obviously likes him by that point

neither of them mind bugs, leshy actually likes them quite a bit. they'd prefer to catch and release rather than smash them

the poor worm is blind of course he cant cook!! he might be able to if he really focused on building muscle memory and focusing his senses but he's honestly just too lazy to bother, heket's cooking is better anyway

leshy doesn't care if anyone is looking, he loves his lamb! he gets a little embarrassed when they know its siblings are around, but she does get a kick out of knowing he's making narinder jealous

ramzi would lay down his life for his precious chaotic grub, it knows leshy is more than capable but it can't help but worry sometimes- leshy knows ramzi can handle itself so he's pretty relaxed about everything, unless ramzi comes home particularly hurt

i like to think leshy was a bachelor in his time... why not?? he's the bishop of chaos, im sure he's started a love triangle intentionally to watch them fight over him- ramzi however is a little less experienced in romance

leshy has not an ounce of awkwardness in his body, ramzi's a little awkward when he says something particularly unhinged but otherwise they match each other's freak a little too well

leshy would never admit to ramzi that the smell of anyone else stuck to his wool makes leshy a little jealous... another reason he likes to lend his clothes to ramzi, really-

-

heket;

she/they/he for heket, she's bisexual with a preference toward women (using she/her for simplicity on this post)

heket is the big spoon, no questions asked. she loves to cradle that lamb in her arms and it is NOT one to complain about that

heket doesnt lend out her clothes very often, but she likes to see how baggy they are on ramzi- she quite likes seeing it wake up wearing her shirts...

ramzi is incredibly formal with heket, usually referring to her by name or some honorific to show its respect (something she appreciates greatly)- meanwhile heket is always referring to the lamb by anything but its name, really

heket's level of social battery depends on the day, some days she would prefer not to speak to anyone, others she's more outgoing

heket shows her affection by making sure ramzi isn't overworking itself, making sure it's eating and sleeping- she knows it can care for itself, but she just wants to protect her lamb.

there's absolutely no way heket would swallow her pride and confess her brewing feelings for ramzi, she waits very patiently for it to finally get its nerve up and admit that it wants to pursue a relationship with her- after (mostly) healing her throat, she doesn't feel so lonely in the cult once her voice returns and she begins to feel conflicted about ramzi... she wants to hate him, but it's doing everything they can to help her siblings and she can't help but respect and admire it for that, she would admit that she would never consider it if she was still a god-

heket thinks bugs are cute, she'll either catch and release them or keep them in a little container for a bit (she's never beating the weird little sister allegations to me)

ramzi's cooking definitely is not as good as heket's, if it cooks a meal the whole cult is asking when it's heket's turn next LMAO-

PDA ruins heket's cool and stoic exterior in her eyes, though she can't just say that to the lamb- she'll gladly give it a hug or a kiss when nobody's looking, though

honestly, ramzi is just protective over all of the bishops. it feels terribly for killing them repeatedly and making them suffer in purgatory, and it never wants to see them suffer again- heket knows the lamb is strong, she's seen it with her own eyes. that doesn't stop her from worrying for it a little when it leaves on a crusade, however...

heket has some relationship experience, though its been a WHILE- forneus and ramzi are her most recent romantic endeavors and she's incredibly awkward about both of them

heket is insanely awkward, she tries to maintain a cool exterior but it's so hard when that damned lamb is so cute and that sweet cat mom is so kind and shaped- whats a woman to do in her situation??

she can get a little bit jealous if her buttons are pushed on the wrong day, but other than that ramzi and heket have a pretty open relationship

-

kallamar;

any pronouns for kallamar! though he/she are most preferred, she's very lax about his gender and loves to experiment (using he/she interchangeably, lamb is referred to by it/its for simplicity)

despite being nearly a full foot and a half taller than ramzi, kallamar loves to be its little spoon! he feels so safe in his lamb's embrace, she would never leave if it was possible

none of her clothes would fit the lamb, but he does have clothing made for it often! he'll be damned if he lets ramzi walk around looking anything less than presentable, even if its naked it must be TASTEFULLY naked- (though his definition of what that means is a bit nebulous. ramzi's convinced he just wants to ogle)

they love to make up pet names for each other, 'mari' and 'kallie' are ramzi's favorites to use for its precious husband. kallamar is particularly fond of calling ramzi his puppy, often flustering it-

kallamar is a YAPPER and she will not shut up about how much he loves her lamb! ramzi doesn't mind it, but she's often talking so much that it can't properly find the words to express it back- so it gives gifts often, knowing how much its wife loves to adorn himself in jewelry and silks!

