#same goes for the warlords

[violet-moonstone]

love being obsessed with an extremely obscure character and appreciating her mostly for headcanons that ive come up with

like shes not an OC but for my purposes, she kinda funtions as one considering how little content she's in

[kacievvbbbb]

Something about Vegapunk using the dna and blood of a caged and experimented on child to create more caged child experiments and the cycles we perpetuate.

Because what does it mean that all that King has left as proof, that the lunarians were real, that they existed as a tribe, as a people, are seven manufactured children he doesn’t even know about, enslaved as weapons to the government that wiped out the culture they’ll never get to be a part of, and Alber himself another enslaved child lost to something he’ll never fully know.

And what of the warlords? Already young once and hurt by their government, young again and slaves to it. Boa looking at a version of her practically pulled out of time stuck in her worst nightmare or Jimbei looking at a version of himself living out a past he escaped by the skin of his teeth but so many he loved didn’t, even Doffy once again at the mercy of the people that already abandoned him, has Kuma not suffered enough? Given enough, is this child version of him doomed to repeat the same path he already could not escape from . Property of the world government, beholden to the celestial dragons, this version of me that cannot go free?

It’s interesting that Vegapunk joined the government so that he could do the most good, but look at the long line of people right infront of him that he’s hurt with his own hands.

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

I love playing god for generations to come. (having professors ask me my opinions for future coursework- ive apparently just added pre class assignments the next time my professor teaches the course)

[bottombaron]

"nbc Hannibal is a totally different show than WWDITS!" I hear as if Nandor isn't just the complete himbofication of one Hannibal "I laugh at my own jokes and have childish hissy fits when I don't get my way" Lecter

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part two]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, clothed ejaculation, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: hey guys, i'm literally so nervous posting this... it's been sitting in my drafts for like a month now and i finally worked up the courage to post after spending a couple hours editing :( i'm literally scheduling this to post at like 3am my time so i'm not awake when it goes live i'm so anxious bahaha. the start of this part is a bit slow, pls hold on because theres some light smut and angst at the end. i have plans for further parts that'll look more into the other avengers finding out and the development between bucky and readers relationship and their shared healing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

It was only on rare occasions that the full team of Avengers (and co.) were in the same room. A momentous historical moment, in fact, normally reserved for two particular occasions:

The world was ending (in some gloriously diabolical way that usually involved aliens, interdimensional warlords, or some ancient, forgotten god with a vendetta) or

Tony Stark was throwing another one of his famously exclusive penthouse parties (which, despite being ‘exclusive,’ still managed to include half of New York—most of whom showed up just to gawk at the Avengers like a travelling circus act sent to entertain them personally.)

Today, it seemed, was neither of those occasions. Thor and the rest of the Asgardians—Bruce Banner included, oddly enough—were busy rebuilding after the destruction of Asgard. Wanda and Vision were off playing happy family elsewhere, and Clint was busy with his own quickly expanding family. The others, agents, specialists, the people whose names you never bothered to remember, were preoccupied with their own missions. Which left you here, filed neatly into the elusive extra category. Not quite an Avenger. Too valuable to be let loose, too unpredictable to be fully trusted.

You leant back in your chair, only half-listening to the conversation beside you. The skin around your thumbnail was raw. You picked at it absentmindedly, peeling back the edge where it had already started to flake, a sting flaring along the nail. You were thinking—too much, maybe—so you let them talk, let yourself disappear as they debated which bar had the strongest drinks and the least pathetic men.

The three of you were early. By some miracle, morning training had ended ahead of schedule. Natasha had wiped the floor with you, to the point where it probably would’ve been more productive to stay on the mat rather than waste your energy hauling yourself back up.

“What do you think?” It took you a second to realise Yelena was talking to you, elbows propped on the table, chin resting in her hand. She was watching you expectantly, sharp eyes narrowed.

You didn’t look up. “I’m not coming.”

She sighed dramatically. “You never hang out with us.” She leant back in her chair with an exaggerated huff, muttering under her breath, “So mysterious and cool. You think you’re better than us?” 

Natasha watched on amused, the redhead poised as always. “She doesn’t want to drink in front of us in case she spills her secrets.”

You scoffed. “What secrets?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha leant forward, watching you a little too closely now, like she was gauging your reaction. “How about how that mission went with Barnes?”

Ever since the gala mission, the two had been trying to get you alone, a few drinks in, hoping for something—a slip, an offhanded remark, anything that would confirm whatever hunches they had. You knew what they were fishing for. They weren’t subtle.

You just weren’t playing.

Neither you nor Bucky had said a word about it.

That, apparently, was suspicious.

“She is right, you know. Neither of you will say a word about it. I’m beginning to think something happened—” Yelena cut over her sister with a grin.

“Nothing happened,” you interrupted smoothly, finally lifting your eyes from the wreckage of your thumbnail. “You keep asking, but you’re not going to uncover some dirty secret. Sorry to disappoint."

“Then why the silence? No one would care if you fucked him, you could just plead innocence, overcome by playing the perfect, doting wife—”

You shot her a look, one withering enough to turn bone to dust and ego to rubble. 

“I mean… maybe people would care, but I wouldn’t judge you! Super soldier, metal arm… so hot, or whatever.” Yelena prattled on, and you ignored her, exhaling through your nose.

"I think he’s just mortified that people assume something did happen. He’s got enough brooding energy as it is." You muttered. 

“I just don’t believe nothing happened, trapped in that hotel room together for a week. Apparently, you were convincing enough to keep the targets off your scent, and we all know Barnes’ acting is as stiff as a cadaver on ice—”

Your face twisted into a look of exasperation before you could control yourself, straightening in your seat. “God, you two really are like vultures, picking around for the slightest bit of gossip—”

“Wow, defensive—” 

“Isn’t that the joy in life? Digging for gossip?” Natasha cut back in with a sharp smirk.

“You two are insufferable!” You interrupted, slapping your palms onto your thighs. "I think I’ll keep my secrets. I’ll leave the both of you to continue plotting this fantastical mystery you’ve created in your minds—”

“It’s only fun because you get so worked up about it,” Natasha cut back with a grin you could only describe as predatory. “Plus, I do love watching Rogers squirm listening to all the theories."

“You know,” Yelena mused, swirling the thought around before letting it slip, “I don’t think Steve is as innocent as we think he is. I’m pretty sure I heard him and Sharon—”

She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and the rest of the team filtered in.

You schooled your reaction, easily slipping back into the picture of nonchalance. Bucky’s blue eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before darting away. It had been two weeks since your first ‘lesson’. Two weeks of carefully measured distance, of subtle glances that never lasted too long, of conversations that stayed just professional enough to not raise questions.

Bucky had been doing well—shockingly well, actually. He was receptive to your touch, followed your guidance with careful precision, and was beginning to trust you, bit by bit. You hadn’t gone much further than heated make-out sessions that usually ended with him finishing in his pants, but you weren’t in a rush. You were still feeling out his comfort zones, making sure he never felt cornered or overwhelmed. There wasn’t exactly a handbook for this kind of arrangement.

You slumped in your seat even further, shaking off the feeling. It was fine. No one knew.

Still, the way Bucky avoided looking in your direction made something prickle under your skin.

You were certain the super soldier would combust on the spot if any of his coworkers caught wind of what the two of you had been up to. Hell, he turned red enough just having you perched in his lap during lessons, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. And yet, during meetings, training, or any moment the two of you were forced into the same orbit, you couldn’t help but wonder—did he think about those moments? Did his mind drift back to the ghost of your touch the same way yours did?

You weren’t usually the sentimental type. Nostalgia was a luxury, a foolish indulgence you had long since trained yourself out of. But there was something about him—his quiet hesitance, his wary but willing surrender—that stuck with you. It was a service, nothing more. A transaction in which you gained no tangible benefit, so why did you linger on it? Why did the thought of his gaze meeting yours send a sharp thrill through your chest? Was it because he treated you like a person instead of a tool? Because he understood pieces of you no one else even tried to?

He wasn’t like the others. Never cruel, never greedy. He never reached for more than you offered, never treated you like something to be taken. Maybe that was why you kept coming back. Maybe, for once, you liked the control. Liked the feeling of choosing, of being wanted on your own terms. Of knowing that, for once, you weren’t a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings.

You swallowed the thought down and let your gaze flicker to him. Bucky sat curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink into nothing despite the broadness of his frame. He looked like a wounded animal—no, worse. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened, his hair unwashed and slightly greasy at the roots. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t taking care of himself. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out.

He stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, shoulders hunched between Steve and Sam, who were deep in conversation about something you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on. And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, that quiet, hollow stillness of his sat uneasily in your chest.

You had… concerns for Bucky after what he had confessed to you. But you weren’t sure what to do with those concerns. Or those confessions. You held them close to your chest, unwilling to betray his trust, but understanding instead. You knew it was probably irresponsible of you to sit on them, but you didn’t want to overstep. Besides, Steve and Sam didn’t know you. You’d had maybe three conversations with each of them, most of them mission-related. To them, you were just Natasha and Yelena’s friend—Red Room collateral. You weren’t social, you weren’t a part of their circle, and you sure as hell weren’t someone they trusted.

And if they knew about your arrangement with Bucky… well, you didn’t want to think about what conclusions they’d draw—

“Hi!”

The sudden, chirpy voice nearly startled you out of your seat.

Kate Bishop had arrived—loud, bright, and effortlessly excitable, like a golden retriever in human form. She had that kind of energy that made you suspicious. No one was that happy all the time. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, messy strands framing her face. She was dressed in casual, slightly dishevelled layers, looking like she had just come from sparring but didn’t have the same dead-in-the-eyes exhaustion you did after a training session.

