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ssweetleaf · 1 year

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just like heaven.

| part ii |

pairing— best friend’s brother!steve harrington x fem!reader

♡ summary— steve overhears about your disappointing sex life, but soon starts to imagine how good he could make you feel if only you were with him. (based off this ask)

♡ includes— SMUT 18+, male masturbation, kind of perv!steve, praise, breeding kink, basically stevie fucks his fist thinking about you and gets caught in the act, no specific pronouns used, and no use of y/n, i know some people don’t like that, (i gave steve’s sister a name to make the whole thing a bit easier!)

let me know if you’d like a part two! <3

˖ ࣪⭑

Steve was insatiable; hard as a fucking rock ever since he heard you, on your best friend’s bed, fingers flipping through a cosmo mag and smacking on your cherry gum, completely unaware that King Steve himself was eavesdropping on your rather private conversation.

He didn’t mean to listen in, honest, he was just on his way to the bathroom that just so happened to be next to his sister’s room, the door cracked open ever so slightly, just enough so he could see you on your stomach, ankles crossed and swinging behind you.

“It’s just so disappointing, yknow?” You huffed, eyes narrowing when it caught sight of a certain article on page seventeen about spicing things up in the bedroom. “It’s basically non-existent!”

Tiffany sighed, and his brows started to furrow, trying to get a clue on what they were talking about— slowly creeping closer to their door.

“Babe, it can’t be that bad. What happened to that guy that took you out?” She hummed, trying to think of his name, yet seeming to fall short, the boy completely blanked from her mind.

You groaned, pressing your cheek against your folded arms— and if he craned his neck just a little, he’d be able to see the way your puffy folds sucked up the material of your sleep shorts, riding higher and higher up your thighs each time you kicked your legs.

Oh fuck, he was totally perving…

“Don’t even bother— he was so- so-” you grumbled, huffing at the thought of him before finding the right term to describe that son of a bitch. “Self-absorbed.”

Steve arched a brow, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, the sight before him, all cutesy and whiny, it was enough to have his cock rutting up.

“Come on, babe. Spill the beans, I wanna know what happened.”

You sighed, fighting the urge to hide your face in your hands, before flipping the magazine shut.

“He was just selfish, Tiff- he wanted me to do all the work, didn’t even get me ready just kissed me a little.” You scoffed, recounting the memories and his stupid smirk, “and worst of all, he’s a head pusher- way too forceful, shoved it right down my throat without any warning!”

“Oh my god,” Tiff rolled her eyes, nostrils flaring and she didn’t even know the guy. “What a dick!”

“I know,” you spoke, picking at the remnants of your chipped nail polish, “this is why my sex life is so disappointing.”

˖ ࣪⭑

Steve gnawed at his cheek, traipsing back into his bedroom and kicking the door shut, not even bothering to use the bathroom after— not that he really needed to anyway…

Laying back on his bed, the cool sheets squished beneath him, he thought about you— your pretty thighs and the way they squeezed together mindlessly, the soft fat of your hips from underneath your shorts and the curve of your tits that begged to pop out from your too-small tank top.

You were a total babe, so fucking pretty, and so sweet too, he couldn’t wrap his head around how someone like you had a sex life that was so boring.

I could change that, he thought, fuck, his cock throbbed at the thought. He could take care of you, make you feel better than any of those losers you had been with, sating you on his big cock until you were all dumb and tuckered out.

The thoughts he had were swirling around his brain in a constant tizzy, so much so, he hadn’t even realised he had slipped a hand under his briefs, only realising once it started to leak in his palm, pre-cum staining the material and sticking to his skin.

You were on his mind, your tits, your ass, your pretty thighs- it had him hard as a rock, starting to buck into his own hand, teeth clutching at his lips to stifle his groans— after all, the walls were thin, and there was only one that separated Steve’s room from his sister’s.

He wanted to tease himself, pretend it was you that was teasing him with your pretty fingers— trailing his fingertips along his shaft, running up along the thick vein underneath it before swiping a thumb over his mushroomed tip, all swollen and sensitive, leaking even more now he had his hands on himself.

He sucked that same thumb into his mouth, the salty tang of his arousal on his tongue and the sudden image of his face between your thighs, licking up at your slick pussy and suckling at your peaked clit had his hips bucking.

“Fuck—” he gasped, breath hitching in his throat, sweat already ebbing at his hairline and beginning to slip, cheeks all rosey and flushed, all from the thought of you, you, you.

“Drive me fuckin’ crazy, honey-” he was muttering to himself, squeezing his eyes closed and rolling his balls in his palm, playing with him just how he imagined you’d play with them. “wish you were all mine.”

Steve’s fist was tight around his cock, fingers squeezing and pumping it. Up and down, up and down— groaning out into the stuffy air when he thought about your hands stroking at him, fingers barely managing to reach round.

He was leaking, tip bubblegum pink and glistening with pearly beads of pre-cum, dribbling down his shaft and oozing between his fingers, lubing up his cock so nicely— fuck, he thought about your mouth, suckling on him, getting him nice and wet, drooling all over his balls, making a real mess— oh fuckfuckfuck.

“Jus’ wanna fuck you,” he muttered into the air, wishing you could hear him, watch him, “could treat you so well- would spoil you so good.”

He was whining, high and breathy into the stuffy bedroom air, the slick sounds with each jerk were so loud, but he was so pussy-drunk, dumb from the constant swirly thoughts of you, big love hearts pumping in his eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to really care about how loud he was starting to get.

He started to slow down, he had to, already so close to coming, he took his fist away and swirled his fingertips along his cock-head, watching the way his muscles clenched with hooded and hazy eyes.

Steve thought about you on his bed, underneath him, letting him fuck you into the mattress, muttering pretty praises into your sweet skin— licking and sucking at your neck all the while his fat cock punched into your gummy walls and nudged at that special spot so deep inside.

“Bet you’d be such a good girl.” he sighed, starting to stroke himself once again, but much slower than before. “jus’ wanna- fuck— wanna fill you up with my cum, get you all messy and- shit— give you my fuckin’ babies.”

Oh fuck, picturing you all pregnant, tummy all swollen, letting him fuck you from behind while you both lay on your sides, oh god, he was in too deep, but he couldn’t help it. You’d look so fucking pretty all pregnant with his babies— all full of his cum.

His hips stuttered, thighs tensed and his cock twitched, he was so close, so, so close, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, fist squeezing down and shaking from the stimulation.

“G-gonna cum, oh Christ, gonna fucking’ cum!”

He chased his high, jaw slack and mouth agape while long, hot ropes of his sticky cum painted his stomach and thighs, crying out a mixture of your name and a few curses and he swore he hadn’t came as hard before as he did then.

And it all would’ve been fine— he would’ve settled and cleaned up and just went to bed with a little secret in the back of his mind, though the sight of you stood there when his eyes fluttered open— eyes all glassy and lips in a pout, thighs clenching and a cute little wet spot saturating your shorts… oh no.

“I-I can explain!”

⋆˙⟡♡ inbox me eddie and steve stuff ! ♡⟡˙ ⋆

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things x y/n

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odinsblog · 3 months

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One of the most durable myths in recent history is that the religious right, the coalition of conservative evangelicals and fundamentalists, emerged as a political movement in response to the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1973 Roe v. Wade ruling legalizing abortion. The tale goes something like this: Evangelicals, who had been politically quiescent for decades, were so morally outraged by Roe that they resolved to organize in order to overturn it.

This myth of origins is oft repeated by the movement’s leaders. In his 2005 book, Jerry Falwell, the firebrand fundamentalist preacher, recounts his distress upon reading about the ruling in the Jan. 23, 1973, edition of the Lynchburg News: “I sat there staring at the Roe v. Wade story,” Falwell writes, “growing more and more fearful of the consequences of the Supreme Court’s act and wondering why so few voices had been raised against it.” Evangelicals, he decided, needed to organize.

Some of these anti- Roe crusaders even went so far as to call themselves “new abolitionists,” invoking their antebellum predecessors who had fought to eradicate slavery.

But the abortion myth quickly collapses under historical scrutiny. In fact, it wasn’t until 1979—a full six years after Roe—that evangelical leaders, at the behest of conservative activist Paul Weyrich, seized on abortion not for moral reasons, but as a rallying-cry to deny President Jimmy Carter a second term. Why? Because the anti-abortion crusade was more palatable than the religious right’s real motive: protecting segregated schools. So much for the new abolitionism.

Today, evangelicals make up the backbone of the pro-life movement, but it hasn’t always been so. Both before and for several years after Roe, evangelicals were overwhelmingly indifferent to the subject, which they considered a “Catholic issue.” In 1968, for instance, a symposium sponsored by the Christian Medical Society and Christianity Today, the flagship magazine of evangelicalism, refused to characterize abortion as sinful, citing “individual health, family welfare, and social responsibility” as justifications for ending a pregnancy. In 1971, delegates to the Southern Baptist Convention in St. Louis, Missouri, passed a resolution encouraging “Southern Baptists to work for legislation that will allow the possibility of abortion under such conditions as rape, incest, clear evidence of severe fetal deformity, and carefully ascertained evidence of the likelihood of damage to the emotional, mental, and physical health of the mother.” The convention, hardly a redoubt of liberal values, reaffirmed that position in 1974, one year after Roe, and again in 1976.

When the Roe decision was handed down, W. A. Criswell, the Southern Baptist Convention’s former president and pastor of First Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas—also one of the most famous fundamentalists of the 20th century—was pleased: “I have always felt that it was only after a child was born and had a life separate from its mother that it became an individual person,” he said, “and it has always, therefore, seemed to me that what is best for the mother and for the future should be allowed.”

Although a few evangelical voices, including Christianity Today magazine, mildly criticized the ruling, the overwhelming response was silence, even approval. Baptists, in particular, applauded the decision as an appropriate articulation of the division between church and state, between personal morality and state regulation of individual behavior. “Religious liberty, human equality and justice are advanced by the Supreme Court abortion decision,” wrote W. Barry Garrett of Baptist Press.

So what then were the real origins of the religious right? It turns out that the movement can trace its political roots back to a court ruling, but not Roe v. Wade.

In May 1969, a group of African-American parents in Holmes County, Mississippi, sued the Treasury Department to prevent three new whites-only K-12 private academies from securing full tax-exempt status, arguing that their discriminatory policies prevented them from being considered “charitable” institutions. The schools had been founded in the mid-1960s in response to the desegregation of public schools set in motion by the Brown v. Board of Education decision of 1954. In 1969, the first year of desegregation, the number of white students enrolled in public schools in Holmes County dropped from 771 to 28; the following year, that number fell to zero.