ramzi is actually a little bit intimidated by kallamar's experience in love and how pretty he is, kallamar ends up making a very dramatic love confession in front of everyone, totally flustering ramzi (though it has to admit it really loves the dedication!)

he is TERRIFIED of bugs kallamar will shriek so loudly if she finds even a small beetle anywhere near her living space- ramzi often finds itself catching the little bugs while kallie screams bloody murder in the corner

kallamar absolutely can cook but he doesn't want the responsibility of cooking entire meals for the whole cult so she intentionally cooks like shit to avoid it- ramzi catches onto that pretty quickly though

these two need to get a ROOM the confessional is NOT to be used in that way!!!

kallamar's overprotective attitude mainly comes from a place of not wanting the lamb's image to be ruined, he'll tend to its makeup and wardrobe, even helping to enforce loyalty amongst its flock to keep its image pristine- and kallamar is just an easy bullying target, ramzi is Very quick to put an end to that!

kallamar is absolutely more experienced than ramzi, though he's no less dedicated to it. it makes their relationship very calm, there's very little tension between them!

ramzi is very awkward around kallamar at first, he's pretty indignant and a bit cruel to it during the first few weeks- once ramzi begins offering him gifts and praise she warms up rather quickly, however. ramzi's disarmingly cute appearance and dirty mouth tends to make kallamar a nervous mess sometimes, though...

there's not a single ounce of jealousy between these two 🧍‍♂️ they both understand that they're dedicated to one another, and can dedicate themselves to others without compromising their bond

-

shamura;

they/it for mura! i feel that they enjoy experimenting with their clothing in relation to their gender, but they prefer neutral pronouns (using they/them for mura and he/him for ramzi for readability)

these two take turns on who gets to be the big spoon, though usually shamura claims that spot

shamura loves to weave clothes for ramzi! they enjoy seeing his face light up when they incorporate designs ramzi has shown them that sheep often wore, wanting to keep that memory alive for him

they're pretty formal at first, but the two of them can't help but call each other by loving nicknames once they've become comfortable with each other- ramzi often calls shamura 'softie' or 'dearest'

shamura prefers to keep to themself, though they've grown rather attached to webber. they've basically adopted the little creature, that's their son...

once clarity has returned to shamura through ramzi's healing, they have a better grasp on their words- but they still struggle to word their feelings a lot of the time. they try their best, but they find it easier to give gifts or show their affections with physical intimacy when words fail them

shamura is incredibly paranoid and wary of ramzi's presence when they're first indoctrinated, until they finally break bread and reach an understanding, shamura doesn't even consider the lamb could feel anything but hatred and resentment toward them. they assume that he wants revenge, but learns that he just wants to help them- it takes a bit longer for the fear to truly leave shamura, but when they never feel that dagger in their back, they begin to soften he clearly isnt lying to them, he's helped all of their siblings become as happy as he can- and he asks nothing in return of them? it feels too good to be true, but they can't help but trust him eventually ramzi confesses first, and is initially (softly) rejected... but theyre not entirely opposed! mainly conflicted, for a while-

they both love bugs, obviously- though sometimes ramzi gets bitten while trying to show shamura the little spiders he's captured

shamura likes to cook but they prefer liquid only foods- it's not horrible, but sometimes they want more variety

shamura is a bit shy about their relationship with the lamb, they're the least experienced with this sort of thing out of all of the bishops- war and reason have no room for love and compassion, after all. they're learning, with ramzi's help

if someone even LOOKS at ramzi the wrong way, shamura is the first to come to the lamb's defense. both a form of devotion, claiming ramzi as their charge they'd guard with their life, and a form of facing their grief- they'd ended ramzi's life once, they don't want to see it hurt anymore

these two match each other's freak so well its scary- you dont wanna see what happens in the mating tent when these two are in there!!

