#so part of that is using gender debates to fill up the holes in her character that the others don’t have

[hiya-im-mary]

Being in the fanf fandom isn’t fair cuz if I use she/her on FunFox I have a high chance of having my notifications flooded with gender debates :(((((

[savemesomenachos]

So I was thinking about Bucky not being able to 'perform' because he's been stressed and preoccupied. And reader thinks it's their fault because Bucky doesn't address the situation. They eventually get him to talk and he tells them how he's feelings and then proves it's not reader's fault. Could just be fluffy or if you want to, include smut...works either way. Thank you 😘

This request is just 🤌🏽💋✨Have fun babe!!!

Not What It Seems

AN: This has been in my drafts for forever and I’m finally back to posting, so I’m excited

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Gender Neutral! Reader

Warnings: a few lines of smut, fluff and angst

TW: Mild panic attack - hyperventilation, Self-doubt

Word Count: 1853

18+, Minors DNI

Y/n’s POV:

“Are you serious?” Natasha asks, shifting in her seat at the end of the couch. She lowers the volume of the TV to a dull murmur and turns to face me. She throws her legs up and her cold toes nudge the side of my thighs as she settles in.

“Dead serious. It was just so weird,” I say, picking at the nail I’d been nervously chewing since last night. My eyes flit between my phone on the coffee table and my fidgety hands.

“Doesn’t sound like him,” she says, twisting the lid off her beer and tossing it on the table with deft fingers and precision.

My eyes follow its path through the air wordlessly, and I sigh tiredly. I fold my legs under my thighs and extend a hand in Natasha’s direction. She hands me the beer with a comforting smile.

“Babe,” she says, placing a warm hand on my knee. “Wanna tell me the whole thing?” she asks, her eyes softening at my look of despair at narrating the ‘incident’ again.

“Fine,” I sigh handing her the beer again. “From the beginning?” I ask, side-eyeing her.

“If you want,” she says, settling back into her seat, with sympathetic eyes.

*Flashback*

“I missed you so fucking much,” I moan as I strip Bucky off his gear. He nods enthusiastically and aids me in unbuckling his very complicated buckles.

He crashes his lips to mine and I melt in his arms. His arms hold my body tightly to his as he nudges me back on the bed. I fall backward as Bucky slips my jeans off and crawls over me and his lips touch every path of skin he uncovers while taking my clothes off. His fingers tweak my nipples harshly and my back arches of the bed.

“Buck, s’too sensitive,” I whimper, trying to sit up. With a firm hand on my chest, he pushes me down again.

“I need to be inside you, now!” he whimpers, wide-eyed. His eyes glaze over for a second and I snap out of my need-filled haze.

“Hey,” I say as my hand comes in contact with his tense shoulder. “You ok?”

“Fine,” he rasps before slipping his pants off completely. “Please.”

“Are you sure? We can stop-” I’m cut off by a needy kiss pressed against my lips and a fist tightening in my hair.

He slips his pants off completely to reveal his semi-hard member. His lube coated hand wraps around his member and I see the muscles in his hands strain as he strokes his length. My hand reaches forward of its own accord to assist him but he slaps it away. He crawls over me again and settles his arms on either side of my head. His member slides in back and forth motions against my tight hole and I whimper in anticipation. Slowly, he starts to push in with a hiss.

His thrusts drive sharp and hard but slow, almost teasing. My nails rake across his back and leave angry, red marks in its wake but that doesn’t deter him in the least. He redoubles his efforts with his hands gripping my waist so hard, they bruise. My gaze drifts from where our bodies are joined together to Bucky’s face. His eyes are screwed up in concentration with his tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips.

My body starts to convulse as an orgasm shakes me to the core but Bucky doesn’t stop. His thrusts don’t slow until suddenly, I hear him grunting in frustration. Abruptly he pulls out and kneels on the bed in between my legs with sweat dripping down his forehead and his fists clench and unclench from where they rest on his thighs. I lean up on my elbows and my eyes rake over his body to look for signs of injury.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” I ask, sitting up completely, my hand reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinches before my hand makes contact and I pause, my eyes wide. His eyes find mine but they look empty. He crawls off the bed and walks into the shower without another word. I bite my lip nervously, debating whether to join him but I finally decide against it.