In Green v. Kennedy (David Kennedy was secretary of the treasury at the time), decided in January 1970, the plaintiffs won a preliminary injunction, which denied the “segregation academies” tax-exempt status until further review. In the meantime, the government was solidifying its position on such schools. Later that year, President Richard Nixon ordered the Internal Revenue Service to enact a new policy denying tax exemptions to all segregated schools in the United States. Under the provisions of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, which forbade racial segregation and discrimination, discriminatory schools were not—by definition—“charitable” educational organizations, and therefore they had no claims to tax-exempt status; similarly, donations to such organizations would no longer qualify as tax-deductible contributions.

On June 30, 1971, the United States District Court for the District of Columbia issued its ruling in the case, now Green v. Connally (John Connally had replaced David Kennedy as secretary of the Treasury). The decision upheld the new IRS policy: “Under the Internal Revenue Code, properly construed, racially discriminatory private schools are not entitled to the Federal tax exemption provided for charitable, educational institutions, and persons making gifts to such schools are not entitled to the deductions provided in case of gifts to charitable, educational institutions.”

Paul Weyrich, the late religious conservative political activist and co-founder of the Heritage Foundation, saw his opening.

In the decades following World War II, evangelicals, especially white evangelicals in the North, had drifted toward the Republican Party—inclined in that direction by general Cold War anxieties, vestigial suspicions of Catholicism and well-known evangelist Billy Graham’s very public friendship with Dwight Eisenhower and Richard Nixon. Despite these predilections, though, evangelicals had largely stayed out of the political arena, at least in any organized way. If he could change that, Weyrich reasoned, their large numbers would constitute a formidable voting bloc—one that he could easily marshal behind conservative causes.

“The new political philosophy must be defined by us [conservatives] in moral terms, packaged in non-religious language, and propagated throughout the country by our new coalition,” Weyrich wrote in the mid-1970s. “When political power is achieved, the moral majority will have the opportunity to re-create this great nation.” Weyrich believed that the political possibilities of such a coalition were unlimited. “The leadership, moral philosophy, and workable vehicle are at hand just waiting to be blended and activated,” he wrote. “If the moral majority acts, results could well exceed our wildest dreams.”

But this hypothetical “moral majority” needed a catalyst—a standard around which to rally. For nearly two decades, Weyrich, by his own account, had been trying out different issues, hoping one might pique evangelical interest: pornography, prayer in schools, the proposed Equal Rights Amendment to the Constitution, even abortion. “I was trying to get these people interested in those issues and I utterly failed,” Weyrich recalled at a conference in 1990.

The Green v. Connally ruling provided a necessary first step: It captured the attention of evangelical leaders , especially as the IRS began sending questionnaires to church-related “segregation academies,” including Falwell’s own Lynchburg Christian School, inquiring about their racial policies. Falwell was furious. “In some states,” he famously complained, “It’s easier to open a massage parlor than a Christian school.”

One such school, Bob Jones University—a fundamentalist college in Greenville, South Carolina—was especially obdurate. The IRS had sent its first letter to Bob Jones University in November 1970 to ascertain whether or not it discriminated on the basis of race. The school responded defiantly: It did not admit African Americans.

Although Bob Jones Jr., the school’s founder, argued that racial segregation was mandated by the Bible, Falwell and Weyrich quickly sought to shift the grounds of the debate, framing their opposition in terms of religious freedom rather than in defense of racial segregation. For decades, evangelical leaders had boasted that because their educational institutions accepted no federal money (except for, of course, not having to pay taxes) the government could not tell them how to run their shops—whom to hire or not, whom to admit or reject.

The Civil Rights Act, however, changed that calculus.

(continue reading)

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bloodmoonmuses · 7 months

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sun-faded youth; shimmering potentiality | choi beomgyu

genre: choi beomgyu x reader, childhood friends to lovers, angst (like, wayyy more angsty than I anticipated lol), eventual fluff

wc: 3.2k

warnings: some swearing, mentions of food

summary: one day, after disappearing from your life for three years, beomgyu returns to place in which you grew to love him most: your childhood home.

The sun faded wallpaper of your childhood home would be remembered as the backdrop to your early morning adventures. Clad in your Princess Belle costume and Beomgyu in his Superman cape, the two of you wake to brave the world. Side by side, as always.

You and Beomgyu are alike in every way. You like the same foods (applesauce and goldfish crackers). You like the same TV shows (Spongebob). You like the same activities (drawing and playing make-believe). You like the same time of day (morning). Every Saturday, Beomgyu would come over to your house for breakfast. While your mother made blueberry pancakes, the two of you would craft.

You remember one day in particular, the memory wrinkling at the edges like a withering flower:

Strewn haphazardly across the living room is an array of crafting materials. Crayons, glitter, colorful paper, magazine scraps- it almost resembles a candy shop in how colorful it all is. Beomgyu snatches a glue stick away from you, using it to paste some torn pieces of newspaper to his hodge-podge of an art project. Picking up a pair of scissors, he cuts a few notches out of the top of the paper, making triangular peaks. His little hands can barely hold the scissors. They’re clunky in his grasp.

Despite his small hands, Beomgyu is quite tall for a 6 year old. Your eyes drift to your heights etched into the archway. A red line at age 2: You’re about 3 feet tall. Beomgyu is 3 and a half feet tall. A blue line at 4 years old: You’ve barely grown. Beomgyu has doubled in size. Most recently, there’s only an inch difference in your height. You’re finally catching up to him.

When satisfied with his embellishments, Beomgyu bends the paper and glues the ends together. He holds up his creation gleefully, wearing a huge grin that’s toothy in the best way.

“It’s a crown,” he declares, voice buoyant and as clear as a bell.

“Make me one too!” You demand.

Beomgyu crosses his arms and pouts. “You can’t be a prince!” he says. "I’m a prince.”

You roll your eyes at him. Boys are so simple, as your mom always said. Your best friend was no exception. “I wanna be a Queen, Beomgyu. It’s different.”

“Nuh-Uh!” He shakes his head furiously.

“Yuh-huh!” you contest.

“You’re full of it,” Beomgyu says. He turns away from you, placing the crown on his own head triumphantly.

You talk at his back. “Queens are, like, more better than princes, silly.”

At this, Beomgyu promptly turns back around, still grinning with his pouty lips. In all honesty, arguing was his favorite pastime. He liked seeing you riled up. “Meanie,” he says.

“Stupid,” you retort, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Nerd.” Beomgyu sticks his tongue out at you. How princely, you think.

“Loser-”

“Time for breakfast!” your mom calls out from the kitchen.

The memory dissipates, like mist momentarily illuminated by a ray of sunlight only to then disappear into the sloth of a summer day. You try to grasp onto it, but with each passing day it more so resembles a daydream than a lived experience. All you have left is the occasional recounting of your youth with your mother.

Sometimes, you wish you didn’t remember Beomgyu at all.

It’s the summer before your senior year of college. You’re back in the same home you grew up in. Your mother refused to sell the house, even after all these years. In many ways, you’re grateful for this. In others, it makes you angry. Beomgyu hasn’t spoken to you since highschool graduation. It’s been three years. A part of you thought he’d drift back to you eventually. He knew where you lived. He knew where to find you. But he never came.

“Have you heard from Gyu?” Your mother would often ask.

You were never sure where it all went wrong. You loved him as much as you could possibly love someone without literally fusing into their form. Your eyes beheld the same stars as his but saw different constellations. Hearts that once followed the same rhythm were now out of sync. Your love couldn’t scale the distance. It couldn’t withstand the time, or weather the storm of your respective metamorphoses. When the flood passed, the clouds parted and the sun emerged, you weren’t gifted a prophetic rainbow. Instead, you were left with nothing.

“What do you think?” You’d always say, venom lacing your tongue.

Your mother looked at you with softened eyes. “Sore subject?”

“Yeah. Sore subject.”

Regardless of your fluctuating bitterness, being home did bring you comfort to some degree. You liked being shrouded in familiarity. Per the tradition, albeit without Beomgyu, you and your mother are making pancakes. There’s a wordless groove between the two of you, your mother measuring out the ingredients while you mix them accordingly. When the consistency is to your liking, you gently fold blueberries into the batter.

As you’re reaching for a pan, there’s a knock at the door. Well, four knocks. You hear Beomgyu’s voice in your head: A fourth to let you know it’s me.

It can’t be. There’s no way. Last time you checked, Beomgyu wouldn’t be back in town for another week. (Not that you’ve been stalking his socials or anything like that.)

Your mom dusts her hands off on her apron, then walks to answer the door. You remain in the kitchen, stricken with something you’ve never felt before. It feels as though you’re in quicksand, sinking into the floor beneath you.

“Gyuie! My little pumpkin, it’s been so long!” It’s really him. The gleeful timbre of your mother’s voice makes you nauseous. She doesn’t sound like a real person. How she can just pick up where they left off is beyond you. She doesn’t know of the guilt, the shame, the confusion that you’ve been harboring for the past few years. You’re sodden with pain.

When you walk into his line of vision, Beomgyu freezes, but only for a second. “I’m still taller than you,” he says. There’s a smirk dancing on his lips. Typical.

You’re instantly transported to your younger self, so full of admiration for him. Looking up to him- both physically and figuratively. He’s in a black tee and baggy jeans, looking laid back and nonchalant. Except, you know better. His nose is twitching, a tell that he’s actually a bit nervous. He’s grown into his face. His eyes are just as bright as you remember them. You’re happy to see that his spark isn’t gone. Then, that fondness twists into something hot- liquid and molten at the pit of your stomach. You wash away your distorted reverie, stepping back into your body.

You see Beomgyu eye the archway of the living room. The height markings have been painted over.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. It’s all you can bring yourself to say. There’s a bite to your tone, one that you don’t expend much effort concealing, and Beomgyu looks visibly wounded. He quickly recovers, scrunching his nose as he takes your anger on the chin.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to see your mother gathering her belongings. “I’m gonna head to the grocery store. Forgot to get bacon to go with the pancakes.” She grabs her purse and walks to the entryway. “Put the pancake batter in the fridge. Beomgyu, you know you’re always welcome here. Be good, kiddos.”

When she exits, the door slamming with such finality that it rattles your bones, you stand there in silence. No words are exchanged, but his eyes are saying so much. They’re swirling with a mixture of hurt, embarrassment and yearning. You look away.

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu says. “I really am.”

You want to speak, but the words never come. Not when you need them most. Regardless, Beomgyu isn’t one to back down. “I wanted to see you. I’ve missed-”

“Don’t,” you say, cutting him off. More silence follows.

Beomgyu pivots. “Is the treehouse still in the backyard?”

“Yeah,” you say carefully. Your voice sounds like it's running away from you. “Haven’t been in it in years.”

“Wanna check it out?” he asks with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

When you climb into the treehouse, your heart lurches. It’s a time capsule- a snapshot of forgotten dreams and naivete. There’s a dusty toy box, likely rusted shut from lack of use. In the corner is a pile of blankets and pillows. A few chairs are stacked in the far back, and fairy lights are still strung to the ceiling. On the walls are your drawings, fantasies of princes and princesses rendered in waxy crayon. It instantly brings tears to your eyes.