“I’m Kate!” she announced, beaming at you like you were about to be best friends. She pushed her hand out. “Kate Bishop.”

You blinked at her, ignoring her outstretched offer. “I know.”

Her grin didn’t waver, and she coolly withdrew her hand.

“You’re Clint and Yelena’s pet project.” You spoke again, your tone perhaps a little more hostile than necessary. 

“It’s apprentice, actually.” Yelena cut in before Kate could argue. “You know, you’re starting to hurt my feelings. Stark has an apprentice, so why are you always giving me shit—”

“Oh yes, Stark’s pet project.” You gave an exaggerated sigh. “What was his name? Paxton, Peyton, or was it Parker?”

“Did I ask for your opinion, K.G.B. Barbie?” Tony Stark’s voice cut in lazily as he walked past, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place—which, unfortunately for you, he did. As usual, he didn’t look pleased to see you, and the scent of entitlement wafted off of him in waves.

You met his gaze evenly. "No, but I was under the impression that unsolicited opinions were your love language, considering the amount your hand out.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Remind me why we let you sit at the big kids’ table again?”

"You don’t." You glanced at Stark, unimpressed. "But I was invited, shockingly enough. Or are you reckless enough to ignore Fury’s instructions now?"

There it was. That smirk. He smirked at you, and you knew in your heart he had the foulest, most cutting rebuke to lay upon you. He hadn’t even opened his mouth, and you were already grinding your teeth in frustration as you stared back at him, eyes locked onto his smug face—

Kate cleared her throat, stepping in before you and Stark could escalate any further. “So, what do you do?”

Stark held his tongue, so in return, you slid your gaze back over to a nervous Kate. And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t help yourself. Natasha had already shot you a warning look, but the redhead's trained patience for the playboy Stark had unfortunately never extended to you. 

"Infiltration, espionage, recon." You shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I gather information, and then the big boys get to swoop in, throw a few punches, and take all the credit. Isn’t that right, Stark?"

Maybe you had woken up grouchier than usual—not that you could even call the few hours of restless tossing and turning sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that you’d spent the morning eating the training mat, then had to suffer through Natasha and Yelena’s constant interrogations that had soured your mood. Either way, you weren’t exactly in the best headspace to deal with him.

Truthfully, you thought Stark was a prick, and unfortunately, you had never been exactly shy about that opinion. You and Stark had just never really clicked. Not in the way he had with the others, not in the way Natasha had seamlessly folded herself into the team, or the way Yelena had bulldozed her way in, loud and brash. You existed somewhere in between, tolerated but always lingering on the outside. It wasn’t that you didn’t get along with them. You could banter with Sam, hold an easy conversation with Steve when necessary and trade dry humour with Clint in a way that made you feel almost at home. Even Stark, for all his grating personality, wasn’t always intolerable. But there was always something between you and them—an unspoken distance, a careful line you never crossed. They didn’t entirely trust you yet, and you never gave them a reason to try.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because trust had never been a luxury you could afford.

Your job was reading people—analysing, dissecting, and manipulating. You understood them better than they understood themselves, saw the cracks in their foundations and knew precisely where to apply pressure. It made you valuable. Indispensable even, but it also made people wary. The team knew what you were, even if they didn’t know the full extent of what you had been. But deep down, you knew they were smart enough to assemble the pieces.

So you kept yourself at arm’s length. You wanted to believe you could have that feeling—belonging. But wanting and trusting were two very different things that you did not dare confuse.

Kate’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stark interjected, leaning against the desk. “She’s just a pretty face we send in to distract while the rest of us do the actual work.”

There it was.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. This was your hubris. You could already hear Natasha’s scolding—You really shouldn’t egg him on like that. The two of you are as bad as each other, always trying to get under each other's skin. A bunch of alleycats fighting it’s ridiculous—

Somewhere across the table, Bucky’s eyes had shot up. The movement startled you, and your eyes met briefly. It was milliseconds, maybe not even that, but as soon as you registered your brief exchange, Bucky shied away like a spooked animal.

And when you looked back at Kate, Natasha and Yelena, you found that Natasha had been watching the whole thing. She didn’t speak, didn’t even react. There wasn’t the slightest twitch in her brow or twinge in her lips. She stared like some kind of omnipotent god, and deep down, you knew. You knew she knew. 

Maybe she didn’t know the full extent, but the way she stared… it made you shudder.

Fuck.

Kate, however, frowned, turning back to you. “That’s not true, right?”

“Of course not,” you deadpanned, not letting the dread pooling in your stomach let you miss a beat. “I do much more than look pretty. Sometimes I get to torture people—”

Kate’s face pale, then through several stages of grief, trying to figure out if you were joking. 

You weren’t about to help her.

“Relax, Kate Bishop, she is messing with you,” Yelena said with an amused grin, though it was tight. A silent warning behind her eyes told you to keep your mouth shut.

Kate still looked mildly concerned, but she shook it off quickly. “Okay, but—so you can fight?”

“Of course.”

“Not as well as me,” Yelena cut in before you could elaborate, grinning smugly. “Don’t worry, Kate. You’re being trained by the best of the best. Me? I am the best. You know this.”

You rolled your eyes, and Kate beamed. That girl was too fucking cute for her own good.

The door swung open before anyone could respond to Yelena. Fury stepped inside, long coat sweeping behind him, his boots heavy against the floor. His usual expression—somewhere between perpetually pissed off and quietly judgmental—was firmly in place beneath the shadow of his eyepatch.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Fury said, his voice edged with dry amusement, though his gaze flicked between you all with razor-sharp scrutiny.

"No, sir," Steve said, back straightening. Natasha, ever composed, merely leaned back in her chair. Stark didn’t even spare a glance.

“First off, I’d like to extend my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for your attendance,” Fury began, spreading his arms in a broad, insincere gesture, his tone so dry it could have turned the room to dust. “I know how much of a hardship it is, taking an hour out of your busy lives to sit in a comfortable chair and listen to me talk.”

Sam snorted. Yelena smirked. Bucky, as usual, remained unreadable.

Fury’s eye landed on you and Bucky before he tossed a slim tablet onto the table, the display already flashing with the text of a mission report you hardly cared to examine in detail.

“Congratulations are in order. The gala infiltration went exceptionally well despite the odds stacked against you.”

You dipped your head in acknowledgement, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—Sam begrudgingly sliding Fury what seemed to be a twenty-dollar bill. Asshole.

Fury tapped the screen embedded in the table, replacing the mission debrief with a new set of images. An aerial view of a club, snippets of surveillance footage, a grainy close-up of a man slipping out of a side entrance, bodyguards in tow.

“And thanks to that intel recovered,” Fury continued, “we now have a location on our next target. Dmitry Karpin. Friend to H.Y.D.R.A. Dealt in smuggling high-profile weapons in and out of Soviet countries for a time, but now he’s taken to smuggling drugs. Serums, to be specific.”

Across the table, Bucky had gone still. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his hands resting stiffly on the surface, knuckles taut. H.Y.D.R.A. Serum. The words alone were enough to suffocate the room when Bucky or Steve were around. You didn’t let your eyes linger on him long nor allow your frown to deepen. 

Fury didn’t acknowledge the shift—maybe he was used to it by now, or perhaps he just didn’t care. His voice remained steady, rolling over the tension in the room as if he were reciting lines from a well-rehearsed script. Karpin’s security detail. The club’s weak points. Entry and exit strategies. The words blurred together, dissolving into background noise beneath the low hum of static in your head. It was hard to focus when you could feel Bucky sitting across from you, motionless, barely even breathing, his whole body locked up like a loaded fucking gun. And the worst part? He probably thought he was doing a good job hiding it.

You didn’t stare, didn’t let your concern show. Instead, you leant back in your chair, tilting your head just enough to feign disinterest. “So, just another fun-filled evening of chatting up sweaty old men for me? Sounds like a dream.” Your voice came out dry, with just enough sarcasm to mask any wobbles. 

Fury didn’t spare you a glance. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, tapping the screen again. More grainy footage. More blueprints. The details kept coming, but you barely registered them.

You picked at your thumbnail hard enough that the cuticle began to bleed.

Eventually, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the floor as the team rose, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out. You stood, ready to follow, but—

“You two, stick around,” Fury instructed.

You hesitated, glancing at him, then at Bucky, who had also stalled mid-step. Natasha and Yelena exchanged a knowing look, their amusement not at all subtle. You ignored their barely concealed grins as they disappeared through the door.

Fury exhaled, hands bracing against the table as he surveyed the two of you. 

“I’ll be honest,” he said finally. “I wasn’t convinced it would work when I paired you two. Thought maybe you’d kill each other before you got anything done.”

Bucky scoffed quietly, gaze flicking away.

“But you proved me wrong.” His good eye narrowed as he continued. “The mission was a success. You handled yourselves well.”

A beat of silence. Then, just as flatly, “I want to know if you’d be open to working together again. Similar style of operation.”

Your eyes slid over to Bucky, gauging his reaction. You didn’t want to appear too eager or give any more credence to the stories Yelena and Natasha were spinning, but most of all, you didn’t want to put words into Bucky’s mouth. You weren’t in the business of pressuring him in or out of the bedroom. 

Bucky was quiet as if silently working through some thoughts before deciding. Finally, he offered a dismissive “Sure.”

You nodded slowly, offering Fury a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine with that.”

Fury’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk.

“Well, that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day,” he deadpanned before shaking his head. “Damn, you two are depressing. Sitting there all broody, staring at me like I shot your goddamn dog.” 