*End of Flashback*

“Wow,” Natasha sighs, her eyes widening in surprise.

“I know,” I say, grabbing the beer out of her hand. She doesn’t fight it, deciding I need it more than her.

“You talk to him yet?”

“He’s always at missions Tasha. He hasn’t taken a break in forever and even when he is here, it’s like he’s not y’know?” I ask, taking a big swig before setting it down on the coffee table, the condensation leaving behind a ring of water.

“I think he’s gonna break up with me,” I say after a moment of silent contemplation. “I mean what else could it be? He’s never like this. I mean he doesn’t even sleep in our room anymore and I…” I trail off, tears forming in my eyes. My breath catches in my throat and Natasha shifts closer.

She wraps an arm around my shoulder and rubs my arm with calloused hands. I throw my arms around her waist and bury my tear soaked face in my chest.

“He loves you, I’m sure there’s a reason,” she says, rubbing comforting circles on my back.

“I don’t know, I just want him back,” I sob as my hands clutch her soft t-shirt.

“I know honey, I know,” She kisses my forehead and strokes my hair. Her body rocks me back and forth as my sobs start to subside.

“Y/n?” I hear a gruff voice whisper as a tall, hunched over figure steps into view.

I raised my hands to my face and harshly rub off any remnants of sadness and when my eyes finally adjust, I see Bucky standing a few feet away from the sofa with his hands wringing together nervously as his teeth sink into his lip, his eyes tearing a hole into me.

“Hey Buck. I didn’t know you were back,” I say, flashing him what I hope is a wide, excited smile as I get up off the couch and make my way toward him.

“I’ve been back for a while,” he says, his eyes flitting to Natasha’s for a second. What he sees there upsets him and his hand wraps around my wrist immediately. He starts to lead me away as I sputter protests and turn to look at Natasha for help. She shrugs in response and turns back to her beer.

Bucky takes us all the way to our shared room where he hasn’t slept in the past weeks and locks the door behind us. He drops my hand and paces the length of the room with his hands clutching his hair in a white-knuckled grasp.

“Bucky, is everything-”

“How could you think I was breaking up with you?” he asks, turning to face me, his hands coming up to tightly grasp my shoulders.

“Y-You heard that?” I whisper, my gaze dropping to the floor.

“Super-soldier hearing. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard you say that you thought I was gonna break up with you so I stopped to listen,” he says, his hand squeezing my shoulders.

“I-I didn’t know what to think. You’ve been so distant the past few weeks so I thought…” I trailed off, hoping he would understand.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, pulling me to sit on the bed next to him. His head leans forward to rest on my shoulder while his arm snakes around my waist and pulls me closer.

“Honey,” he says, his fingers playing with the hem of my t-shirt. “I’m not gonna break up with you.”

“Then why have you been acting so weird?” I ask, turning to face him, forcing him to look me in the eye.

“I fucked up on that mission,” he whispers, his gaze sullen, on the floor. “It was HYDRA and there were so many people. So many children. I couldn’t get them out. I couldn’t save them.”

Tears slide down his cheeks and pool on his lips. Before he could wipe them away, my fingers graze his cheek as I turn him to face me. I wipe away the tracks of tears and he leans forward to bury his face in my shoulder while wrapping his arms around my back.

“It’s ok baby. Let it out,” I say, rubbing circles on his back as his sobs intensify and soak my neck and shoulder. “You can’t save everyone Bucky. The important part is that you did your best.”

“But it wasn’t enough!” he shouts as his hands rake down my back and clench my t-shirt in between his fingers.

“I know it feels like that but you’re doing enough Bucky. You’ve been on missions non-stop, without any breaks and it’s enough,” I say, my hand drifting up to card through his hair as his sobs turn to sniffles and his breath comes out faster.