“Needs sweeping,” you say, sniffling.

Beomgyu chuckles. “The queen doesn’t keep her castle clean. Shocker.”

You scoff. “Can’t manage the kingdom on my own.”

“Prince and Queen are very different roles, you know,” Beomgyu jokes back.

“Well, you didn’t want to be my king, clearly.”

Beomgyu again takes your jab in stride, shrugging it off. “Going for jester instead nowadays.”

After exploring the treehouse a bit more, Beomgyu positions the chairs in a triangular formation. He whacks the dust off the blankets, and drapes them over. Then, he climbs under the fort, placing another blanket underneath. He adds some pillows and settles there, motioning for you to join him. You shake your head.

“Oh come on, _______. Get in here.”

“Fine.” You enter the pillow fort and lay on your back next to him.

“Look what I found,” says Beomgyu. From behind him, he takes out a paper crown- the same one from your wistful memory. “Here.” He places the crown on your head and it fits perfectly. As he does so, he looks directly in your eyes, a blush appearing on his cheeks and nose. His hair is slightly damp with sweat. The humid heat of summer drapes over the entire room, intensified by the tiny shelter under which the two of you lay.

“How’s college?” you ask.

“Fine. Soobin stays on my ass, not that I get into much trouble anyway.”

“You’re in a band, right?”

Beomgyu makes a face at you and you flush. You could’ve sworn he told you about the band before he left. He used to talk your ear off about his dreams of joining one. You had seen some pictures on Instagram of Beomgyu and a few of his friends playing shows at random dive bars in their little college town. Now he knows you check his page periodically.

“Stalker.”

“Loser.”

“Wow. Great comeback, stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker.”

“Whatever you say, weirdo.” You smack his arm. “But to answer the question you totally don’t know the answer to; Yes. I’m in a band. You’ll have to meet the guys one day. You won’t believe how tall Kai has gotten. And there’s this guy, Yeonjun- the girls go crazy over him.”

“What about you?” you continue. “Do people go crazy over you?’

“Not anyone I care about.”

You turn on your side to face Beomgyu, your noses so close they almost touch. His hair falls over his eyes, long and floppy. He’s grown so much. You wish you were there to see the bags under his eyes form. To see his smile lines deepen and shoulders grow broader. You subconsciously reach to sweep a few strands of hair out of his eyes, tucking the tendrils behind his ear, and admire his pretty face.

“You actually look more like a prince than a rock star,” you muse.

“Not a rock star. I’m just in a band. Which you already knew.”

“I actually hate you.” Beomgyu laughs, eyes forming half moons.

Your mind is racing. You have so many questions to ask him- questions you thought you’d never get the answers to. He’s here, real and tangible, and you’re terrified that he’s an apparition- that at any moment, you’ll wake up and realize you’ve been dreaming. You try your best to not impose your own wants onto him, but all you can see is the little boy to whom you divulged all your secrets. Now, you want nothing more than to run away from him, as quickly and as far as possible, so that he can feel what you felt so many years ago.

“Why’d you leave without telling me?” The words leave your mouth before you can even register that you’re speaking.

“I’m not good at goodbyes.” Beomgyu attempts to chuckle it off, always trying to confront his shortcomings with some type of levity. His smirk is more like a pained grimace.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” you confess. “You were my best friend, Beomgyu.”

“If you had told me to stay with you, I would’ve in a heartbeat.”

“I wouldn’t have given you an ultimatum. I always knew you wanted to go to a bigger school with more opportunities.” You’re exasperated, pinching your nose bridge in annoyance.

“I know, but if you had even suggested it-”

“Well, I didn’t! I didn’t do anything but support you, Gyu- like I always have! And you punished me for it.”

Unlike your childhood, the memory of Beomgyu leaving is burned onto the back of your eyelids. When you close your eyes, you see it so vividly:

You had just graduated highschool. You and Beomgyu had agreed to meet in your treehouse right after the ceremony. He was the first person you wanted to celebrate with. You biked all the way home, still in your cap and gown, feverishly pedaling down the streets of your neighborhood. The town was ablaze with elation. Music blared in the streets and confetti littered the ground.

When you arrived, you threw your bike to the ground, not even bothering to prop it up on its kickstand. You climbed up into the treehouse, only to find it empty. You checked your phone. No messages from Beomgyu. You figured he had forgotten. You mounted your bike and made your way to Beomgyu’s house a few blocks over. In his bedroom window, you saw a girl caressing his face- similarly to how you would when Beomgyu was sad. She fluttered her lashes at him and placed a chaste kiss to his lips. You recognize the twisting of your gut as jealousy.

When did Beomgyu slip from your grasp? Did he fall in love with her while you fell in love with a hypothetical- shimmering potentiality providing you comfort as you accepted the inevitably of your separation. Three months of summer together, then what? You’d confess your love for him and ruin the near decade of friendship your relationship boasted? It was a risk you weren’t willing to take, so you held the secret close to your chest, to wither away with the rest of your forgotten dreams.

Your vision whites out, fuzzy and blurred. You end up walking your bike home and crying for the rest of the day. In the following weeks, Beomgyu didn’t call, visit or even send you a text.

You tried one more time, the night before you drove up to campus, to see him, knocking on his door four times. His mother answered, looking at you solemnly.

“Hi, Mrs. Choi! Is Beomgyu here?”

“No, he left for school last weekend darling.” she had said. You felt the soft spot in your heart for Bomegyu harden, and walked home in the cold.

Your body jolts back to the present and you realize you might’ve never moved on from this day. Beomgyu shakes you from the thought, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry, _______,” he whispers.

You take the crown off of your head, giving it to Beomgyu. “I… admired you so much back then, even though I’d never admit it,” you say. “I wanted to be just like you. Now we couldn’t be more different.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we can get to know each other as we are now,” Beomgyu suggests. Always hopeful, never one to play the pessimist. It’s one of things you loved about him most. “It’ll be a new adventure for us both.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I admired you too, by the way,” he adds. “I wanted to be as headstrong as you. Do you still draw? Do you still want to be an artist?” Beomgyu looks at you with wild curiosity. It’s like you’re meeting him for the first time all over again.

“Yes, and yes. You thought I was headstrong?”

“You’re the only person who put up with my bullshit. So, yeah. Very headstrong.”

Suddenly, your stomach growls. Loudly. Beomgyu stifles a laugh and asks, “Wanna cook up those pancakes?”

In the kitchen, you wait until bubbles rise to the top and flip the pancakes accordingly. Beomgyu rummages through the fridge, pouring two glasses of orange juice. You sit at the dining table, side by side.

“I have a confession to make,” Beomgyu says. “I hate blueberries. I ate them because you like them.”

You gasp. “Gyu! I would’ve lived without the damn blueberries!”

“I’ll just eat around them,” he says with a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“Whatever,” you mumble under your breath.

You take a bite of your pancake, a blueberry bursting in your mouth. As you eat, you help Beomgyu pick around the blueberries in his. When done with your meal, the two of you wash dishes. He washes and you rinse. The sloshing of water and clinking of dishes orchestrate your movements. You catch up with one another while cleaning, joking around like you used to. Out of nowhere, Beomgyu plops a cluster of bubbles onto your nose.

“You did not!” you exclaim, immediately repaying the favor by throwing suds back at him.Then, there’s bubbles everywhere, flying and floating in the air like dandelion fluff.

“I absolutely just did, loser!” Beomgyu says, chasing you around the kitchen with more bubble ammo.

“Nerd!” you yell out as you run away from his attack.

“Stalker!”

“I am not a stalker!!!” In your tizzy, you slip and fall on some soap, Beomgyu promptly falling on top of you right after. Hovering above you, he bores into your visage fondly, deep eyes sparkling with affection. He looks like a dream. Then, like in some of your dreams, he leans down and kisses you. He takes his time, gently moving against you. It takes a second for your body to catch up with your mind, but when you do, you’re kissing him with the fervor of three years, four knocks, a lifetime of shared pancakes and the burgeoning of unabashed love. He cradles your face closely, not wanting to let you go.

When he comes up for air, Beomgyu says, “It’s a good thing saying goodbye isn’t really my thing, ‘cus I have no intention of saying it to you any time soon.”

As Beomgyu leans back in to kiss you again, the front door swings open.

“The grocery store was a madhouse, but I managed to get some bacon,” your mom says. “Oh! Oh, I didn’t–” She closes her eyes dramatically, dropping her shopping bag on the floor.

You and Beomgyu instantly stand to your feet, putting as much distance in between you as possible.

“Mom, please don’t make it awkward,” you groan.

“I mean, I always had my suspicions, but–” she starts.

“Mom! Please!”

Your mother smiles knowingly. “So I guess this means you two made up?”

a/n: unedited + feedback is always appreciated!

#bloodmoonmuses #beomgyu fic #choi beomgyu #txt fic #beomgyu x reader #txt imagines #txt x reader #beomgyu fluff

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notbecauseofvictories · 7 months

Note

Just wanted to say you kinda opened my eyes with your post about public transit a month ago. I am deathly afraid of public transportation. I guess seeing all the news and videos of horrible things happening on buses and subways made me ignorant of the fact that it’s just people. It’s just people. And that’s awesome. I’m gonna go ride a bus and thank the driver

I would never claim that nothing terrible happens on the bus---I've read those news stories too, to deny that it's possible would be flatly incorrect. Even in just my personal experience, there are dismissive, rude or belligerent people everywhere. People smell...different, especially when everyone is sweating through their winter coat, and unfortunately we can't convince certain members of the human race to buy some damn headphones. Still, I've been living in Chicago since 2010 and have never owned a car; I take a lot of buses and ride in a lot of taxis, I've biked from River North to Edgewater, taken the El from O'Hare down to Woodlawn, and ridden the Metra to the surburbs, to other states.

And I love public transit. I write about how much I love it with an almost unwell frequency---how it's a vehicle for grace, how the people who work there can be delightful, that it brings you into contact with people you wouldn't ordinarily meet. I still think about this article from Chicago magazine, where CTA workers were interviewed to talk about the highs, lows, and general insanity of the job. To recount every person I've had an unexpected conversation with, or shared a meaningful glance, or just admired from a distance as they gave up their seat, would take more time than any of us have.

Ultimately, everyone has to make their way through the world. When you realize that that's all people are really doing on the bus---or the train, or the subway, or the streetcar, or whatever other public transit is available to you---the idea of sitting alongside them doesn't seem so monumental. Everyone there just wants to get where they're going, and maybe arrive a little better than when they left.

#it's funny because I know almost nothing about transit and have no interest in learning #but I love it. LOVE it. if I were mayor of chicago and the CTA came to me and said ''we need a kajllion dollars''#I wouldn't ask for what. I wouldn't even point out that 'kajillion' isn't a real number. I would simply give them money.