Neither you nor Bucky reacted, which was met by a low chuckle from Fury. “Regardless, I appreciate the hard work. You made me a nice chunk of money winning some bets.”

Your brow furrowed. “You bet on us?”

Fury raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Course I did. Had to make it interesting. Half the team thought you’d get caught or kill each other before the first day was up.”

You blinked. “...Who bet against us?”

“Stark.” Fury’s lips twitched again. “He didn’t think you’d make it past security.”

Of course he did. Prick. 

—

"Alright, I’m in position."

You blinked. Bucky sat there like he was awaiting orders, his posture rigid as if he were about to breach enemy lines.  His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them like touching you required the same level of strategic planning as a high-stakes extraction mission.

You stared, straddling his hips, your fingers ghosting over his collarbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. He didn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as if making direct contact might detonate something neither of you were ready for. For a split second, you half expected him to press a finger to an earpiece and murmur something about securing the perimeter.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, he looked every bit like a man being held hostage rather than one about to receive a very generous favour.

Lately… something felt off. The signs had been subtle at first, the way he always seemed a beat too calculated, his hands found the same places every time, and he would grow still like he was waiting for a command. 

And now, looking at him, so wound-up he might actually vibrate, it finally clicked.

Every touch and kiss was executed with the precision of a soldier running a drill rather than a man lost in the moment. It was methodical. He was analysing a strategy rather than experiencing pleasure. You half expected to glance down and see him taking notes—touch here, kiss there, don’t forget to do this. The thought horrified you, but if you were honest… it also amused you. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“…Bucky, are you seriously treating this like a mission?”

He stiffened beneath you, his reaction just a fraction too quick, too defensive.

“What’d you mean?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge. He was already on guard, bracing for imaginary discipline. 

“The way you’re…” You trailed off, head inclining as you studied him. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight, the creased skin between them betraying him entirely. One could mistake him for a soldier behind enemy lines, waiting for the crack of a rifle. There were dark smudges under his eyes, no worse than usual. You knew he didn’t sleep well. Nightmares haunted him and left him running on fumes more often than not. You recognised the signs, and it was like you were looking into a mirror. 

“It’s like you have a mental checklist,” you murmured, watching for his reaction. “Like every move you make is planned like you’re running through a strategy in your head instead of just… feeling it.”

Bucky remained silent, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Gently, you squeezed his shoulder, fingertips pressing into hard muscle. He was tense—too tense. “You’re not clearing a building, Bucky. You’re not scanning for threats. You’re here with me. Just relax a little, won’t you?”

“I am relaxed.” He bit the words out, though neither his voice nor expression were even remotely convincing.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I appreciate the attempt to lie, but when I can feel the fucking tension in your body, it’s a little, well, very obvious.” Your hands traced along his shoulders, fingers kneading into the tight knots beneath the fabric of his shirt. His muscles were rock-solid, never fully uncoiled. His body had forgotten how to rest.

“See?” You gave a pointed squeeze. “This is not ‘relaxed,’ Bucky. This is as solid as a goddamn steel beam.”

Bucky scoffed a tiny huff of air through his nose. “Those are my muscles. I work out. Don’t you?”

You gasped in mock delight, lips parting in exaggerated shock. “Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Bucky, was that a joke?”

Something flickered in his expression for the first time, a sliver of amusement breaking through the ever-present brooding. He finally met your gaze, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners, and the sight sent a flicker of warmth through your chest.

You grinned. “Well, isn’t that a first? Guess I should mark the calendar.”

His smirk was brief, fleeting—but it was there.

You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “But seriously, you need to loosen up.” Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, slow and deliberate.“Attraction, desire… sex. It’s messy, it’s unplanned. It’s not a mission. This isn’t the army.” 

You didn’t dare say the following words in your mind aloud. 

This isn’t H.Y.D.R.A. 

But you knew that was where his thoughts drifted, that unspoken trouble that plagued you both. Your fingers ghosted along the silver chain at his throat, the faint jingle of his dog tags barely audible under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to follow orders. You can just be.”

“I know.” The words came low, rough, frayed at the edges. You could feel yourself losing him, his eyes growing foggy as if pulled away to a place you couldn’t quite reach to drag him out from.

“I just…” Another breath, deeper this time, as though steadying himself. “They used me. For so long, they used me as a weapon. I don’t know if I can ever be anything different than that. I don’t want to lose control—what happens if I lose—”

“Hey.” Your hands framed his face now, thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, anchoring him. “Hey, look at me.”

His eyes lifted, hesitant, guarded.

“You are more than that.” The words were gentle but unwavering, as steady as your hands on him. “We are more than that, okay? You’re Bucky. Just Bucky. And you are in control. Say it.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing into the cotton fabric of your shorts. He was quiet momentarily as though testing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m in control.”

“You’re in control.” You echoed, smoothing your thumb over the faint stubble on his cheek. “And you still want to do this?”

His breath was slow, deliberate. “Yes.”

Your fingers had drifted higher, threading into his hair, the strands silky and cool beneath your touch. You swept a loose lock from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger against his temple. “And if you don’t want this at any point, what do you say?”

“Stop.”

“And what will happen if you say that?”

“You’ll stop. We’ll stop.”

“Good.” You praised him, your smile widening as you felt him squirm beneath you. There was a subtle hitch in his breath as your hands began to trail lower, palms smoothing down to his chest. The pulse at his throat fluttered beneath your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. You leant closer, your breath warm against his skin as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple. Then lower—to the sharp line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, and finally to the hollow of his throat. A shudder ran through him, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” He uttered after a thick, audible swallow.

You pulled back just enough to study him, to see how his lips parted slightly as though chasing the warmth of your touch. A quiet, almost reluctant noise rumbled in his chest, just shy of a whine. You traced your fingers along his jaw before tilting your head, considering him. “I want to try something.” You hummed to him. “You can say no if it’s too much, but I think it might help you.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I want to blindfold you—”

“You want to what?” He went rigid beneath you, every muscle tightening again as if you’d flipped a switch and snapped him back into defence mode.

“Hold on, just let me finish.” You held up your hand, hoping to counteract his immediate, instinctive reaction.

He huffed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the response, but said nothing. 

“I want to blindfold you,” you repeated, slower this time, words deliberate. “And I want to kiss you. And touch you. I want you to focus on feeling good rather than anticipating something bad. I want you to just… be here with me. Not thinking about what comes next, not waiting for an attack. Just focusing on feeling. That’s all.”

His expression was cautious before turning to contemplation—as though weighing the idea against everything instinct told him.

“You can say no,” you reminded him gently.

“No, I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching against your hips.

You shifted back just a little, offering him the space to decide. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do it.”

“No, I—shit—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean—no, I want to. Yes. I want to try that.”

Your gaze searched his. “You’re sure?”

His lips pressed together, and then he nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”

You grinned, pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to his temple before slipping off his lap with ease and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Do you have something we could use?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Like a tie, maybe? You wear suits, right? Or does Stark demand them back the second you step foot in the compound?”

Bucky let out a huff, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to talk about Stark right now.”

You shot him a knowing look, but before you could tease him further, your gaze flickered downward—and you smirked. Even through the soft material of his sweatpants, you could see he was already half-hard. “Sure.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, staining his ears and cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Top drawer. In the wardrobe.”

You were on your feet before he could finish, slipping into his walk-in wardrobe. Every apartment in the compound had one, though Bucky’s was noticeably bare. His clothes were monochrome, muted shades of grey, navy, and black. No bursts of colour. No sign of impulse. It was not a lack of wealth. You knew that for sure. No, this was intentional—a desire to blend in, to disappear.

You’d always known he was the type who preferred the shadows, slipping between crowds unnoticed. No wonder he hated the tailored suits Stark and Fury forced him into—arm issues aside. For some reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. were determined to parade him around. Look, the Winter Soldier. He’s a good boy now. He plays nice. Nothing to fear anymore. You were unsure how he felt about such displays, but you were sure it wasn’t too far off from how you felt about it. You had once been in his shoes, though more in the eye candy territory. A doll to dress up and play with, to smile and play the part.

Powerful men enjoyed degrading that which they knew to be dangerous, enjoyed playing with fire, and enjoyed the illusion of control. 

Shaking off the thought, you pulled open the top drawer, sifting through a few neatly folded ties. You selected a smooth black silk, running the cool fabric over your palm before returning to the bedroom.

Bucky was still seated at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. His hands curled into fists atop his thighs, knuckles taut. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You slowed, holding the tie between your fingers like approaching a spooked animal. Visible to inspect and assess. No threat.

“Yes?” you asked, giving him another chance to change his mind.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “Yes.”

You smiled softly. “Just breathe, yeah? Like we always do.” You inhaled deeply through your nose, then exhaled slowly and steadily through your mouth.

After a beat, Bucky mirrored you, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

You moved behind him, settling onto the bed. He sat still, poised for an attack. Carefully, you draped the silk tie over his eyes, looping it around his head and securing it with a loose knot. It wasn’t tight—one purposeful tug and it would slip free.

You could feel the tension radiating from him. Even blindfolded, he was hyper-aware, attuned to every rustle of the sheets, every shift of your weight. His breathing had turned shallower, the serum sharpening every sound, every sensation.

“If you need to stop for any reason, just say so.”

He jolted slightly at your voice, caught off guard in the quiet. “O-okay.” His voice wavered, and then he cursed low under his breath in Russian.

You grinned. Some habits died hard.

“I’m going to touch you now.” You crept closer, lifting onto your knees behind him. “Just focus on me and how it feels. Nothing else. Can you do that?”