“It’s not enough, it’s not,” he begins to mumble under his breath as he begins to hyperventilate.

“Hey, hey,” I say, dragging his attention to me by guiding his face to mine. “You’re enough, you hear me? I love you and you’re enough. Your friends love you and you’re enough. That will never change. I promise you,” I say, my eyes blazing. My hands grip either of his cheeks and I see the sadness and self-doubt swirling in his eyes.

“I love you Bucky. So fucking much,” I continue, his breathing starting to even out.

“Really?” he asks, sniffling, his hands coming to grip my waist.

“Yes, I do,” I say, my voice unwavering.

“I-I love you too,” he says, his eyes and nose red from all the crying. “I know I don’t say it often but I do.”

“I know honey. I know,” I say, drawing him for another hug. I whisper sweet nothings in his ear and rock us back and forth with Bucky desperately clutching at my t-shirt and his head nuzzled in my chest.

After a while, he pulls away with a small smile on his face and I take comfort in the face that he feels better.

“Better?” I ask, cradling his wet cheek in my palm.

“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning forward and planting a sweet kiss on my lips. Suddenly, his arms wrap around my waist and pull me closer and his lips press more firmly into mine. I squeak in surprise but moan at the relief of finally feeling him so close after a while. He pulls away leaving us both panting for air and rests his forehead against mine.

“What was that for?” I ask with a breathy chuckle.

“It was a ‘I love you’,” he whispers, smiling at the blush that covers my cheeks.

“You’re such a cheeseball when you want to be,” I say, bringing my hands up to hide my red face.

“You love it,” he says, cheekily.

“Yeah,” I whisper, placing a kiss on the tip of his scrunched up nose. “I do.”

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[delldarling]

the city is hoarding hearts | arroven

male dragon x gender/body neutral reader 9015 words lemon | mention of drinking alcohol, face riding, size difference, fairly submissive monster, penetrative sex, poetry, touch starved note: behold! my modern epic fantasy universe! this world first appeared back in August for my Patreon Story of the Month, and though I haven’t revisited Arroven again just yet, I did return to this universe for December’s Story of the Month as well. 👀

Magic, despite people's claim to the contrary, is beyond rare these days. No one really claims that it isn’t real, that it didn’t once run rampant with it’s existence. After all, it’s impossible to deny when people have things like the architecture of the North to reference. The towers built into their seaside cliffs, spiraling up like the serpents of old reaching for the sun? Without magic, without gravity spells, and an everlasting charm on those spells, thick enough to double as a coat of paint, the towers would have fallen into the sea by now, dashed against the dark stones jutting out from the deep green waters. Many people, though especially the elves, think that the towers will endure long after the cliffs have crumbled into the water. Floating relics, you’ve heard more than a few people murmur, wonder in their voices, wouldn’t that be something?

Even more common now, there are people the world over that claim they have a spark of magic left still, that they can feel the rhythms of the magical tide flooding back over the world.

She Wakes is written on street corners and thick posters, spray painted on the underside of the colossal Echo Bridge. No matter how often they have workers doing their best to clean the graffiti up, the giant letters are back in place a few days later.

Despite how much you’d like to believe them, as everyone dreams of the rumors, of magic returning, you’ve never put too much stock into the whispered words. Why would you? No matter how often you’ve spent watching wispy clouds streak by your window, no matter how often you’ve taken a moment to reflect on the thought, to nurse a seed of hope… Nothing has ever come of it.

It’s why you keep trying to ignore that heavy ache in the arch of your feet, or the way you keep noticing advertisements for Arroven.