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hiraethwa · 2 months

Text

one summer day

12 shoot for the stars. where you celebrate ushijima’s signing with a tokyo team

<< 11 star-crossed.| >> 13 hello, tokyo.

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x reader word count: 1.6k warnings: nothing much tags: @lemurzsquad @daisy-room @integers @brokenscaredakira @whosmarjj -- (inbox me if you want to be added to the tag list)

december, third year

the weather turns cold, ushering in the snowy winter days. you realize it will be the last winter you share with ushijima if you don’t end up going to school in tokyo next year.

“let’s go to tokyo together” you remember his words, clear as the night sky the words were spoken under. ushijima had stayed true to his words, choosing to accept an offer to play with a v-league division one team based in tokyo.

the ball is quite literally in your court now.

your hands shake as you rip open the letter from the university of tokyo, the thin envelope almost foretelling the results. your eyes scan the words quickly. thank you for your application… we receive thousands of applicants… each goes through rigorous and demanding standards… we regret to inform–

the paper slips from your trembling hands.

cruel is the fate that dealt you your hand. you glance at the vision board balanced atop your dresser. the collage of letters torn out from magazines spelling out ‘university of tokyo’ mocking you like a cruel joke.

you bite your lip, swallowing the tears welling in your eyes. life goes on, and you have a party to get to.

ushijima’s celebration party is in full swing by the time you arrive. people chatting in groups, laughing, holding glasses of amber liquid. you recognize some of them, the players on the volleyball school team, a handful of classmates scattered across the sprawl of the first floor of the large house. a good portion of adults and strangers, who you assumed to be his mother’s friends or family.

you are late, but late is better than never. it seemed like the universe is against you getting here on time today. you had decided last minute that the outfit you had prepared could be too casual, rummaging through your cabinet for something more. and when you were done, you could not find the gift where you left it, causing you to be even later than you already were.

now weaving through the upscale crowd, looking for ushijima’s tall figure, you are glad that you went with a more formal outfit for the occasion. ah, there he is.

you stop dead in your tracks when you notice who he is talking to.

because looking up at ushijima with a gentle smile, hair pinned back carefully, is a stranger clad in a simple and elegant dress. you rack your brain, going through the students at your school but came up short, so she probably doesn’t go to shiratorizawa. you wouldn’t forget someone like this.

it is not just that, but also the two older ladies who are with them, presumably their mothers, that makes you pause.

there is a feeling that you can recount on one hand the times you felt it settle over you. the indescribable feeling of witnessing something pivotal happening before you know what it is. once when your parents came home from the doctors when you were a toddler, the biggest smiles on their faces. you later found out that it was the day they learned your mother is pregnant with your sister. the other time was when your father packed his bags for a week long business trip in tokyo after your sister’s funeral. that turned into two weeks, then a month, and a permanent role change and only seeing him on new year’s day and emergencies.

you twist away from them, ignoring that feeling that once again nudges itself against you.

“hey” semi finds you easily by the drinks pouring yourself a generous amount of the bitter liquid despite being underaged.

“you look good.” you nod your head in appreciation of the classy white button-up semi opted for.

“thanks, you talked to ushijima yet?”

“nah, he’s swarmed.”

he chuckles, “tell me about it.”

“want some?” you offer the cup to him.

“i thought you hate the smell of alcohol.” semi scrunches his nose at you.

“today’s a special occasion, isn’t it?” your hand tightens around the glass.

this is a celebratory party, you remind yourself. you had dropped off your gift at the entrance alongside the rather large pile of congratulatory presents, feeling out of place carrying the wrapped box around the party.

you knew that ushijima came from an influential family in the miyagi prefecture, but this far outweighs the picture you had in your head of how affluent they are. they had a whole coat check for guests in the foyer.

semi furrows his brows at your words. “shit, you heard back from tokyo today, didn’t you?”

“it has been decided, yeah.” you look away, finding ushijima making his way towards you. “let’s talk about this another time. tonight, we are celebrating.”

you lift your glass, inclining your head at the star of the night. unfamiliar faces gravitate towards him, stopping him on the way, smiling and congratulating him on his new position with the v-league team, pulling him into conversations.

the world has always kept its eyes on him, you think.

“yet his eyes are always on you.” semi comments, making you flush with realization that you spoke out loud.

“i don’t know if i want things to change. what if it all goes wrong?” you shake your head, understanding what semi is implying with his words.

despite coming to terms with the fact that the feelings might be mutual, you still have the irrational fear of having a fallout so catastrophic that you would lose him. that, and neither of you ever got around to addressing the shared moment during tanabata. you definitely were not putting it off as long as you could.

“what if it doesn’t?” what if it doesn’t? you have been unlucky your whole life that you know good things like that don’t just drop into your lap without some pre-attached conditions. lady luck has never been on your side, why would she start now?

“i don’t know, eita,” you shake your head. “it’s getting late, and i have an early morning practice tomorrow. i don’t think he’s gonna make it over at this rate. say hi to ushijima for me?”

your escape does not go unnoticed, for a moment later, ushijima catches up to you putting your jacket on in the foyer.

“you’re leaving already?” he frowns at you.

“yeah, sorry. i didn’t want to intrude since you seemed like you had your hands full.” you smile sheepishly at him, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “i know you've heard it plenty tonight but i’m gonna say it anyway. congratulations! i’m so proud of you! i did get you a gift, it's on the table over there.” you gesture at the table laden with bags of every size and carefully wrapped boxes.

“that’s not what i care about. did you hear back from tokyo? today is the last day the admission letters should arrive, right?” his hand finds yours, easily enveloping your relatively small hand. you are acutely aware of his warmth at the contact of his fingers around yours.

“maybe we should talk about this another–” you try to delay the news, but a stern voice calling his name grabs both your attention.

“we have guests waiting to talk to you, wakatoshi.” you recognize the older woman from earlier. her eyes narrow at the sight of ushijima holding your hand. “and don’t forget our agreement.”

“yes, mother.” she only gives you a curt nod before disappearing back to the party.

you exhale, blowing out the breath you weren’t aware of holding. she reminds you of ushijima’s stoic countenance. of course he got it from his intimidating mother.

ushijima turns to you, “before you go, i wanted to ask you if you want to share an apartment in tokyo. i found a nice two bedroom apartment, and i want to secure—”

you do a double take. flatmates? that is either the worst idea ever, or the best. but you didn’t have heart to knock him off his high tonight, nor did you want to put a damper on his mood by telling him about your rejection from the university of tokyo.

but it must have shown on your face, because he broke off halfway, concern clouding his eyes. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing to worry about,” you quickly cover. “that sounds nice, but let’s talk it over before we make it official.” you nod, chuckling quietly at the excitement ushijima is exuding as his eyes widen and fucking sparkles. fuck me sideways, how can i ever say no to him?

ushijima reluctantly releases your hand, looking back towards the party at the sound of his name being chanted. “i’ll see you at school on monday?”

“of course.” semi’s words earlier echo in your head, so you tiptoe, quickly pressing a kiss to his cheek before you think twice and lose your courage. “good night!”

you basically sprint out of the front door.

it doesn’t occur to you until much later, that you probably shouldn’t have done that. it was a selfish action, spurred on by semi and the girl that ushijima was talking to.

it was unfair to ushijima, considering the letter of acceptance with a scholarship offer from Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris sitting on your desk at home. one that you went over agonizingly with your limited but growing french vocabulary.

a snowflake lands on your skin, allowing you to admire its six-pointed crystal lattice momentarily before it melts from your warmth. you look up at the night sky filled with snow flurries dancing to the wind. a bittersweet smile hangs on your lips.

it is the last winter you will share with ushijima. fate brought you together more than two years ago, both of your lives intersecting for a short period of time. now, it will see your paths diverge again.

to paris it is.

a/n: maybe some foreshadowing but you didn’t hear it from me <3

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longreads · 1 year

Photo

There is a noise that, for a Navy captain, may well be the worst sound imaginable—worse than the boom of cannon fire, the whistle of a missile, or the whoosh of a torpedo. That noise is the long, piercing scrape of metal against rock. It’s the sound, quite simply, of everything going wrong.

The latest Atavist Magazine story by Robert Kolker recounts how a a wrong turn led to the largest peacetime disaster in American naval history. Read an excerpt on Longreads now.

#longreads #naval disaster #the atavist #excerpts

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deanbrainrotwritings · 8 months

Text

— CELEBRATION DAY

SUMMARY : cowboy Dean, that’s it! yeah, yeah, I’ve got a thing.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), blowjob (mentioned), handjob, unprotected p in v, angst, fluff

WORD COUNT : 5.9k

A/N : led zeppelin song title. omg, I wanna thank my big brothers for watching Supernatural when I was little. I never woulda met Dean’s gorgeous, galaxy freckled face, green-eyed sparkle sparkle, majestic body, honey hair, smirky, pillow lip prince—what was I saying? oh yeah, I love Dean, happy birthday to the man I’ve loved the longest 💗

Dean didn’t think the whole month of January could get any better.

Everyday Y/n left a gift for him somewhere around the bunker for him to find. It was like the Twelve Days of Christmas song, but so much better.

He was really pretty sure she was stealing most of them.

On the first day, a pin up style calendar, but instead of random women, it was her and all his favourite kinks and fetishes. If he could, he’d say he loved her in every language that exists. It’s the only way for him to show that he truly means it. At least he thinks so.

On the second day, he received seven different types of necklaces that she thought he’d look prettiest in, but one stood out. One that he’d offhandedly shown interest in when they were window shopping to walk off the effects of caffeine in her system. The love letter smelled of coffee and recounted the feelings she had watching him be so domestic.

On the third day, she gave him a Street Fighter arcade game perfect for his Dean Cave. He swore he’d beat her, but he didn’t have the heart to do so, and let her KO him (she already knew what he was doing).

On the fourth day, she got him a new, stainless steel watch. She attached a small love letter addressed to him, the last words were spoken by the Doctor: You waited long enough. Time and time again, with her by his side, he yearned for normalcy, a family, getting out. For some reason, an object that measured time symbolised their endless love, a promise that made him breathless.

On the fifth day, he was given seven different rings. The letter for this gift said something along the lines of: I need to practise proposing. And you didn’t say no, so this is going great. He chuckled at that. He’d never say no to her, especially not to marriage.

On the sixth, she gave him a porn magazine, starring : her. He found it in the library when she sent him to pick up a book for her. A magazine like one belonging to Playboy that drove him crazy every day that he remembered what was in it. And that tiny love letter she put inside… He hoped no one would put their hands on that one. It was for his eyes only.

On the seventh, a black 1962 corvette that she put together with the help of her older brother. To say Dean was impressed was an understatement, despite all those times he taught her how to put the Impala back together, he was both turned on and fascinated with her work. And obviously they, uh, christened it. Or whatever.