He gave a slow, hesitant nod.

You started at his shoulders, palms skimming over firm muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every dip and ridge, every knot of tension. Your hands slid to his collarbone, then across the joint where flesh met metal, mapping out the contrast between warm skin and the smooth, cold vibranium.

He was solid beneath your touch, every muscle taut and solid as it stretched across the bone.

You had noticed the way his shoulders gave him grief. The slight tilt of his frame and the way his left arm always sat heavier. It was incorrect weight distribution; the metal limb was too heavy compared to its flesh counterpart. S.H.I.E.L.D had surely offered him physical therapy—massages, treatment plans—but you doubted he had ever taken them up on it. He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Too wary. Too untrusting. 

“Can I take off your shirt?” you asked softly.

He stilled.

“I don’t—” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My scars. They’re not—”

“I don’t care about that.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Why would I?” 

Without a word, his hand reached behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt. He yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. You adjusted the blindfold where it had shifted, then let your gaze drift over the broad expanse of his back.

His shoulders were massive, sculpted with muscle. The scars on his left shoulder were brutal—jagged lines of gnarled tissue where the vibranium met flesh. It might have been seamless after the amputation. Painless even. But it had been H.Y.D.R.A who had ruined him, left scars so deep even the Wakandans couldn’t erase.

And H.Y.D.R.A didn’t care for comfort. They cared for necessity. Likely, you suspected, they had wanted him to suffer.

An endless reminder of their ownership.

You swallowed, then placed your hands on his shoulders again, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his neck. You started slow, careful, massaging along the muscle, working your way down. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the mass taut and unyielding at first, like stone beneath your fingers. But you took your time, applying gradual pressure, thumbs circling into the knots built over time.

Beneath your hands, Bucky let out a low, guttural sound—a half-growl, half-sigh of approval. His head dipped forward slightly, chin brushing his chest, an unspoken invitation to continue.

You kept going, kneading deep into the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension resist before you coaxed it loose. With each press and roll of your fingers, the stiffness unravelled like a cord being undone, thread by thread. You worked methodically, digging your thumbs along the curve where his neck met his shoulders, pressing firmly enough to elicit another low, unconscious groan from him.

You bit back a smile as you felt him lean into you just a little.

Trailing downward, you traced the slope of his shoulder blades, following the ridges of tendons and old wounds. The scars on his left side were tougher, the tissue uneven where flesh met metal, but you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers brushed the seam between the vibranium and skin, then continued downward, thumbs pressing slow, firm circles along the fuse.

Bucky shuddered.

His breath hitched as you dug into the deep-seated strain along his spine. A sharp inhale, a low exhale—he was losing himself to the sensation, surrendering to your touch. You didn’t rush. You worked him slowly, thoroughly, feeling him yield with each measured stroke. When you reached the dip of his lower back, you flattened your hands, smoothing over the tightness that lingered. He was warm now, his skin melting like wax beneath your fingers.

Satisfied, you finally pulled back, smoothing your hands along his spine one last time before shifting your position.

Rising onto your knees, you moved around him, hands trailing over his shoulders as you slid into his lap. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. You settled against him, straddling his lap, your arms draping lazily over his shoulders. The blindfold was still secure, and he looked… calmer now. Less wound up, his jaw no longer locked so tightly.

“You okay?” You murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you hummed, tilting your head, lips just inches from his ear. “I think you needed that.”

Bucky exhaled a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, but he didn’t deny it.

Your fingers trailed up the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly against the short hairs, and you felt him shiver beneath you. You leaned in, lips brushing over his cheekbone, just at the edge of the blindfold, before trailing downward. You kissed along his jaw, soft and teasing, pressing your lips into the warm skin beneath his ear, down the column of his throat.

His hands fidgeted at his sides, tightening around the sheets. Then, as if giving in to some internal battle, they rose—hesitant but desperate. His fingers found your waist, sliding over the curve of your hips before gripping tight.

You grinned against his skin.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice a breath of silk against his throat.

A sharp exhale left him, his fingers tightening, pressing you closer, holding you in place. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky groaned into the kiss.

It was soft at first, your mouth moving against his, teasing, coaxing him deeper. But it wasn’t long before he cracked. The tension he had held onto for so long—his control, his restraint—it frayed at the edges with every pass of your lips against his. You pressed closer, shifting in his lap, and the moment your hips rolled against him, his breath stuttered.

A broken sound escaped him, part groan, part whimper.

You did it again just to hear it.

His hands flexed against your sides, his hold firm, frantic, but he didn’t stop you. He only breathed harder, his forehead falling against yours as you peppered kisses along his lips, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Then you moved again, grinding against him slowly, carefully, and Bucky outright whimpered.

He made no effort to stop you—no attempt to control the rhythm, no resistance left in him. His mind was no longer caught in the tangle of right and wrong, of what he should or shouldn’t do.

He only felt.

Only responded.

You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer this time, and he met you with equal hunger.

Bucky’s hands roamed, sliding up your back. Then, his vibranium hand found your face, cradling it between cool, unyielding metal, and you shivered at the contrast—the bite of cold against your flushed skin, the sheer strength in his hold, barely restrained.

He kissed you like he was starving.

You sighed into his mouth, rolling your hips down to meet his, and he groaned—deep and guttural as his body jerked beneath you. He was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against you through his sweatpants, and you couldn't help the soft, breathy giggle that escaped between kisses.

Bucky growled, his grip tightening, his body chasing yours as you rocked against him.

Your hand trailed down, slipping between your bodies, fingers teasing along the waistband of his sweatpants. You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as your fingertips ghosted lower—

Then he flinched, catching your wrist in a shaky grip.

“Too much,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but the strain was evident.

Immediately, you withdrew, pulling your hand away without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop—”

“No.” he replied quickly, breathlessly.

You cupped his jaw, kissing him slowly, tenderly, as he shuddered beneath you. His hands flexed where they held you, his body still trembling with need, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your movements soft and gentle, pressing your forehead against his, letting him breathe as you kissed him repeatedly. 

“Is this better?” you checked in between kisses, voice warm, reassuring.

“Yes.” He muttered against your lips.

You kissed him deeper, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and into his mouth.

His body convulsed beneath you, hips twitching up to meet yours, his breath turning shallow and erratic. You could feel the tremors coursing through him, his muscles tensed, his restraint crumbling with every slow, dragging roll of your hips.

Then, with a choked groan, he stiffened.

A broken moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering beneath you. His breath hitched, then stilled, his head falling back onto the bed as he panted heavily, completely spent.

You smiled, watching his chest rise and fall, his body finally wholly relaxed.

You let him catch his breath, your hands smoothing over his chest in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes were still covered, the black silk of the tie snug against his skin, and for a moment, you just watched him—his expression relaxed in a way it so rarely was, his lips parted as he inhaled deep, steadying himself.

Reaching up, you brushed your fingers over his jaw before carefully undoing the knot at the back of his head. The tie slipped away with ease, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking as he adjusted to the room's dim light. His pupils were blown, irises hazy, but there was something else. Softness. An openness you didn’t often see.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Hey.”

You leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before shifting off of him, allowing him to breathe. He hesitated momentarily before sitting up, his movements slow, almost reluctant. His sweatpants were clinging damply to his skin, and he grimaced slightly before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, watching as he climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed soon after. You stayed where you were, fingers idly playing with the silk tie as you listened, giving him the space to clean up and gather himself.

When he returned, his sweatpants had been swapped for a fresh pair, the fabric hanging loose around his hips. His hair was damp in uneven patches where he’d raked wet fingers through it, a lazy attempt at tidying up. He lingered in the doorway, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering over you like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You patted the empty space beside you. “Come here.”

His shoulders loosened just a fraction before he climbed back onto the bed, settling beside you with a quiet sigh. He was warm—solid and steady. Without thinking, you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm came around you automatically, like muscle memory, pulling you in and holding you there.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper, you asked, “Did you like it?”

Bucky exhaled a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “I did.”

You smiled, tracing absentminded circles against his chest. “What did you like about it?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“It made it easier,” he murmured. “Not seeing. I could just… feel. Focus on what was happening instead of everything else.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Didn’t have to worry about if I was doing something wrong.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Bucky, you’ve never done anything wrong.”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was tight, a shadow crossing his expression. “It’s just—” He stopped, mouth pressing into a thin line.

You reached up, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “Talk to me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I’m scared of it sometimes.”

Your brows furrowed. “Scared of what?”

“Pleasure.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side like he was bracing himself, but he didn’t look away from you.

“I was taught…” He inhaled sharply. “That it could only be taken. Taken from me. That it was never given freely.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “That it wasn’t mine to have.”

Slowly, carefully, you sat up, shifting so you were fully facing him. He looked at you, expression guarded, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something fragile in the way he held himself.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Those people, the ones who taught you that, they were trying to hurt you, degrade you,” you told him firmly. “Pleasure is to be shared equally. It’s something you deserve.” You squeezed his hand, your voice softening.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

“I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything to earn it,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening. His voice was barely above a breath when he said, “I don’t know if I know how.”

You smiled softly. “That’s okay. We have time.”

You lifted his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles before settling back down beside him. His warmth seeped into you, but the ache in your chest remained—persistent, lingering. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, the tension in your muscles, or even the way your body still hummed with remnants of touch. No, this ache came from somewhere deeper, from the thoughts unravelling in your mind like a loose thread tugged too far, too fast as you contemplated his confession. 