History books and the elderly all say that this is how it starts when magic finally blooms in someone’s blood. There’s an itch. An ache. A constant irritant that starts in your extremities and wriggles into your veins, and then coincidences will start to pile up. Small things, like noticing whenever the clock strikes 11:11 on whatever clock you pass. Or maybe it’s having the luck to switch the radio station to your favorite song without fail, or—

“Stop it,” you mutter to yourself when you spot it. You breath puffs out into the chilly air, adding to the fog lingering in the streets. You kneel, brushing aside some of the fallen damask leaves, their velvety backs clinging to your touch even as you do your best to shake them off. Just barely hidden under their litter is a postcard. Without even glancing at it, you know what you’ll find on the back, but you’re drawn to pick it up anyway, turning it over. It depicts a sprawling city with green undertones, the word Arroven written in a sloping, beautiful script along the bottom of the image. The edges are creased, almost lovingly, and there’s a small puncture hole at the top left corner, as if someone had it pinned to a corkboard for no short amount of time. 

Until this moment, you haven’t picked up any of the advertisements for Arroven. The stories all say that you can ignore it, that the magic will go away and fade from you like an ebbing tide if you only will it hard enough, but… You don’t know that you really want it to leave. Those seeds have hope might not have fully sprouted, but their roots have run deep, snaking through your veins. You swallow past the dryness in your throat and turn the postcard over, wonder if you’re going to get an address, or if there are words of encouragement intended for the last owner.

The postcard is faintly yellowed at the edges, but it’s otherwise blank.

You wilt, disappointed, but you don’t throw it back down onto the stones. If you check the railway listings, you’re more than certain that you’ll find a one way trip to Arroven suddenly dirt cheap. The pathway that will lead you there is probably paved with strangely good fortune, more invisible hooks ready to find a secure hold in your heart. You might as well find out if there’s anything to these claims of magic. You have far too much hope shored up in your bones and pumping through your chest not to at least try. 

-

A month later, and you’re starting to believe that whatever magic that led you this far has all but fled. Of course, you’re more than content with where it’s left you, a word rattling around in the back of your brain and clamoring to spill from your lips: home. Arroven feels like home.

It’s not just the city though. It’s your place. It’s the stones that pave the streets and the people that fill them. It’s the smell of bakeries and the faint hint of exhaust. It’s the clean smell of paper and ink from the stationary shop you’d stumbled into on your first night in Arroven, and the proprietor’s barely-there smile. You’d made fast friends with her almost instantly, like it was fate.

Mora, despite her solemn stature, and the vast amount of spiraling tattoos disappearing under the neck of her cleanly pressed shirts, is beyond kind. She possesses a startling, sparkling wit that leaves a smile lingering on your lips whenever you think of her snappy little comments. She’d given you a job in her shop a few days after you’d first arrived, perking up as soon as you’d come back into her shop. She needed a cashier, so she could have more time to develop her own inks, and then a few days after that you literally stumbled onto a showing of a furnished apartment. It had fit all of your needs, and your shoes had sunk into the plush carpet of the bedroom, like a quiet voice in the place asking you to stay.

The ache in your feet had eased, that strange little irritant in the back of your mind fading with every passing day. You haven’t put too much thought into magic since then, as there hasn’t been a reason when you have a new job to keep you busy, and a city to explore on your days off. You love it here, the sea green patina on the copper statues, the swirling architecture that extends to every building in the city, no matter how large or small. Besides, you know if you go looking into magic again, at the message boards or if you go hunting down books, it’s likely that they’ll all say much the same thing: She Wakes, and her gift will blossom in you, but not Forever. She moves us like pawns, adjusting us Just So, no matter how small the slot She needs filled. 

You’ve read it all before, have heard debates shouted in the streets or argued about in the back corner of classrooms. Magic moves through people as it wills, and no amount of pleading will keep it in you unless you’re a mage, and even then, that takes years of study. If the magic that led you here only existed long enough for you to make your home? Then you’ll have to be satisfied with that.

And you are, until that ache in your feet starts up again.

Late one evening, as you’re locking the back door of Rumoura’s, it floods through you fast enough to steal your breath. There’s no voice, no heavy hand on your shoulder, just a fierce pain that wells, threatening to bring tears to your eyes, until you turn to the right. You blink, surprise at the sudden and complete lack of pain, and take a ragged breath as you pocket the key to the door. When you feel steady enough, when your lungs no longer ache, you turn to the right and start walking.It takes you about ten minutes to realize you’re headed towards the main park, the one with ancient ruins of a half finished serpent tower peppered throughout its boundaries. You’ve walked through once, one golden afternoon with Mora, and you’ve been meaning to come back sometime on your lunch break. The past few days have been busy though, with a flood of students coming back to Arroven, stocking up on both casual and serious supplies from Mora’s shop.