after shamura's initial wariness and shortness with ramzi fades, they become incredibly shy and awkward- they don't know how to navigate all these new feelings, and they don't really know who to turn to for advice

shamura is very possessive of their lamb- they were the first to be wed by him, after all- not to mention i personally think them being a spider influences this quite a bit,

WOAW THATS IT!!! holy shit thats a lot of text.... anyway if u have any questions abt any of them or want more clarification feel free to send me asks i love to yap abt them all <3

oh boy im not looking forward to putting all the tags on this

[cottonlemonade]

Dating You For A Bet [Part 2]

word count: 1756 || avg. reading time: 8 mins.

pairing: University AU!Matsukawa x chubby!Reader

genre: angst

warnings: bullying

[part 1]

The following days were miserable. Between dodging Matsukawa lurking outside your dorm and having to see him in most of your seminars and lectures it was hard to pretend that you didn’t care, much to the delight of the fellow students who apparently had nothing better to do or collectively lost their WiFi and were starved for entertainment. They threw glances between the two of you as if following a tennis match, although you were stubbornly pretending to follow the lesson while Issei just listlessly stared at his closed book.

He had tried to talk to you after lectures, during lunch, or when he ran into you at the convenience store but to no avail. You remained strong, frequently reminding yourself that everything from your first kiss to the first time sleeping together was solely done to win a bet. A bet! To him, you were nothing more than some easily manipulated, naive girl from a country he probably didn’t even know how to spell. The three crumpled notes from that day were still at the bottom of your trash can, unread, and now buried under more paper scraps, gum wrappers, and empty juice boxes. Your roommate hadn’t noticed or questioned why you didn’t leave in the evenings anymore to go on dates. Chances were that she had read about the whole thing online.

You were tired of it all. The initial burst of energy you felt, fueled by nothing but spite, had finally ebbed away and at this point, Christmas was drawing nearer and nearer and you ran on fumes. Having tried to deep dive into homework and assignments had left you fatigued and vulnerable, so it came to no surprise that a month after the break up you couldn’t take it anymore. You had figured that the other students would eventually move on to the next shiny thing but not so. A small group of boys and girls stood in front of the library with coffee cups steaming in their hands. You braced yourself inwardly. You just wanted to quickly return a book and then you’d be on your way again. When you approached them they interrupted their conversation to very obviously look you up and down as if judging your post-break-up fashion choices.

“I just knew there had to be a reason for him dating her.”, one of them said, deliberately loud enough for you to hear.

“Oh my god, I know right? I can’t believe she fell for it. I mean, what would someone like him ever see in someone like her.”, another piped up.

“Honestly kudos to him, I dunno if I could have gotten it up with her in bed.” They laughed.

You stopped on your way up the stairs. Matsukawa stood in front of you just coming out of the building, a tattered, well-annotated book in hand and his bag half-hearted slung over his shoulder.

The group of friends gasped quietly and hushed each other, waiting.

“Y/n…”, Issei said softly, then snapped at the others, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?!”

They laughed again but hurried inside.

“Y/-“

He couldn’t even finish the word. You had already turned around and walked away. And he would have let you get the space you needed if he didn’t see you cry. Readjusting his bag he slowly made his way down the steps and followed you, a couple of meters behind.

Whenever you missed your family he had tried to bring a bit of home to you with a traditional dish he knew you loved - that he usually messed up - or by watching a Disney movie in your native language while snuggling up on his bed under a blanket. But what had helped you most of all when you were upset was always a simple hug. And he never let go first. He made sure that you knew he would hold you as long as you needed. When you first told him you loved him he was wracked with guilt. He had since come to realize how messed up the whole thing was and tried to get out of it. He lied when his friends asked him if he had completed the bet but his roommate had only patted him on the back and accused him of being modest. And he, Issei, had forced a smile and accepted the money feeling like the most disgusting person in the world. The money still sat untouched in his sock drawer. He didn’t want to use it. He felt ashamed of himself but whenever he spent time with you he was weirdly glad that he agreed to the bet. Otherwise, who knows if he would have walked up to you as he had. Privately, to make himself feel better, he thought, of course he would have.

He would have noticed eventually how amazing you were.

He would have eventually seen how much you two had in common, that in all actuality you were his dream girl.

He would have. Eventually. Wouldn’t he?