On the eighth, she surprised him with twelve books he’d intended to read for such a long time, but never got around to searching for them. Shane; Whiskey When We’re Dry; Lonesome Dove; Blood Meridian. Were some of the titles he recognised and he was more than thrilled to dive into them and relax completely as reality faded around him.

On the ninth, she gifted him a new cowboy outfit. She put that in the room where he kept all the costumes he wore. The material was more original, with amazing quality—aka, not cheap. A whole bunch of Hecho en Mexico tags that he’d ask her to read to him—in Spanish of course. For reasons. (And that love letter he found in the inner pocket also needed to be read in Spanish, too.)

On the tenth, he got to open a giant box of Scooby snacks. Here and there, there were a few of his other favourite snacks, but there were mostly Scooby snacks that he’d been munching on ever since.

The eleventh, the gift he received were seven different bracelets. According to the love letter, they were gifts to keep him bound to her only.

The twelfth, a brand new espresso machine. That was simply found by him in the kitchen, new, with an olive-green bow and a small lover letter. All that yummy coffee he gets to consume in the morning with her, trying it out together. Two coffee addicts in love. Nothing better.

The thirteenth, the gift was going to an amuent park together. They ate too many foods, went on all—if not most—of the rides, took a hundred photos, tried on the silly clothes, played the games—mini-golf, go-carts… He was exhausted as soon as they got inside the Impala. So, it was a last minute decision to stay at a nearby hotel for the night. It was the best sleep he had in ages.

The fourteenth, a large journal in multitudes of journaling styles detailing things she loved about him that particular day or something he did that made her smile. It was cheesy, but very beautiful. The care and attention to detail made Dean’s heart lurch in his chest. From the cute bullet journal style, to the more than accurate drawings of him, and sophisticated details about things he didn’t know about himself, his habits, or other things he did. It was a collection of her love for him, which somehow made any fears evaporate like steam in a shower.

The fifteenth, forty-five new sets of socks with cute and/or funny prints. And she was prepared with a new drawer for all of them to fit, rolled up perfectly like… well, whatever delicious meal she had planned just as he liked. Enchiladas. Yummy. And a new love letter shoved inside a sock to make him blush and smile boyishly.

For the sixteenth day, it was four cassette mixtapes of all the songs they listened to when they went on some of their most meaningful dates and that played in the most memorable, intimate moments of their lives. Now it made sense why she was thrilled to learn and watch him prepare the mixtape he made for Cas. (It was better afterwards when his skills and patience were more than noticed by her and she—anyway, it was hot sex.) As for the love letter, it was profoundly clear that she wanted to praise and show she recognised his expertise, intelligence, and skill (not that she hasn’t praised him for it before).

For the seventeenth day, he got a Katana. He didn’t need it, he didn’t even know he wanted it until he held it in his hands and unsheathed it. God, that was awesome. Of course he’d probably almost accidentally hurt himself playing around with it, using it unnecessarily in the kitchen—just as an example.

For the eighteenth day, a sex position book with over 300 sex positions to try. It almost offended him, but after looking through a few pages, he was convinced that she was right and they needed to try some of the kinkier positions.

For the nineteenth day, she handed him a lengthy collection of mint condition Batman comic books. He was so not cool about that, gushing and grinning, holding her tightly until she pushed him away to breathe properly.

For the twentieth day, he received some new vinyl records of his favourite songs from his favourite bands to nearly complete his collection of music. And as always, he found a love letter relating to the gift she gave to him where she’d ‘hid’ the vinyls above his desk.

For the twenty-first: an old photo album filled with photos he’d never seen from his childhood and up to last year. Some he never even remembered living, but they did skip a few memories that made him smile sadly. She confessed she got Cas to take her back into the past to sneakily take pictures of him and everything he lived through. It was oddly… endearing. Then, she gave him an empty photo album, only their New Year’s kiss was placed inside a protective, plastic pocket. Ready to be filled by him, this time around.

For the twenty-second, a custom made Batman costume. The story for this one was that she made a deal with one of Charlie’s old LARPing friends: if she got rid of a ghost in his house, he’d make her the costume. And after that, she got one of the Dean’s from another universe to act as the model for the measurements Charlie’s old friend took to make the costume fit him perfectly. There were a few ideas Dean had regarding that costume, and he’s more than a hundred percent sure Y/n’s been thinking the same thing ever since he tried it on.

For the twenty-third, a twelve month pie subscription, obviously on National Pie Day. And he got to try the first one that day, rhubarb pie that made his mouth water as soon as the sticky insides made contact with his taste buds. How many times does he have to say he’s lucky in his mind?

And today, he had yet to find out.

He was spoiled.

Lavishing in her love for the past twenty-four days—more so than usual, soaking in it like the waffles he drowned in syrup for breakfast in the morning.

Right after his birthday blowjob as soon as he woke up.

He ate those soft, perfectly crunchy, warm waffles in bed while basking in the golden afterglow of his orgasm. Breathless and dazed, he didn’t worry about a single thing as he moved from one waffle to the next, eating his favourite fruits, jams, chocolate chips, maple syrup, honey… all the things she knew he loved indecisively.

And while she licked her lips clean of his cum, he licked his lips clean of whipped cream.

God, he was lucky.

She was awesome. More than awesome.

There were no words he could find to describe her.

The only problem with today was that he wasn’t gonna be the centre of just her attention. He could deal with that. He loved it, in fact. What he did not love was having to be the centre of attention with all his friends and family around.

He just felt… maybe… shy. Embarrassed? Old?

He wasn’t used to it. Not to that kind of attention from his friends, anyway. As much as they loved him and as much as he loved them. It was different. New.

He was anxious about it.

It was usually a phone call, a text, or nothing. He was fine with that. He didn’t really care. He was always hunting before. They were always busy with their hunts or their lives and birthday were always… whatever.

He was used to Y/n. To the way she loved him. Worshipped him, even. Daily. It was almost the same as any other day, except for the gifts—which were grand, more… thoughtful and loving. As if she lived in his brain and heart, digging through his wishes and dreams to find the perfect gift to make him feel special. Something that lasted, something to be used, something to be loved by him.

He was used to Sam. To the occasional, remorseless thieving of his little brother to get him what he thought he’d like. The singular, impactful gifts or the silly-joke gift he gave first to trick him into thinking it was something meaningless, thoughtless. The pat in the back, the hug, the pie, the childish decoration, the alcohol… a typical sibling birthday party meant to be laughed at.

He was getting used to Cas. To the overuse of emoticons in the birthday text. The awkwardness in the hug before it settled and became comfortable to do. The thoughtful gift he recieved, something Dean mentioned whenever they hung out—even if it was ridiculous. Cas could get it. He’s an angel. And the best friend Dean could ever ask for.

Jack… was, well, he’s Jack. He tried to copy Cas, Sam, Y/n. A mixture of all of the things they did, taking notes of what they were up to, finding something that was… him and not all of them. Dean’s heart softened and he cut Jack some slack, appreciating the effort, the thought he put into it, even if sometimes it was… bad.

But now, some of his closest friends would be making their way to him and he was just not prepared for all of that.

What he was prepared for, was his girlfriend’s skillful ability to make a larger-than-necessary Rice Krispies Treat cake just for him. She liked it as much as he did now, replacing the traditional birthday cake—she wasn’t much of a cake fan. But his stomach’s heart did love those tres-leches cakes.

Dean got dressed up as a cowboy as soon as Sam left to help Eileen prepare for the mini birthday party. He knew it did things to Y/n, even if she refused to admit it to him every time he brought it up or teased her about it.

He tried to cling to her the whole day.

He failed.

She was up to secret stuff.

He only got to be in her presence when she cooked or as she decorated the library where they’d later be embarrassing him with their loving attention. He helped her with all of that, of course—despite her protests. He’d hold her for a few minutes, kiss her a little bit, and then he’d follow behind her as if he couldn’t find anything better to do himself.

He watched her pull out game after game, after game, and set it down on different tables. Cards Against Humanity. Loteria. UNO. Bingo. A few other classics, some from his childhood. And she was texting Sam the whole time for the location of each game, where to set it, agreeing on some and putting others away.

Dean didn’t mind. As long as there was something that took most of the attention away from him and towards something else.

He played with the die from one of the games as he followed her around. His eyes traced over colourful candles, little horns to blow funny sounds out of, balloons, string, paper, confetti, banners, funny hats and glasses, and a dozen other items and decorations that made him feel like a kid again.

Dean liked to watch her, and she liked watching his reaction to whatever she pulled out of the plastic bags he remembered watching Sam and Jack coming in with a few days ago.

Dean was happy once she was done and finally resting from all the planning and tasks she was completing. She’d play with the buttons on his suit jacket by buttoning and unbuttoning them boredly as she took a break before heading off to the next activity.

After she made the cake, she made extra for both of them to snack on—even though she’d also given him a piece before she prepared the Rice Krispies treat. The two of them waited for their friends to get to the Bunker and ate the small slice while watching a random movie on the television.

Dean started to wonder what his brother would be getting him. Or Cas. Jack. Claire. Jody. Donna. Oh. He wanted to be sucked up into the couch, no, into Y/n’s soul. Just the thought of receiving a gift from everyone other than the people who currently lived in the Bunker made him flustered and embarrassed.

He had no doubts the gifts would be good. Still, there was something about gifts and birthday parties that made him… uncomfortable. As much as he loved each and every single one of them, as much as he secretly adored being loved.. it felt like asking too much, even if this was all their idea.

Even though he would do this and so much more for them.

Dean didn’t know they were up to this until last week when Sam randomly brought it up. Y/n jumped on board immediately, then Jack did, and Cas. Jack and Cas were in charge of buying the snacks, which Dean appreciated because Sam tended to get distracted and would forget to buy some of the most important items—according to Dean, of course. The pie, being the main item.

Dean realised that neither he nor she were really paying attention to the movie. Their plates laid abandoned on the table next to the green leather couch they sat on. The cowboy hat was abandoned on Dean’s bed. She was tucked into the corner with one leg propped up in it with the other dangling over the edge. Dean settled on his back in between her legs with his head on her shoulder.

That was just the first step in seducing her.

He wondered if he’d get more lottery tickets from everyone. If they’d bring some of the funniest, endearing birthday cards where they had to change the main title to for his age because he had the taste of a kid. He hoped they wouldn’t do something illegal like he knew Y/n and Sam were doing to make this the best birthday party for him. (Though, Dean was generally feeling pretty smug about their naughtiness.)

He wouldn’t mind repeated gifts at all, as in… if Claire wanted to go mini-golfing with him and gave him another ticket… or if Jack simply wanted to try fishing with him again. He’d love that. To spend time with them. The people he cared most about.

He played with her slim fingers, traced her knuckles, and teased the soft skin of her arms with his fingertips when she slipped them around his waist. He lifted her hands up to his lips, worshipping one thoroughly with his lips, warming them up for her.