You had always been a giver. That was your role, your purpose. You gave and gave until there was nothing left. Until you were hollow inside. And yet, the world kept asking for more. You wondered if, over time, it had chipped away at your soul, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

The words left your lips before you could stop them, before you had the chance to weigh whether you truly wanted to say them aloud.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not… whole?”

Bucky turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the low light, lids heavy as he blinked his dark lashes. He didn’t press or demand, didn’t look at you as if he needed clarification. He just waited, silently, like he knew you weren’t finished.

So you kept going.

“Like with every mission, every fight, every demand, you lose something? A tiny piece of yourself, given away without even realising it?” Your voice dropped lower. Bucky was still beside you, completely still, only his breath tickling your cheek with each slow rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t even know if I’m still the person I was when I was born or if I’ve just been rebuilt from borrowed parts. Pieces given to me, made for me, shaped to fit what I was supposed to become.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Or maybe… what they wanted me to become.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, and yet they kept coming.

“And I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I ever showed the real me, the world would reject me. That they’d be disgusted by my soul. By everything I have done.”

A shaky breath left your lips, your voice barely more than a whisper now.

“Because sometimes… sometimes I think the only way people will keep me around is if I give them something in return.”

Silence.

You turned your head toward him, searching his face, waiting for something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking. You hoped for a look, a breath, a word to ground you. But as your gaze swept over him, you realised his breathing had evened out, his lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. The sharp furrow of his brow had smoothed, his lips slightly parted in a way that spoke of exhaustion finally pulling him under.

Asleep.

Your words had been lost to him.

You weren’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Maybe it was for the best. He needed the rest, the peace of slumber more than you did. Even now, in the soft glow of the room, dark circles remained etched beneath his eyes.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling momentarily before carefully slipping out of bed. You moved with quiet precision, gathering your things without making a sound. When you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back.

For a second, a small, selfish part of you wished he had—wished he had heard you, had held you, had given you something, anything, to quiet the storm inside your chest. But he hadn’t.

And maybe that meant you could take the words back.

Tuck them away for another time.

Or hold onto them forever, maybe all you had needed was to say them aloud, even if only silence itself was listening.

Bucky didn’t stir from his slumber, not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

PART THREE

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taglist: @civilbucky @buckysbbydoll @rosegarbage @fleurenoir @oikarma @blackstabbath6 @kcbug1128 @ellesbellswrites @thaynarajejheje @wunder-blunder @oceanaroma @dyscalculiaaa @murdocklvrr @pursuedbyamemoryy @fantasyheroine @chronicallybubbly @nikkinss @maryevm @doilooklikeagiveafrack (sorry if it didn't tag anyone properly)

[radfemsiren]

I speak a lot about how ironic it is that Christians that hate Islam want to be taken seriously for their faith, but I don’t think the average person understands how deep this irony goes.

For those not well read in both faiths, Islam is a nearly 99% identical copy of Christianity. Moses is Musa, Abraham is Ibrahim. Gabriel is Jibreel, Adam and Eve is Adam and Hawa. Joseph is Yousef, Job is Ayub. Ishmael is Ismael, Isaac is Ishaaq.

Same prophets, almost the exact same stories and canon. Muhammad was an illiterate shady businessman who saw Christianity for what it was, a way to control women and shut down critical thought. He aspired to be a pedophile warlord and borrowed methods from the exotic west to fulfill his goals.

His first wife was older than him. His last was a 6 year old. As he gained power through conquest after conquest, and had his “miraculous visions” of verses being revealed to him, no one could tell that nearly every line he spoke was a stuttering copy of a faith already popular in a far away land. His fellow traveling merchants could, and he was a laughingstock to them. His first scribe could and was banished for noticing his obvious plagiarism…He eventually had to switch gears and market Islam as a “final chapter” of Christianity.

So anyway, that’s why I find interfaith arguments darkly hilarious.

[muletia]

I'M WHEEZING AT THAT OBSESSED!OPTIMUS VS OBSESSED!MEGATRON ASK HAAAAAAA Because I'm just imagining that Team Prime is still unaware why Megatron keeps focusing on kidnapping the same human again and again. Cue dramatic face off and Acree saying he's got to stop tormenting their friend and cue the dread. The sinking feeling the other Deceptions have when they look to their leader looking offended by that assumption and please no, Primus no, he better not-

"I am making sure my Queen stays where she belongs! WITH ME!!!"

He fragging said it.

The secondhand embarrassment is through the roof for them. The blank expressions that are melting into disbelief, shock, confusion, and etc on their enemies as their leader goes on and on about his true feelings and they are tempted to just surrender now. It can't get more humiliating than THIS! One or two of them being this close 👌 to defecting to the other side.

And Ratchet is looking at the darkening look on Optimus's face and wondering if for once they'll need to be ready to restrain him from killing Megatron.

Miko: Don't worry Optimus, you got this! True love always wins-

Jack: [covering her mouth] Please stop.

lmaooo, megs acting so cringe that even his own team is done with his bullshit. i think at this point you’d be embarrassed too, hiding your face in your hands and groaning in shame because you just want to go home already. becoming the queen of the decepticon warlord was not on your bingo card. this is the one and only moment where you and his subordinates actually agree on something. maybe even one vehicon would secretly sneak you back home and desert lmao.

on optimus’s side, things aren’t looking too great after this stunt either. he’s suffering from unrequited feelings, his obsession is literally draining his energy because he loves you just a bit too much, and now he has to fight megatron for your affection??? nah, the no-killing rule goes straight out the window

[tyriq-edits]

The Consort of Peace

A Wang Zhaojun Megop AU

“Because of a sketch I left the Han capital, Joltingly betrothed into the Khan's palace. The sound of nomad pipes crosses fog shrouded peaks”

"So this is the consort you've promised me?"

Orion witnessed, even from underneath the thick red veil covering his helm, as the warlord crossed his colossal arms over his chest plates.

"The very same." Sentinel Prime answered hastily, and while Orion may not have been able to see it directly, he could clearly hear the fake, yet nervous smile plastered across the emperor's faceplate. The emperor had probably spent hours in front of the mirror that morning practicing that sham of a grin. Orion easily envisioned it before his inner eyes. The emperor himself, talking to his own reflection.

A deafening, torturing silence followed, as Orion felt the grey tyrant's optics on him. Circling him. Scanning him. Assessing him. The same way Sentinel would with a new piece of art offered to him by the royal artisans.

The red-and-blue concubine did not dare to speak up, move, or even breath. A thick knot started growing in his throat, increasing with each step Megatron took.

The warlord came to a halt. Right in front of Orion.

"Take off the veil." The invader finally broke the silence, his demanding tone piercing through the air like an arrow, Orion almost wished for the silence to return instead.

"L-Lord Megatron, I assure you, the beauties of my harem are beyond compare-" Sentinel's false smile began to crumble, like a shady street-merchant who was about to lose a potential customer, as he was harshly interrupted by the Decepticon leader.

"I said: Take. Off. The. Veil."

Thus, Orion grabbed the hem of his veil with shaky servos and ever so slowly lifted the silk fabric.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hello Hello! I hope you found this little drabble/early draft of my Megop AU interesting! It is kinda losely based on the tale of Wang Zhaojun.

Wang Zhaojun is one of the four beauties of ancient China and her story always fascinated me. She lived in ancient China during the Western Han Dynasty and the story goes that she arrived at the Court of the Emperor to become part of his Harem. The rules of the Harem said that each Consort would need to get a painting made of her by the royal artist, as the emperor would choose what Concubine he'd spend time with that day based on their portrait. However, after her arrival Wang Zhaojun refused to pay the court artist a bribe like the other Consorts, so the artist made an unflattering sketch of her. This resulted in her never being chosen by the Emperor during her stay at the palace.

One day however, the Emperor offers the invading Mongolian Khan a peace treaty. This peace deal however included the emperor having to give the Khan one of his concubines as a bride. And so the Emperor took a look at the portraits of his concubines and chose the “ugliest“ one among them to hand to the Khan. The choice thus landed on Wang Zhaojun.

The emperor, mind you, had never seen Wang Zhaojun in Person before, so he essentially only realised that he had just given away his most beautiful consort as she was being handed to the Khan.

And so the Khan took Wang Zhaojun with him to the steppe and some of the most famous depictions of this always include Wang Zhaojun dressed in a red cape, riding a horse through the snow while playing on her pipa.

Now in this AU as you may have figured Megatron is the Khan, Optimus/Orion is Wang Zhaojun and Sentinel Prime is the Emperor.

And as you may have guessed in my little excerpt: Sentinel attempted to trick Megatron into taking his "ugliest" consort as a bride by having Optimus hide his face under a thick silk veil.

Now in most poems about Wang Zhaojun I was able to find, the authors tend to depict Wang Zhaojun suffering from homesickness and wishing to return to China, even missing the emperor himself.

In this AU though, given it's Megop, Orion will at first very much be intimidated by Megatron (probably only ever having heard the stories of his brutal warfare) but soon while realising that Megatron actually values him unlike the emperor. Finding admiration and fascination in Orion's vast knoweldge of Cybertron's history and his ability of writing deep essays. All things Sentinel never either cared for or even dismissed Orion for.

Also while I used a picture of TFO Optimus in the Moodboard, I kept imagining TFA Megop while writing the drabble (haha). But honestly you can imagine this with pretty much any version of Megop you'd want to and it'd probably still work.

Any thoughts, comments and constructive criticism on this short Drabble and this AU in general are always welcome. If you got some ideas of your own or maybe a whole different idea for this AU concept feel free to make your own version/post and tag me in it! I'd love to see it!