Probably not, he had to admit. Ever since puberty hit him like a truck he walked around with a newfound level of confidence. This must have been what it was like for Oikawa back then - girls doing a double take and smiling when they saw him, little admiring love notes tucked quickly into his workbook when he wasn’t looking. All the attention slowly rose to his head and he became arrogant, leading to agreeing to a bet he would have punched his friends for in high school.

Hands in his pockets and breath forming little clouds in front of him, Issei’s heart broke all over again when he caught a small sound from you like a sniffle or a sob. As if on reflex his hand slid into the front of his bag to check for tissues, then remembered you probably wouldn’t accept them.

You finally came to a halt at a bench near your dorm. You spun around and stared at him icily through red puffy eyes.

“Stop following me. You know this is creepy, right?”

“I prefer to see it as romantic.”

You scoffed. “It’s only romantic if feelings are reciprocated.”

He swallowed hard. “… I deserved that.” Then he reached into his bag and retrieved a water bottle, walked a little closer, and held it out.

“Here, drink something. I can see you squinting like you do when you’re about to get a massive headache, come on.”

You had a retort ready to launch but your head was starting to pound from the crying so with a scowl you took it and gulped down a few sips.

“None of this makes what you did okay.”, you said, unwavering.

He nodded. “I know. - Can I hold you anyway? Just til you stop crying.”

His question made new tears well in your eyes and he closed the gap between you. Before he hugged you, he hesitated in case you would kick and scream if he did. When you only continued to cry he wrapped his arms around you. At first, it was like hugging a mannequin. Then he felt you shiver and sob harder and he squeezed you tighter.

This, the warmth of him, smell of him, soothing murmurs in your ear, made it all too easy to forget for a moment why he wasn’t yours anymore.

You subconsciously grabbed onto his jacket and he started slowly swaying from side to side. He missed you so damn much. His eyes began to sting.

And on reflex like he always had, he pressed his lips against your temple, then against your cheek, then your lips. You stiffened for a moment, then returned the kiss. With his heart swelling in his chest, he cupped your cheeks to wipe away the tears, but you were already pushing him away.

“No! You can’t just… this is not okay. You hurt me! You … you broke my heart! I feel embarrassed! And pathetic. And betrayed! Don't you understand?!”

His vision blurred and he lowered his head to stare at your shoes again to hide that he started crying as well. He just nodded at first, then took a shallow breath to calm down a little.

“I know.”, he said, his voice thick and raspy. He cleared his throat, “What I did was horrible. And immature. And there is no way I can take it back. But I do love you.”

“Tch.”

“So much. I don’t want to be without you.”

“Would you give me another chance?”, you asked suddenly.

He looked up. “What?”

“If you were in my shoes. If I did to you what you did to me. Could you just get over that? Imagine if someone way out of your league started flirting with you because they thought it was funny. Because they wanted to see if they could make you fall in love. For fun.”

“That’s not… I’m so so sorry, Y/n.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I don’t know what else to do! Please, tell me, I’ll do anything!”

“There is nothing you can do! I told you it’s over!”

“I refuse to believe that! Let me show you how much I love you! I know that some part of you still loves me, too. And I know you’ll forgive me eventually because you’re a much better person than I am.”

“I think you severely underestimate just how petty I can be and how much I love holding grudges.”, you retorted and the smallest smile twitched on his lips.

There was a pause in which his expression turned gentler again and he used the sleeve of his jacket to mop up the tears gathering on his chin. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Actually show me that you’re sorry? - And find better friends.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”, he said firmly, “You’ll see.”

“Hm hm.”, you said doubtfully and held out the bottle to him, “Thanks for the water. I should get going.”

“Book club tonight, right?”, he asked. It was still set as a permanent reminder in his phone’s calendar so that he’d come to pick you up afterward to walk you to your dorm.

“Actually… I have a date.”

You waited for a moment before you dared to look at him again. His face had fallen and he seemed at a loss for words. When you brushed past him you half expected him to grab your hand again, to try to talk you out of it. But nothing. He stood exactly where you left him and so you went inside.

tags because I genuinely appreciate all your comments and reblogs: @samoankpoper21 @garouaddict @gojoscloset @multi-fandom-fanfic @crazyyanderefangirlfan

[part 3]