Her other hand rested over his chest where his heart was beating rapidly at the thought of what he wanted. Her hand laid still for a few seconds before she began to play with the buttons of his white dress shirt, then tapped her mossy-green nails against the ovaloid metal buckle of his belt.

He dropped her hand gingerly to let her play with his clothes using both of her hands and he took to tracing her legs with his fingers over thick, warm pyjamas. He could feel her body release the tension of her stress, and for a moment, he smiled softly and felt his body do the same thing.

When he turned to look at her, she glanced away from his chest where she was gently scratching his shirt to make the funny sound of cloth being scraped. He kissed her when she smiled at him, one small peck, not entirely innocent.

The movie was long forgotten soon after that. Not that they were paying attention to it before anyway.

Dean scooted up slightly to kiss her properly with one hand on her jaw, his fingers entwined through her soft hair, bringing her plush lips closer to his. It was unhurried, lazy, the slow build from firm, deep kisses, to demanding, heated ones that caused a blush to flare up their faces.

Breathlessly, she began unbuttoning his shirt while he unbuckled his belt, but they continued kissing. His tongue slipped between her sweet lips, tasting more sweetness from the marshmallow and rice treat they ate not long ago.

She brought the white t-shirt up his chest—excruciatingly slow—when she fully unbuttoned his dress shirt. Her fingertips slipped up the soft flesh of his tummy, his toned and freckled chest, then she flattened her palm over his rapidly thudding heart. Leisurely, she smoothed her hand down his soft, slightly scarred skin, brushing past the fine, blonde hair trailing down beneath his belly button.

Dean moaned into her mouth and impatiently lifted his hips from the couch. She snuck her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and curled her fingers around the base of his hardening length. Dean gasped against her kiss-swollen lips and closed his eyes tightly, promptly rolling his hips to push his cock through her fingers.

“You look so hot like this,” she whispered against the corner of his lips. Dean squirmed and spread his legs when he planted his feet flat on the floor to aid each of his thrusts. Gently, she placed her other hand around his neck to tip his head back and to the side to place a feverish kiss to his cracked, pillowy lips.

She continued moving her hand along his length, from root to tip, playing with the precum that began to accumulate and stain the cotton of his underwear.

Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly with each breath, attempting to hold off his orgasm. His thighs tensed, muscles constricting beneath thin dress pants as she twisted her hand up and down his cock inside his slacks and boxers. His lips moved desperately against hers and he swiped his tongue across hers, his brows furrowed in mind-numbing pleasure.

Dean’s fingers dug into her thighs on either side of his body, trying to keep himself stable as his hips bucked up into her hand, driving his cock faster through her fingers. Her hand squeezed at the sides of his neck and released to make his brain fuzzier, neurons hazed with lust and need.

“Please… I wanna be inside you, baby,” Dean panted against her lips as she kissed him. Instead, she rapidly continued to tug at his cock, her fist wrapped tightly around him until he felt like exploding. “I can’t- please- I need you,” he begged, but never dared to stop her as her lips trailed away to his jawline, to suck a dark mark on the sensitive skin of his neck.

She suddenly loosened her grip on his cock and slowly slid her slick palm up the front of his body. His orgasm began to fade away and his body slumped against hers, his chests heaving with each breath, his heart racing. Her lips brushed against his earlobe, “you’re right…” she murmured.

“A-about what?” He mumbled, lifting himself up to turn and face her. She was smiling at him when he gazed at her, her eyes soft and full of love, mirroring the much more dishevelled expression on his own, pink face.

Her eyes flickered away from his dewy green eyes when he leaned into her. He watched them travel up his body, from his thigh pressing into the leather next to her leg, to his boxers shoved low on his hips, exposing curly, light brown hair, his unzipped slacks and therather belt hanging losing around his hips, up to the opened dress shirt and t-shirt beneath draped haphazardly over his chest, and then her eyes stopped at his mouth.

She tilted her head and met him the rest of the way to press her lips against his, placing a soft, adoring peck. “I do think cowboys are fucking hot, especially you,” she smirked, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, playing with the tiny hairs behind his head.

Dean bit his lip, mirroring her expression, and hummed, “is that right?” She nodded, her other hand slipping down to tease the waistband of his boxers. Dean’s calloused hands travelled up her sides, sneaking beneath her long-sleeved shirt, up warm, soft skin. “I already knew, just wanted to hear you say it.”

She laughed shortly, allowing Dean to lift her thick shirt up and off her body. Dean’s lips came down to her neck, hot and open-mouthed kisses flushing her skin. His hands traced her sides and eventually hooked at the top of her leggings to pull down the material covering her legs. He carefully let her lay down as she shifted to fully remove her leggings and underwear.

But she sat upright once more before Dean could settle between her warm legs. Dean remained fully clothed and he laughed against her breasts when she impatiently shoved his slacks and boxers lower. His hands remained firmly on her body, exploring inches of familiar skin—squeezing, pulling, and holding.

His soft lips moved over the expanse of her chest, teeth nibbling on sensitive flesh, his wet tongue tasting her velvety skin. Her hands made their way down past his cock to cup his balls, which made Dean’s brow rise in pleasant surprise, his mouth freezing around her nipple.

He moaned around her skin and brought his own hand down between her legs as his cock bobbed excitedly. Warm slick coated his fingertips when he slid his fingers through her folds. With a pleased hum, she reached back to grip the wooden handle of the couch, and gently pressed her palm against his balls.

He played with her clit, coating it in her arousal, then buried his middle finger inside her. She bit her lip and arched her back, a jolt from his thumb pressing into her clit causing her to moan. She removed her hand from between his legs—much to his disappointment—to dig her nails into his taut thigh.

Dean dragged his tongue across her chest to attend to her other breast and dipped a second finger into her. Her pussy fluttered around his scissoring fingers, she whispered his name, moving her legs over his hips in a more comfortable position. Her hand slid up to bunch up in his shirt as her thighs twitched, screwing her eyes shut as the pleasure dazed her.

Her shift in position brought her centre closer to him and he pushed a third finger into her, working her open thoroughly, expertly. Her wetness drenched his thick fingers, making every push and pull swift and easy. They curled inside her, rubbing delectably at her g-spot, pressing delightfully into the most sensitive parts of her walls. Her toes curled and she lifted herself up higher in his lap, implicitly urging him to skip to the fucking.

Dean instantly did as she wordlessly requested and pulled his glistening fingers out of her warmth. He stroked his cock a few times, first, watching her watch him coat himself in her excitement. He looked back down between their flushed bodies when he began moving his cock through her dewy folds, moaning contentedly at the sensation of her against him.

She unclenched her hand from his shirt to bring up behind his neck, her delicate fingers slipping between short hairs. Finally, Dean pushed himself into her deliberately, then out gradually. Over and over they created a rhythm.

With one foot on the floor and his knee pressing into the backrest, his hands gripping her hips tightly. His lips connected to any part of her he could reach, moaning and gasping softly against her skin with every clench of her pussy, every measured thrust to feel every inch of her slide across his cock.

Her arm flexed behind her as she moved with Dean, her fingers gripping the wooden arm of the couch tightly, timing each roll of her hips with his. Occasionally, she met every one of his thrust and brought his face closer to her with her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

His breath dampened her already steamy skin and his hands started to wander lovingly over her shiny body, feeling the exertion of her muscles beneath his calloused palms.

Gradually, they began to move faster against each other.

Dean’s body built up more heat with the clothes still covering every inch of him. His mouth went dry with every open-mouthed breath and he searched for her lips as a tingle ran up his spine, his stomach clenching to foreshadow his impending orgasm.

He felt her breath against his lips and her fingers moved deeper into his hair, tugging so his mouth fell open. Her lips moved over his, her wet tongue bringing moisture back into his mouth, and over his chapped lips. Dean kissed her back with so much more force, easing his tongue into her mouth when she pulled hers out to smirk into the kiss.

He squeezed her ass, painfully pressing his fingers into her back, desperately trying to feel her against his body. He fucked into her briskly, with strong thrusts that pressed his cock deeper into her channel until she squirmed from how good it was. He swallowed her pleased groan and brought her closer with his arm around her waist and his palm flat against her back.

Dean’s thrust became erratic, every slam of his hips and every roll of hers made contact with her clit, bringing her close to the edge with him. Every touch of each other’s bodies, every hot and lewd kiss, every heavy and fast breath, every breathless and pleasured sound, every wet and hot sensation built up like volatile chemicals.

With a few final thrusts, Dean came with a groan of her name by her ear. She squeezed his cock tightly and cursed at the sensation of his hot cum coating her insides. Her thighs pressed into his hips as she orgasmed with a sharp gasp, clinging to him as they rode out their climax.

Dean ground his hips up into her, keeping himself deep inside her as she shook and held him in a tight embrace. Their lips met once more for a softer, more elated kiss as they became blanketed in the afterglow of their release. She released the wooden arm of the couch to cup Dean’s scruffy jaw and Dean’s arms circled around her waist.

He moved backwards carefully and laid her down onto her back, allowing her to fully wrap her legs around his waist. Dean shoved his suit jacket and dress shirt off as they kissed. She smiled against his mouth and let him pull away fully from her lips to watch him throw both items onto his bed.

“It was cold before, but it’s hot now,” he muttered, pulling his t-shirt up over his head by the back of the neck. She giggled and brought her hands to his ass, moving his pants and underwear lower, past his thighs.

“Well…” she trailed off, gazing at him as he slowly pulled his cock out of her. “Hey,” she pouted, moving his attention away from the mess between her legs and the mixture of their spendings leaked out of her.

“Uh, yeah?” He grinned, moving off the couch to kick off the cowboy boots, and everything else so he was fully naked before her.

“Your last gift,” she started, looking over to the bed. Before returning to his spot between her legs, Dean followed her eyes and lifted a brow. “It’s under your pillow,” she smiled shyly, looking up at him as his lips parted and then made an ‘o’.

“Awesome,” he murmured, making his way to his side of the bed. He searched underneath with a swipe of his hands beneath the cool pillow and grabbed the small, somewhat heavy box decorated with pink wrapping paper and a silver bow. “What is it?” He asked, shaking it curiously.

She laughed at him, taking the unused napkin from the table to clean herself up, which distracted Dean from his gift. He was about to protest, offering to clean her up, but she laughed. He pouted at her, but settled back in her arms in the same position as before once she finished.

“I really… really hope you like this one,” she whispered against his shoulder. Dean looked back at her and smiled softly—his eyes reassuring her that he’d like anything that came from her. He carefully pulled at one end of the bow to watch it fall apart into a straight line.

He ripped the paper to reveal a wooden box. Dean imagined a necklace, if the thud against the soft cushion inside the box revealed anything about what it actually was.