[revelboo]

PLEASEE I NEED MORE IDW MEGATRON

Guessing you mean exhausted leader of a bunch of backstabbing, barely competent, chaos children Megatron not exhausted co-captain of the Lost Light Megatron?

Skin and Bones Pt 5

IDW Megatron x Reader

• Scrolling through reports, he’s aware of you wandering around on his desk. Peering down at the Cybertronian glyphs on his keyboard. Almost absently, he nudges you away when you get too close to the edge of the desk then goes back to his report. Ignoring the bemused look you shoot him. Then you’re laying your little hands on the back of his hand to lean across and look at his datapad. Venting sharply, he freezes at that unexpectedly soft touch. “What are you doing, little one?”

• You glance up at the warlord, trying to decide if that slight frown means he’s annoyed or just exasperated and trying ignore the fact that when he calls you little it doesn’t sound condescending. It’s almost cute and better than some of the nicknames a few of the Decepticons have saddled you with. Like squishy or meat bag. “How hard is your language to learn?” You ask because you’re honestly curious and it sounds better than that you’re just bored out of your mind and want something to do.

• Shifting his hand, he rumbles in surprise as you go sprawling across the back of his hand on your belly. Before you can scramble away, he’s reaching over with the other hand, curling his servos around your little body to move you onto the desk between him and the datapad. Clearing the screen, he sketches a character and taps it. Makes a rasping noise that ends on a click. Another glyph, this one vocalized as a whirring sound and you stare up at him. There’s no learning this. You can’t even make those sounds.

• He’s already on the seventh glyph before he looks down and sees the look on your little face. It’s almost the same expression some of his younger soldiers had worn the first time they went into battle. Overwhelmed and terrified. Venting softly to stir your hair, he goes back to the first one. Enunciating carefully, he makes the sound. You look up at him and then make a noise. Mangling it far beyond recognition, but you’re trying. Again he makes the correct pronunciation and then waits. Face reddening, you try again. Still very wrong, but closer. “I can’t make those sounds.”

• “Not yet,” he replies, reaching out to gently use the tip of his servo to turn your face back to the datapad. “Can you draw the glyph?” Blowing out a breath, you lean over the datapad, laying a hand on the screen to copy his glyph. Well, that you’re good at. He runs a knuckle along your spine, feeling you lean into that stroke like you enjoy it. “Very good, little one,” he growls in Cybertronian, smiling indulgently as you peer up at him in confusion. Cautiously you offer him a smile that does strange things to his spark. Makes him uncertain how to feel, because he’s not sure he deserves anything soft or gentle after the things he’s done. Had to do. Certainly doesn’t deserve your trust. Shaking himself, he taps the second one and watches you sketch it out.

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[forthegothicheroine]

I like how all the major big-time warlords in the Mad Max series have something they want to embody, and in some way they all fail.

Lord Humongous wants to be a monster, the scariest damn thing in the wasteland, whose mere name strikes terror into anyone who hears it. He isn't- every movie that follows brings a bigger, scarier bad guy- but that's what he wants to be.

Aunty Entity wants to be a captain of industry. She wants to give her people bread in the form of Bartertown and circuses in the form of the Thunderdome, and be the fearsome but fair re-builder of civilization. She isn't- she breaks her own rules to betray anyone who challenges her authority, and she hires outside agents to disrupt her rivals- but that's who she wants to be.

Dementus wants to be a king. He wants to be loved and feared in equal measure, a generous protector of orphans and a better leader to his men than any of the "big shots" who would take them for granted. He isn't- he's the one who orphaned that child, and he'll sell out his own people the moment it becomes the most convenient option- but that's who he wants to be.

Immortan Joe wants to be a god. He wants to be worshipped in a way that goes beyond either love or fear, to be the singular figure who commands not only his men but the existence of the wasteland itself, and he wants his very name to be an ideology. He isn't a god- he dies like a man, and those same war boys who worshiped him swear allegiance to his killer- but that's who he wants to be.

[milfsloverblog]

HIIII OMG I LOVE YOUR WRITING SM! I JUST HAD LIKE THIS POP INTO MY BRAIN AND I THOUGHT YOU MAY LIKE IT!

MAYBE! brienne x femreader. READEERRRRR is super forward and blunt and sweet with brienne at first assumed a knight would want to be courted that way and that she couldn’t be shy with brienne!

And brienne isn’t used to it and sort of grows distant and nervous (a touch of angst FOR FUNZIES IF YOU WANT) ! (Can’t blame our shy queen!)

BUT THENNNN

Reader goes all shy and dejected and avoids brienne out of guilt THENNNN assumes brienne doesn’t like women OR just her THEN BRIENNE ENDS UP TOTALLY MAKING READER SWOON INTENTIONALLY TO MAKE READER SHY THEN HAPPY ENDING YAY

ANY GAPS IN MY PLOT YOU FILL WITH YOUR GENIUSSSSS ❤️ I HOPE YOU LIKE IT

Unarmored

Brienne of Tarth x fem!reader

A/N: Thanks for the request, I really enjoyed writing this!! Hope you’ll like it!

Brienne of Tarth had been in countless battles, faced men twice her size, and sworn oaths that bound her very being. She had fought, bled, and endured scorn from the day she first picked up a sword.

And yet, nothing in her life had prepared her for you.

The king’s daughter was relentless.

From the moment you first set your sights on her, you had pursued her with the same unwavering determination she had only ever seen on the battlefield. You were utterly fearless in the way you chased after what you wanted.

And, gods help her, what you wanted was her.

Brienne had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The first time you truly caught her off guard, she had been training in the courtyard. The morning air was crisp, and the clash of steel rang loud against stone walls as she moved through her drills. The weight of her sword was familiar in her hands, the rhythm of combat grounding.

And then you arrived.

"Ser Brienne," you called, your voice smooth as honey, “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Brienne, mid-swing, nearly fumbled her grip. She turned to face you, cheeks already heating. “I— I would never avoid my lady,” she said stiffly, standing at attention.

You hummed, stepping closer, your skirts swaying with the movement. “Good. Because I’d be terribly heartbroken if you did.”

Brienne clenched her jaw, gripping the hilt of her sword tighter. She had no idea how to handle this.

You tilted your head, watching her carefully. "A knight as noble as you surely knows the pain of heartbreak, don’t you?"

Brienne swallowed. "I— I suppose," she muttered.

You sighed dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. "Then you wouldn't dare be the cause of mine."

Brienne had faced warlords, assassins, and even a bear once. And yet, she could not stop the heat rising in her cheeks.

You grinned, clearly enjoying the effect you had on her. "I'll take your silence as agreement, then."

And with that, you turned on your heel, leaving her standing there—stunned, breathless, and entirely unprepared for what was to come.

It didn’t stop there.

The next day, you found her in the stables, brushing down her horse. She had hoped for a quiet moment to collect herself, but you had other plans.

“I imagine being a knight means you’ve never been properly courted,” you mused, watching her work.

Brienne stilled, fingers freezing over the mare’s mane. “I… suppose not.”

You tsked. “What a crime. A woman as strong and beautiful as you deserves to be showered with affection.”

Brienne’s breath caught. She turned sharply, searching your face for any sign of jest. But there was none. You were just… looking at her, like you meant every word.

“My lady,” she stammered, “you shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not?” You tilted your head. “It’s the truth.”

She swallowed, heart hammering against her ribs. She had trained all her life to handle a sword, to stand against the most fearsome of warriors, and yet here she was, bested by nothing more than your words.

And it only got worse from there.

You truly were relentless, slipping into her presence whenever possible, showering her with compliments and teasing remarks that left her utterly undone. It was dangerous—your attention, your easy confidence.

One evening, as she escorted you through the castle halls, you sighed dramatically. “You know, Brienne, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a strong pair of arms hold me at night.”

Brienne nearly choked on air. “M-My lady?”

You glanced up at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Surely you wouldn’t leave a poor princess cold and alone?”

Brienne’s entire body tensed. “I— I—”

You smiled at her, all softness and warmth. “I’m only teasing, Brienne.” Then, after a pause: “Unless, of course, you’d like to keep me warm.”

That was the moment Brienne decided she might actually perish.

She needed to get away.

At first, she thought distance would fix it.

She kept her interactions with you short, avoided your gaze when you spoke, and responded only with curt nods or rushed words. She told herself it was for the best, that you would tire of this game and move on.

But she hadn’t expected you to retreat entirely.

Gone were the teasing remarks, the lingering touches, the smiles meant just for her. You no longer sought her out in the halls, no longer appeared in the training yard or the stables.

And Brienne hated it.

She missed the way your eyes lit up when you saw her, the way you leaned in too close when you spoke, the way your words made her feel—wanted.

She missed you. Desperately.

It was unbearable.

Her mind raced with doubts. Did you tire of her? Had she made a fool of herself? She knew how she had been acting—shaky, uncertain, too vulnerable—but she had never been trained for this. It wasn’t battle, wasn’t anything she could fight off with her sword.

It was you.

So, when she found you alone in the gardens one evening, staring up at the sky with a distant expression, she did something reckless.

“My lady,” she called out, voice softer than she intended.

You turned, blinking in surprise. “Brienne.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, hesitantly, Brienne stepped closer. “I— I owe you an apology.”

Your brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For… avoiding you.” She exhaled sharply, gaze dropping to the ground. “It wasn’t because I didn’t— I mean, I wasn’t—” She shut her eyes briefly before forcing herself to look at you. “You make me nervous.”

You blinked. Then, to her utter horror, you grinned.

“I knew it,” you declared, stepping forward. “You are shy.”

Brienne groaned, covering her face with her hand. “Gods, you are impossible.”

You laughed, then reached out, taking her hand in yours. Brienne’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.

“Brienne,” you said softly, voice losing its usual teasing edge. “If I overstepped, if I made you uncomfortable, you can tell me. But if it’s something else—” Your fingers squeezed hers. “I’d rather you be the one to tell me what you want.”

Brienne swallowed hard. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she lifted your hand to her lips and pressed a reverent kiss to your knuckles.

“I want you,” she murmured against your skin.

Your breath hitched.

And then, for the first time since this whole mess had begun, you were the one left speechless.

Brienne smirked.

Yes. She could definitely get used to this.

The next morning, Brienne walked into the great hall with a newfound sense of confidence.

She found you sitting at the long table, speaking with a handmaiden.

Brienne didn’t hesitate.

“My lady,” she said smoothly, bowing her head. “You look breathtaking this morning.”

You nearly knocked over your goblet.

Brienne bit back a smile.

“Oh,” you said, blinking at her. “Thank you, Brienne, I—”

Brienne leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough for only you to hear. “Would it fluster you if I told you I dreamt of you last night?”

Your lips parted, your breath caught.

Brienne smirked.

Victory.

————————————————————————

Taglist : @weemssapphic @cblanchetts , @valerielovebug , @schlaegerpaula , @suckerfortallwomen , @dingdongthetail l @gwensfz @erablaise-blog @rainbow-hedgehog @renravens @kaymariesworld @niceminipotato @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy @weemswife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @redkarine @women-are-so-ethereal @opheliauniverse @willisnotmental @raspburrythief @vii-v @fictionalized-lesbian @theboreworms @lynn13blog @ness029 9 @geekyarmorel l @h-doodles @cxndlelightx @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 @aemilia19 @theswordmaiden @spacetoaim22 @anbadann @vendocrap8008 @jkregal

[myownvomit]

Tfa and tfp crossover but it’s just tfp megs getting cucked.

Like imagine tfa megs meeting tfp optimus ANS seeing him for the first time and thinking ‘damn I’m gonna put babies in him’ and as he begins getting to know them he realizes that optimus is not like his optimus who is a nobody.

Optimus is a large mech the same size as him and he has a large chassis and wide hips perfect for birthing sparklings so immediately he begins to try and court him. Unfortunately for optimus tfa Megatron is just like Megatronus charismatic, charming, and can sweet talk him for hours but optimus dosent give in ‘yet’ he’s a strong willed mech so of course he won’t fall for some sweet words and a couple of touches.

But he does one day (tfa) Megatron manages to catch him alone, slowly approaching him he begins to declare his love for him and goes on a rant on how compatible they are, which begins to cause optimus to become warm.

It isn’t until Megatron mentions on how many sparklings he can shove up optimus forge that makes optimus break and finally give up on his moral code and giving in to his desires.

“You’ve been lonely far to long..let me take care of you” Megatron whispered in a deep husky voice.

As they approached eachother Megatron grabbed optimus by the hips and pulled him close, interlocking their lips together. Megatron pressed his knee on optimus panels and gently rubbed which caused him to let out a weak whimper as his already hot and leaky panels began to ache more.

“Please..” as optimus muttered a simple beg, Megatrons engine revved at his voice and was taking a painful sense of self restraint to not hop on the mech rip off his panels and thrust into him right then and there.

Eventually they made it to the warlords hideout and took him to his throne room where he sat on his throne and watched as eagerly as the prime began to take off his panels and let out needy whimpers as he did the same.

When tfp Megatron found out about this he wnet on a rage nearby killing everyone in his sight until he stopped and went on a depressive episode for a few months

[shinysoroka]

Taika Waititi was the first and only Thor director who understood that the franchise has always been 1/4 old-school fantasy, 1/4 sci-fi (but like Star Wars sci-fi where it's still fantasy on a narrative level), 1/4 Saturday morning cartoon and 1/4 pin-up art. And instead of acting embarrassed about it, he fully embraced it. It's still insane to me how people say that he disrespected Thor, when he was the only one who was actually trying.

The MCU has always struggled with Thor's character, because, while he has many things in common with the rest of the Avengers, he doesn't process them the same way. He's not the perfect Mary Sue Steve is or the sarcastic flawed hero Tony is. He's does not embody your typical power fantasy, if anything, his journey is one of humility and it sticks 100% percent of the way. He goes from being a hotheaded warlord to defeating the villain in his last movie purely by talking to him. That only happened because he was in the hands of a director who's allergic to the worst things about superhero movies. And I'll always remain grateful to him for that, even though his work was trashed across the franchise by people (and audiences) who thought they were cooking.

[hylianane]

I’ve read Time Traveler Zoro AUS far more interesting than anything my feeble little mind could cook up on it’s own, but I’d still love try to play around with the premise and give it my own spin.

I’ve read two in which Zoro loses the crew in a great tragedy, so he goes back in time to save them, and the greatest source of tension in the story is the way he tries to hide all the future knowledge he maintains from the others, while still trying to rewrite history. It’s so good and thrilling. But. Yet. However.

I’m reminded of the scene in Sabaody in which Rayleigh offers to tell the crew about the One Piece, and Luffy furiously rejects him. Says he doesn’t want a boring adventure where he knows the ending. And though I don’t recall Zoro saying anything in that moment, I think he would agree. So in this Time Travel AU, when Zoro goes back in time, he does so with the idea that this second try isn’t for him. He wants to help, but if he gets on that boat, he won’t be able to keep himself from giving Luffy all the answers in hopes of saving his life, and that would ruin his Captain’s dream.

So let’s imagine Luffy. At seventeen years old, he sets out on a journey through the Grandline to become the King of the Pirates. He has his navigator, his sniper, his cook, his doctor- all his friends by his side. And things are challenging sometimes, but always fun. And he gets lucky.

He gets lucky a lot.

Sanjj tells him it’s a guardian angel, but Luffy’s not so sure. There’s something at the back of his mind, an itch behind his ear. He starts to notice signs of a certain presence everywhere he goes, a mysterious someone who seems to always want to beat him to the punch, but also seems to never finish the job.

Like back in Orange Town, when he met Nami and fought the Buggy guy, the Clown complained about his knife thrower being put out of commission by a bounty hunter right before the fight. Or in Syrup Village, when Captain Kuroo called for reinforcements two of his officers were a no-show, their crewmates reporting that it was as if the Nyaban Brothers had disappeared into the night. When Luffy met Sanji at the Baratie, he’d felt a tension build within him as he listened to all the rumors of the Greatest Swordsman in the World having been seen nearby. But then, the tension is cut abruptly when Don Kreig walks through the door instead, announcing that he’d escaped the Warlord when some suicidal swordsman intercepted his chase.

In Whiskey Peak, Nami tells him about how she saw a cloaked figure take down 100 hundred bounty hunters without making a sound, as if trying to not disturb the Strawhat’s sleep. Luffy thinks he might’ve seen such a figure from afar when taking a leak, but he can’t be sure. In Alabasta, Ace keeps throwing looks over his shoulder as if searching for someone, but always telling Luffy there’s nothing to worry about. Vivi is shocked to discover someone took down Baroque Work’s Number 1 in a duel a night before their arrival at Alubarna. When Robin joins them at the end of it, she seems shocked to find the crew only has five members, instead of six. But she doesn’t seem keen on elaborating why just yet.

The only place that they haven’t been followed to by this Mystery Guy (as Luffy has taken to calling him) is Skypeia. Almost like he couldn’t figure out how to get up there.

And still, the whole time Luffy’s there he can’t stop thinking about him. Looking left and right as if between the clouds and the trees he’ll catch a glimpse of Mystery Guy’s face. Nami says it’s ludicrous to think that all these instances can be chalked up to same guy. Usopp tells tall tales of how they’re being stalked by a man who fell madly love with the Great Sniper’s good looks, or sometimes he tells tales of how they’re being followed by the ancient God of Fortune, or sometimes it’s any other grandiose tale he’ll accept before he accepts that it’s just a guy, just a Mystery Guy, who is real and Luffy knows it.

He knows, and he’s a little obsessed with it. And it’s not always great. He loses sleep, wondering who are you and do you know me and do i know you and stop getting in my way and why don’t you do it more and do you want to join my crew and i need you to watch me and i need you on my crew.

(Meanwhile, on his end, Zoro is planning how to stop the tragedy that will befall his family. But in the meantime he doesn’t want to just be dead weight. He doesn’t want to be apart from them. He may not have a place on that boat anymore, but he can’t have his Captain fighting his battles. He can’t let his friends go unprotected. So he’ll protect them, protect him, in silence, from afar, always one day head, always knowing what’s coming next)

[peekofhistory]

Do you have a favourite c-drama, either historical, modern or fantasy? I really enjoyed watching Everlasting Longing

I absolutely have a favourite, along with 3 other that come really close 😃 These 4 shows I've watched for almost 30 years now and I still keep re-watching them because of how amazing they are.

a) 1994 Romance of the Three Kingdoms (三国演义) b) 1986 Journey to the West (西游记) c) 1987 Dream of the Red Chamber (红楼梦) d) 1998 Water Margins (水浒传)

These 4 series were based off of the classical novels of the same names. They were produced by CCTV, the central broadcasting network in China, so we call them 央视版 (central broadcast version) because there are many other adaptations.

Romance of the Three Kingdoms, out of these 4 series this one is my ABSOLUTE favourite. Not only for Chinese drama, this is my favourite show historical, modern, Chinese, English, the top spot in my heart.

This story is set in the Three Kingdoms period of Chinese history. Out of all 4 classics, this one is the most historical, but the story DOES contain many fictional aspects. Many people say it's 70/30 (70% based on history, 30% made up/tweaked from history). The characters themselves ARE all real in history, and the general direction of the story follows history as well.