A ring? He planned on proposing, but he’d say yes if she turned the tables. He smiled at the thought, but he doubted that they were stepped enough into a normal life for that. If it were up to him, he’d have asked her to marry him ages ago.

He opened the box slowly and blinked at the steel key.

“A… key?” He asked out loud, turning his body to look at her as she waited for his reaction anxiously.

“I… bought a house?” She squeaked, her cheeks turning dark. Dean’s lips parted. He wanted to question her, to make a comment about what the place looked like or where it was or how much it cost, to say anything, but his throat tightened and clogged any words from escaping. With his tongue heavy in his mouth, there was no hope to ease her anxiety. He shut it instead. “For you- us. You and me…” she rambled, wrapping her hand around his to shut the box as if it were Pandora’s box—unleashing her deepest fears, but worst of all, her hope.

“I…” Dean trailed off, staring at the wooden exterior of the square container. A little box that would give him the future he’s secretly always yearned for with her. He was too much of a coward to ever do anything and go for it. Her hand moved away from his and she shifted behind him awkwardly, pushing him off her so he’d face her instead.

“You don’t…” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “It’s okay, if you don’t want… this…” She snatched the gift away from him as if she’d show him her deepest secret and had been judged for revealing what it was.

“No! I-I do want this,” Dean reassured her and quickly took it back to open it, and remove the key from inside. He placed it on his palm, cold, small, and light against his sweaty skin. “I just…” His eyes flickered up to hers, the guarded and nearly stony expression on her face twisting his stomach in regret. “I love you,” he breathed, pressing his lips against the corner of her lips.

“Are you sure?” She bit her lip, her eyes dancing over his face to gauge any emotion or shift that would hint to reveal he was truly feeling. “I don’t want you to be unhappy… if you don’t want this, it’s okay. You can tell me. I have a backup gift anyway,” she shrugged casually, moving to sit on her legs next to him.

She gazed at the side of his face as he continued to make her heart plummet with the long stare at the key in his hand.

“Why?” He asked with knitted brows, looking at her. He could tell she felt much more bare and vulnerable as she crossed her arms over his chest and kept herself covered with her own body.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to give it to you just yet,” she admitted. Dean frowned. “But after today… the way you followed me around and helped me.. I changed my mind,” she shrugged again, “but it’s okay if we both want something different, if you’re not ready… you know I’d wait…” She smiled nervously, so it didn’t last, and her mouth returned to a straight line.

“No more waiting, baby.” Dean shook his head and put the key back into the box, leaving it beside him to take her hands. He lifted them both up to his lips, staring into her eyes to demonstrate his earnestness, “you waited long enough.”

“I promise you that I’m ready,” he reassured her, brushing his thumbs against her knuckles. “This gift… it means so much to me. I do, truly, love you.” Dean tugged her hands and she finally laughed, allowing herself to be happy with him. In this moment. And forever. No more waiting.

As he held her, Dean pictured the future they could have together and let his body rest without fear of everything else going on. For once, he’d let himself be happy. It was the one way he could let go of Sam, allowing both himself and his baby brother a shot at a normal life, something Dean wanted for himself and Sam for so long. This was the first step to freedom.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” she whispered against his forehead, kissing the tiny scar that resided there.

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#dean’s 45th birthday celebration #dean x female!reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female!reader #happy birthday dean <3 #happybirthdaydeanwinchester #happy birthday dean

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recountmag · 7 months

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(via A talented mentor: Rod Serling)

#rod serling #the twilight zone #hollywood #recount magazine #tv writing #mentorship #essay #william petersen

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bestiarium · 4 months

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Am Fear Liath Mór, or the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui [Scottish cryptid]

The high passes of Ben MacDhui – the second largest mountain in Scotland – are haunted by tales of a mysterious creature that supposedly stalks hikers. Usually it is described as an impossibly tall, grey spectre, thereby earning it the name ‘Am Fear Liath Mór’, meaning ‘the big grey man’.

The story starts in 1891 with professor Norman Collie of the Royal Geographic Society, who happened to be a passionate hiker as well. The professor had just climbed the cairn on the summit of Ben MacDhui when he heard something that vaguely sounded like footsteps. I should mention that this area is notoriously misty, so you can imagine how easy it is for a lone hiker to get anxious when hearing strange noises.

The footsteps continued, but they were oddly spaced: for every ‘step’ the professor heard, he himself took three or four. It was as if this mysterious spectre was taking giant leaps or had huge legs. Eventually the professor was overtaken by panic and fled. Much later, in 1925, he recounted his tale and shared it with the newspapers, who were eager to publish and often exaggerate the story of a supposed monster or cryptid living in the Scottish mountains. At the time, the mystery creature was dubbed ‘the Ben MacDhui Ghost’ in the media.

Afterwards, multiple people came forward with claims about the mountain ghost, some of which were believable (hearing unidentified sounds) and some were more fantastic (Richard Frere and Peter Densham claimed to have had a conversation with an invisible, psychic creature).

Richard Frere would later claim that while he was hiking on the top of the Ben MacDhui, he had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there with him, and he would hear a strange high-pitched noise that seemed to come from the soil beneath his feet.

Frere also gave a physical description of a creature he claimed to have seen (but it is difficult to verify whether this is the oldest actual ‘sighting’ of the supposed ghost): a large, brown creature was seen swaggering down the mountainside. It stood about 20 feet (6m) tall, was covered with short brown fur and had a disproportionally large head supported by a thick, muscular neck. It had broad shoulders but walked upright and did not resemble an ape.

Interestingly, only a single sighting happened on a nearby mountain, rather than on the Ben MacDhui itself: in the 1920’s, Tom Crowley, the president of the local Moray Mountaineering Club, claimed to have seen an apparition while descending from Braeriach to the Glen Eanaich. It was a very tall, misty grey figure with a humanoid shape, albeit with long legs that ended in strange talons (described as resembling fingers more than toes) and a head with pointy ears.

Dr. A. M. Kellas, himself a famed mountaineer, also claimed that a giant grey humanoid creature haunted the mountain. Among the many supposed sightings, I am uncertain which one is actually the oldest description of the ‘Grey Man’ as a tall, grey spectre, but it is certainly the most popular one. The grey apparition had cemented itself as a local cryptid and urban legend and many more supposed sightings followed.

Though it is often claimed that the creature is connected to ancient Scottish or Celtic mythology, this is most likely false. Gray Affleck, the author of ‘The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’, attempted to research this link but could not find a single connection with actual Highland mythology.

In 1958, the June edition of ‘Scots Magazine’ told the story of Alexander Tewnion’s 1943 expedition to the mountain. While he was descending the mountain, a giant grey shape suddenly loomed over him. Having none of this bullshit, Mr. Tewnion immediately pulled out his revolver and fired three bullets at the thing. The mysterious apparition seemed not to notice, however, and kept walking towards him, upon which Tewnion fled.

Sources: Barrie, A., 2005, Sutton Companion to the Folklore, Myths and Customs of Britain, The History Press, 480 pp. Gray, A., 2013, The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui, Birlinn, 183 pp. (reviewed edition, first edition published in 1970) (image source 1 : Attila Nagy on Artstation) (image source 2: ManthosLappas on Deviantart, ©Fear Liath)

#Scottish mythology #cryptids #urban legends #creatures #mythical creatures #mythology #bigfoot #yeti #humanoid creatures #ghosts

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sharkiethrts · 1 year

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[𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒐!]

𝖯𝖱𝖮𝖬𝖯𝖳: 𝖽𝗈 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾?

𝙜/𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

: reader is a short life species, jing yuan is pining (ineffectively) at the reader, jing yuan is making old man moves

:427 words

It's not very often that the General would summon the Master Diviner herself to the seat of Divine Foresight. After all, her constant nagging is not something even a person who has lived millenniums can sit to and listen to.

"What is it that's so important that you called me over, General? Have you perhaps finally decided to make me your successor? It's about time, you know? I am perfectly fitted for the position of-"

Oh, that again. Jing Yuan makes a quick decision to cut her off before she decides to "remind" him of her very qualified resume through memorised paragraphs after paragraphs, "-I'd like you to make a divination for me, Fu Xuan. It's rather important and personal."

"Personal?" Fu Xuan pauses to think, before her face starts booming with much familiarised exasperation again, "Will you please stop wasting the Divination Commission's time again? Our time may seem like nothing to you, but we spend centuries to ensure the Luofu's safety and peace- just because you're bored from the Luofu's troubles, doesn't mean that you'd get to-"

"Please, Fu Xuan? This is rather important."

The General's unforeseen desperation completely catches Fu Xuan off guard.

"...What is it? Make it quick before I change my mind!" Fu xuan decides to make a cut for this time. Perhaps the General is stricken with a troublesome entity after sitting in the seat of Divine Foresight for far too long. Perhaps the General actually has a problem that may concern the comfort of the Luofu Xianzhou-

"It's regarding my lovelife. I'd like you to foresee it's fruits in the future," The general says with an infuriating smile.

Nevermind! Wait. Lovelife?

"Perhaps you'd like to retire and finally find a spouse?!" Fu Xuan's angry exterior has now been banished coincidentally by the chance she sees ahead of him (which is no chance at all- The general is awaiting her maturity, and unfortunately for Fu Xuan, she is showing none of it), "If that's the case-"

"-If this goes successful, I may just consider that very enticing option," But the general, like the lowlife he is, doesn't bother to correct her. Instead, taking advantage of Fuxuan's newly found interest to dig deeper into his current frustrations.

"Please do continue, general!"

Oh yeah, she's buying it.

"What do young people like these days? Perhaps my idea of chivalry is not theirs, but I find that my attempts of quality time doesn't seem to build any type of bond with them. It's quite a problem really," General sighs, his head leaning on his right fist- eyes shutting for awhile to recount his multiple (failed) attempts on flirtatious attempts towards you.

[General Jing Yuan: Pardon me, Lady [name], but I wonder whether you have the time to come to the Seat of Divine Foresight right now for a game of Xianzhou starchess?]

[[Name]: Idk if I can play that tho haha lol,,, what's with the "lady" anyway? u shld prolly do ur work general, unless you wanna get your ass kicked again by qingzu. say hi to her for me btw :p]

Not only he's having trouble trying to decipher your text messages, he's having problems trying to get you to at the very least, interested in him. I mean, why are you mentioning Qingzu so much in a conversation with him?

Even his offers to teach you received reluctant rejections. And Jing Yuan doesn't push because his late father taught him "the ways of a gentleman".

"What's your idea of a quality time anyway?" Fu Xuan butts into his thoughts, "Don't tell me it's playing starchess or reading up on the latest puzzles on Starchess in Xianzhou Magazine?"

Jing Yuan tries to reply, but his answers are stuck in a gaped mouth.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" Fu Xuan lets out an aggravated yell. It's not hard to see that she's absolutely confounded by the General's lack of awareness regarding the "simple acts of wooing"- but she supposes it makes sense, after all, he has been alive for quite awhile. He doesn't like to disclose his age- but she is sure that it has reached at least a millenial.

He clears his throat, "...I suppose young people wouldn't find it quite appealing now that you have phrased it that way."

Fu Xuan sighs again, deciding to cross her arms so she doesn't impulsively maul the general's face for his dense outlook on courting, "How old are they anyway? If they are young, I suppose that they are around the two centuries old age range?"

"...Give it just about a few decades."

Fu Xuan swears that her eyes almost popped out of their sockets, "Are you talking about [name]?!"

The general's booming laugh is heard across the room, but his red face exposes his nervousness, "Now, now- keep it down. We don't need the guards hearing this."

Fu Xuan attempts to keep her composure once again, deciding that its best not to put the Luofu General's name to shame by exposing his ridiculously failure of a love life to the whole of Xianzhou. But she just can't help but point out, "They probably think of you as an old man, you know? Especially with the starchess talk and all- it's impossible to perceive underlying romantic connotations from invitations to a game of starchess- especially for a youngling."

The general's face turns sour and Fu Xuan braces herself for another attack, "Then I suppose my talks regarding my old age isn't helping at all?"

Fu Xuan thanks the eons above that she had made a conscious decision to cross her arms.

#jing yuan hsr #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail #hsr #fu xuan #fu xuan hsr #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan imagines #jing yuan is pining for you #jing yuan fluff #jing yuan is an old man #sharkie works ; jing yuan #sharkie works ; all honkai

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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months

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Palestinian liberation is a feminist issue. While this truism should need no elaboration, it has, as with so much that relates to Palestine, necessitated discussions, clarifications, analysis and documentation, again and again. Palestine rights activists have long been familiar with the all too common phenomenon known as PEP: Progressive Except for Palestine. Less known, but no less common in feminist circles is FEP, the Feminist Except for Palestine phenomenon. Books such as Evelyn Shakir’s 1997 Bint Arab recount incidents of FEP going back to the ’60s, with many Arab feminists being shunned by their American friends over their support for Palestinian liberation. FEP had one of its early expressions on a global stage at the 1985 United Nations World Conference on Women in Nairobi, Kenya, when Betty Friedan, an icon of second‑wave western feminism, with its slogan ‘the personal is political’, tried to censor the late Egyptian feminist Nawal el‑Saadawi as she was about to walk up to the stage to deliver her address. ‘Please do not bring up Palestine in your speech,’ Friedan told el‑Saadawi. ‘This is a women’s conference, not a political conference.’ Sadly, little has changed in global north feminism’s rejection of the very humanity of the Palestinian people, as evidenced in their continued exclusion from national and global discussions of women’s issues. White feminism has continued to align itself with orientalist imperialist militarism; Ms Magazine cheered the Bush Administration’s US war on Afghanistan in 2001, calling it a ‘coalition of hope’, and suggesting that invasion and occupation could, indeed would, liberate Afghan women. The white feminists in the Feminist Majority Foundation, which bought Ms Magazine in December 2001, never consulted with Afghan feminist organisations such as the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan, who denounced both religious fundamentalism and western intervention in Afghanistan, and who opposed the US attacks on their country. More recently, hegemonic feminism’s desire to exempt Israel from criticism led to the fragmentation of the Women’s March, the coalition of women’s and feminist groups that came together to denounce the election of Donald Trump to the presidency of the US. The co‑chair of the 2017 Women’s March was Brooklyn‑born Palestinian American Linda Sarsour, a grassroots organiser who had long championed Palestinian rights. When journalist Emily Shire asked in the New York Times ‘Does Feminism Have Room for Zionists?’, Sarsour responded with a resounding ‘No’. Many felt threatened by her outspokenness and visibility. Another Palestinian feminist, Mariam Barghouti, also asserted in a 2017 article that ‘No, You Can’t Be a Feminist and a Zionist’, and explained that: ‘When I hear anyone championing Zionism while also identifying as a feminist, my mind turns to images of night raids, to the torture of children and to the bulldozing of homes.’ In the wake of Israel’s latest war on Gaza, white feminists are denouncing the unsubstantiated accusations of sexual violence against Israeli women, without addressing the Israeli state’s amply documented gendered violence against Palestinian women, children, and men. ‘Feminism cannot be selective. Its framework comes from true and absolute liberation not just of women, but of all peoples,’ Barghouti continues, building on bell hooks’ analysis of feminism as a complete liberatory movement. ‘A feminist who is not also anti‑colonial, anti‑racist and in opposition to the various forms of injustice is selectively and oppressively serving the interests of a single segment of the global community.’ Simply, ‘feminism’ that aligns with regimes that engage in racial and ethnic oppression is gendered supremacy; no ideology that hinges on supremacy and discrimination is reconcilable with feminism.

#palestine #israel #feminism #zionism #colonialism

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eleonoraalbright · 2 months

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I need some Peter Maximoff fluff😭🤚

Peter Maximoff x Asexual!reader that’s scared Peter will leave them over it

Pairing: Peter Maximoff x Asexual!Reader

Excerpt: Peter laid a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but you shied away from his touch. Withdrawing his hand, he had to strain his ears to hear your next words. “Peter…” You gulped and seemed to be steeling yourself. “I’m asexual.”

A/N: I did some research and on Tumblr, one user said that asexuality is a spectrum; some asexuals are sex-repulsed and some love it. The reader in this fic is a sex-repulsed asexual.

Peter Maximoff wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he could tell something was troubling you. It started a week ago in his mom's basement on a peaceful Sunday afternoon. You were both relaxing by watching a movie that was playing on the TV.

Technically you were watching the flick while he was racing in and out of the house and around the city, but he popped in often enough to keep up with the movie and show off his new knick-knacks to you. He had just come back from collecting an original Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots free of charge when he saw you rushing up the stairs in a hurry.

He asked, “Hey, where’re you going?”

You froze as if you had been caught doing something wrong. “I—um—forgot I had some other plans today and I don’t wanna flake on them. Sorry, Peter, I’ll see you later.” You brushed past him without another glance and left.

In the end, Peter shrugged it off. The excuse was pretty vague, but maybe you had a lot on your mind at the moment and just wanted a bit of time alone. Oh well, he’ll see you tomorrow anyway. He ran to his room and unboxed his game before rushing off again to find more cool loot.

Turns out Peter didn’t see you the following day, or at least he saw less of you than he would’ve liked. He showed up at your door to see if you wanted to hit the arcade and the comic shops. To his disappointment, you refused. You explained that there were extra chores that needed to be done and that they would take all day. He offered to help, but you declined.

On Tuesday, you couldn’t go out with him because relatives were coming to visit and your family wanted you to stay. On Wednesday, Peter began to grow suspicious. When he popped over to your place, you said that you had been grounded for the next month. Peter didn’t believe you. Being grounded had never stopped you from hanging out with him before, so why should it now?

The obvious answer was that you didn’t want to see him. But why was that? Each time you had seen him since Sunday you avoided his gaze and kept him at arm's length. What had happened that could have caused this change in you? Peter mulled over the possibilities in his mind as he played ping pong with himself.

He recounted the things he talked about, but couldn’t think of an instance where he was careless with his words. Unless the playful argument about whether The Addams Family or The Munsters was the better show had not been as playful as Peter thought it had. Nah, that couldn’t be it. Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

Had he forgotten yours and his anniversary? He checked the calendar nailed to the wall where you had written down important dates he should remember. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was in three months. Phew, so it couldn’t have been that. But then what was it! The mystery was driving Peter up the wall.

All he wanted to do was see you! After a few minutes, he decided what course of action to take. He zipped to the flower shop and got a colorful bouquet. He dropped by the candy shop and procured a careful selection of all your favorite sweets and won a little stuffed orangutan from a claw machine. With this assortment of gifts, he raced over to your house and into your bedroom.

You were sitting on your bed, thumbing through a magazine, and jumped when he made his presence known by pushing the flowers, the candies, and the stuffie onto your lap. He said, “I’m sorry for whatever I did. I can’t figure it out, but I’m really sorry. Can we talk again? What’s wrong?”

Setting his presents aside, you brought your knees up to your chest and hugged them. You replied in a quiet voice, “You shouldn’t be here, Peter.”

“C’mon, what’s the matter?” He crouched down next to the bed, a lop-sided grin on his face. “Did aliens abduct you?” He joked, hoping humor would help you open up.

Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes and you began to rock back and forth. You covered your face with your hands and whispered, “I think we should break up.” Peter was shocked, nothing could have prepared him for that statement. You continued speaking, “I-I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Tears streamed down your cheeks and a sob escaped your lips. “I didn't think it’d be a big deal, but things are getting serious and I can’t hold it in any longer.”

Peter laid a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but you shied away from his touch. Withdrawing his hand, he had to strain his ears to hear your next words. “Peter…” You gulped and seemed to be steeling yourself. “I’m asexual.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. He had heard that term before. Using his powers, he ran to the library and retrieved a biology textbook. He read page after page until he finally found his answer. He returned to your bedroom and read aloud, “You have the capability to reproduce without exchanging genetic information with another organism through sex? Are you a mu–”

“No, no! Not that type of asexual!” You closed your eyes and shook your head. “It means that I don’t experience sexual attraction. My brain isn’t hardwired that way—I don’t have those sexual desires or feelings that most people have—it’s not a part of who I am. I just don’t wanna have sex.”

Still confused, Peter processed this information. “Okay, but what does this have to do with us breaking up?”

You stared slack jawed at him, dumbfounded at his question. “You mean y-you don’t care. You don’t want to break up?”

“No, of course not! Why would I?” Peter’s confusion grew when you burst into tears. You started crying and buried your face into your pillow. Peter rubbed your back and tried his best to provide support. “Babe?”

You sat up and threw your arms around him and hugged him as tightly as you were able. You gasped between sobs, “I was s-so scared you’d leave me over it! I didn’t wanna lose you. I was gonna break it off to save you the trouble.”

Peter hugged you with equal fervor and stroked your hair. He felt terrible. It must’ve been a horrible week for you, convinced that he’d wouldn’t want to be with you anymore. He pressed a kiss to your temple and cupped your chin as he locked eyes with you. “I’d never leave you. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He didn’t know how long you two remained in that embrace and didn’t care. He would sit here all night if it made you feel better. You wiped away your tears, saying, “Wanna go get some pizza to celebrate?”

“And what are we celebrating exactly?”

“Not breaking up and the fact I got that confession off my chest. I feel a million times lighter now.”

“I like the way you think, babe.” With the problem settled, he sped you and himself to the nearest pizza parlor to have a delicious dinner and revel in each other’s company.

#peter maximoff fluff #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #quicksilver x you #peter maximoff x y/n #quicksilver x reader #marvel x reader #x reader #peter maximoff fanfiction #x men x reader #peter maximoff imagine #x men imagine

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