Near the end of the Han Dynasty, local warlords started gaining power, eventually splitting the country into 3 Kingdoms. That's pretty much the basis of the story. It goes into strategies used in warfare, psychology of using strategies, famous battles, etc. People also use it to discuss some philosophical questions like, honor, right vs wrong (kill an innocent person to calm an entire army, is that justified? etc.), what is acceptable as a leader, being faithful to your country, not giving up, etc.

I've watched this series no less than 20 times over the past 30 years and every time I still laugh and cry. I also know enough about the background when they were filming to know how difficult it was. The series is 84 eps long, they filmed in 5 groups for 3 years (so basically all 5 groups were filming at the same time to save time), even utilizing the military for some of the larger battles. Main character roles were paid 250 yuan/episode (about $34 USD today), which was fairly good for salary back then but nowhere near the outrageous amounts actors get today compared to average worker. The first few months before filming all actors went through training, horseback riding, fighting, going over the novel with experts, learning etiquette and mannerisms, etc.

This series also has my favourite historical figures, Emperor Liubei and his Prime Minister Zhuge Liang. After researching the actual history of this period, these two are my top historical Emperor/advisor pair. An Emperor who trusted his Prime Minister with his Kingdom, and a Prime Minister who fought to the last breath to fulfill the dream they had together T___T 为什么我的鱼水君臣要 BE...😭😭😭

If you're interested in watching this series, @hanchaozhilang is doing English subs for the whole series

Putting up 2 MVs for them here (combined into 1 video), 我家昭烈帝和武侯有排面！！

Srcs: 一知半解书 【悬溺一响，诸葛亮登场】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1nP411W7tA/

博文儿吖 【刘备|正史燃向】翻译翻译什么叫昭烈！ https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV14r4y1m7rs/

Journey to the West is based off of a true event in history, during the Tang Dynasty. A monk went on a journey from Chang'an (now Xi'an) to India for Buddhist scriptures. I'm not too familiar with the actual history, but I can imagine back then it would've been an incredibly difficult journey to make.

The novel took that journey and expanded it. They wrote in 3 disciples for the monk (technically 4...the horse who's the son of one of the Dragon Kings is also one), and put 81 "tests" along the way. The monk and his disciples had to overcome these attempts to thwart their journey to finally reach their goal.

The main character of this series isn't actually the monk but his eldest disciple, the Monkey King (top right). The Monkey King (named Sun Wukong) was birthed from a rock, and learned skills like how to transform into various objects, how to fly, etc. At one point he trashed the Jade Emperor (Emperor of the Heavens) palace and was sentenced by Buddha to be trapped under a mountain, but was tasked to assist the monk on his journey 500 years later.

When they filmed this series they were desperately short on funding, only had 1 video camera to use xD Every single main actor took on several roles (some of the smaller monster roles, once all the makeup was on you couldn't tell anyway). The actor who played the Monkey King, Liu Xiao Ling Tong, he came from a family of Peking Opera performers who specialized in the Monkey King role, so he excelled in it.

The novel Dream of the Red Chamber is originally called Story of the Stone (石头记). It centres around several large, rich, powerful families interconnected through marriage, with members serving in the court and one of the daughters even being a concubine to the Emperor. Although the story doesn't specify a dynasty, most people speculate it's likely set in Ming (the author was from the Qing Dynasty).

There are numerous storylines throughout the story, but the main one is between a young man, Baoyu, and his cousin, Daiyu (top left). This novel is incredibly complicated, with an entire profession dedicated to studying just this book (called "Redology" 红学). It can be viewed as telling the rise and fall of a family, but can also be viewed to describe a society and the rise and fall of dynasties. There are many, many characters in this book all with different story arcs. When I was a child, watching this show was just pretty clothes and hair, but as I grew, every time I re-watched the show I found reflections of life in this story. Family relationships, friendships, colleagues, bosses, this story touches on all of them, so whatever age you read this book/watch this show there's things to think about.

Many of the actors for this show were not actors by profession, literally plucked from the crowd. For two years prior to filming, all of them lived together, learning the script, reading the novel, going over it with experts, learning mannerisms, how to write calligraphy, poetry, etc. Their roles weren't immediately set, so during those two years they all tried out different roles, memorized lines, basically like living in a giant dormitory together, so once filming did start their "acting" was very natural.

Water Margins is set in the Song Dynasty. This story, to me, is darker than the other 3. The story depicts a court that is very corrupt and unjust, which forces a lot of otherwise good people to resort to criminal activity. Over 100 of them gather on a mountain in the middle of a lake, called Liangshan, where they essentially become a gang.

The traditional view of them tended to be kind of like Robinhood, raiding local cities and distributing the wealth to the people but if you actually read the book it's darker. Before joining the group, some of them would kidnap women and **** them, or one person had a restaurant where she murdered customers and made them into meat buns O.O;; So...yeah, dark stuff.

But anyway, the story goes into how this group take on the courts, lots of fighting, lots of bloodshed, the ending's really tragic T_T

[one-piece-aus]

What would marriage life would be like with the seven warlords?

This is an old anon request, I do apologize for not getting to it sooner but here we go

What Marriage Life Would Be Like With the Seven Warlords (Headcanons)

It's pretty chill being married to Mihawk

Y'all just vibe in a mansion on an isolated island

I imagine Mihawk is a person of quality time and acts of service so the two of you would often spend time together

Whether it's reading in your library or cooking dinner for each other, every moment you do together and action you do for him is cherished in Mihawk's heart, even if he doesn't mention it

He makes sure you're healthy and well (eating properly, making sure you get your sleep)

This man will be able to instantly tell if your state is the slightest bit off and will not hesitate to voice his concern

He is not opposed to having children, the idea might amuse him

In fact, after Zoro and Perona had made their appearance, Mihawk grew fond of the idea taking care of his own child, even if they would be irritating at times

Btw, Zoro and Perona think you two act like an old married couple ❤

Only way this would be possible is if you are someone like Luffy

She might not understand exactly what marriage life means but she will do her best to make you happy

She is going to cook for you and feed you

She will bathe you and make sure you have the best clothes to wear

And she will order the best doctors to bring you back to your best health if you get sick

She is taking ✨amazing✨ care of you

The two of you are just living the life of luxury regardless of where you choose to live because you two are together and happy

You will not have kids (for a number of reasons that I will not get into because this is supposed to be a fun post)

Alright, I had no idea what to do for Moria so I asked @ask-the-night-crowl for these headcanons, thank you again Snugs

In a marriage, Moria would totally rely on his partner to fulfill all the duties he has/ should be responsible for. Granted, the other mysterious four already take over most of those, but someone has to keep them all in check.

His spouse better not be aversed by his crew, because for as much as he says he doesn't care about these idiots, he would also face death to protect them.

Unless him and his s/o have known eachother for a pretty long time, he'll try to keep them at an arm's length. Not necessarily because they don't have good enough of a connection, but the idea of loss is always on his mind.

He doesn't mind affection. In fact, he'll back-handedly seek it out by annoying his s/o until they give him attention if he so desires. He's pretty much like an oversized cat.

On the other hand, you'll also have to be prepared not to see him for days on end, because of his sleeping habits (Again, like a cat).

But in that time, cuddling with him is totally fine, because once that man is out, he sleeps like a rock.

His frequent nightmares might lead to the conclusion that comforting him would be the answer. But he hates the idea of being treated as weak as that and would much rather appreaciate the mere presence of his s/o when he wakes up next to them.

In contrast, he'll offer the same to his s/o when they feel down and would have an immediate (even petty) grudge against anyone harming them.

Staying in with him at a fireplace, drinking fancy wines and making fun of the other warlords would be his favorite way to spend time when he's awake for once.

If the spouse is good at cooking, you can bet they'll become his personal chef - after all, love goes through the stomach amirite.

If you're marrying Doffy, his family comes as a package deal, you can't have him without it, that being said, he expects you to get along with them (you can tolerate them instead but just don't let him notice)

Of course, he will expect you to take care of Baby 5, Buffalo, and Dellinger as if they were your children, he is open to making blood offsprings, but never put them before him

Doffy is your number 1 priority, whatever he says goes

But just because he's demanding doesn't mean he won't show you affection, in fact, most of his demands is just him wanting to give or receive affection

You are showed in gifts and luxury, he is the king of Dressrosa afterall, your word has every weight as his own since your are his queen

He is proud to show off his spouse, you are his most prized possession after all

However, you are more than just a trophy, after the loss of his dear mother and brother, he holds you close and tells you how dear you are to him every night

You are often woken up in the middle of the night due to his rustling from nightmares, just hold him to calm him down

Crocodile keeps you in the dark about his work, for all you know, he is a casino owner in Alabasta that keeps the people safe from pirates since he's a warlord

He takes you out for a stroll around in the evening, outside to admire the stars, or in the casino where your every need is met

He doesn't show affection in public but his gestures do show you belong to him and no one else

He keeps you company in bed at night until you fall asleep but when you wake up, he is not there, he's working as always

When see him next, he'll have a gift for you, an apology for not being able to always be around as he is a very busy man, but he'll make it up to you

I imagine it would be comfortable, like little cottage in nature kind of comfy

You both would wake up in the morning with a nice cup of tea

Your place would be clean and organized

You'd receive lots of comforting hugs and cuddles

Life would be peaceful

Until strawhat crew comes knocking on your door

Don't quite have any ideas for Kuma so... This is end, I hope you enjoy anon, and thank you for requesting