Besides, there’s always been time to explore at your leisure now that you’re living here. 

Two towering trees make a grand arch over the park entrance, and the slow swirl of damask leaves spiraling down from the branches make you laugh.

“Coincidence,” you murmur, a small smile curling your lips, and you walk into the park. The paths are well lit, even this late in the evening. This part of the city doesn’t boast about it’s lack of crime, but most people feel it. There always seems to be groups of people roaming: Elven tourists, hooking arms and laughing over cups of tea and coffee, Orcish artists and musicians, setting up on benches or street corners, busking for the simple sake of sharing their art with others. You wander through the park, expecting to simply take in the sights among the meandering attendees, but.. You haven’t seen anyone for the past few minutes. Your footsteps start to slow, wondering if you missed a sign somewhere and you have the nagging feeling that you just need to find someone.

Cautiously, you keep moving, the sudden bout of nervousness easing when you see someone up ahead. They’re sitting at the foot of one of the rather large blocks of toppled variscite, a dark hoodie hiding their face. Their shoulders are broad, and their clothes are a little more ragged than you see on people around here, but it gives off more of a well lived look than a dangerous one. They’re tapping the toes of their boots together, the tread of them worn smooth, and a low, masculine hum reaches your ears the closer you get. He stops as soon as you’re within speaking range though, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. There’s a street lamp not too far behind him, and with the hood and the angle of the light, it casts most of his face in shadow. All you can spy is a pair of long, thorn-like ear gauges, curling out from the depths of his hood. They’re bigger around than a thimble and sharp looking from this far away. 

“Nice evening, hm?” You say in greeting, hoping that if he doesn’t want to speak, he’ll just bob his head and let you move along. You haven’t run into any trouble in Arroven yet, but even with that strange ache, you don’t know that you can see your good luck lasting forever.

“A lovely one,” he mumbles and he leans back, hands grabbing at his knees and squeezing like he’s the nervous one.

That thought makes you stop, your eyes focusing a bit more intensely on what you can see of his skin. At first glance, his knuckles are bruised and paint splattered, nails split and a little too long, skin rough in texture. You blink, realizing that his knuckles aren’t bruised, his skin just mirrors the strange patterns of the variscite he’s sitting on, ink black and sea green, and the rough texture to his skin has pointy, scalloped edges.

The noise he makes isn’t a sigh, not quite, but he turns his face away, as if he expects you to ignore him, or run, and his hood edges back, just a sliver. The arch of his nose is straight as an arrow, and his nostrils are thin things, slashing upwards. His face has so many angles that it’s hard to tear your gaze away. You wish you could see his eyes, but he has them closed, like he’s still bracing himself for a blow.

“Are you.. Are you alright?” You ask, because it seems like the thing to say, with how tense he is, with how he’s waiting.

His eyes flash open, reflective in the depths of his hood. His mouth curls into a frown when he turns to look at you again. His eyes are still the eerie glam of a reflected light. “You’re not frightened?”

“Are you?” You ask, ignoring the thundering of your own heart. You’ve seen Trolls before, and even a few half-elves or half-orcs of varying descent, with skin that just barely reminds you of his, but.. You’re willing to bet he isn’t any of those. 

“A bit?” He says, unsure, and the edge of a violet tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. “It’s been a few centuries since any of you have made yourself so at home here that you stumbled across me.” He hunches his shoulders, looking away from you for the breadth of a second, before he can’t help himself. His eyes flick back to you, rove over you from head to toe, almost greedily. “You felt a call then, an itch?”

“An ache,” you correct, staring at him with wide eyes. Centuries? The long lived races don’t often mention the time they have over others. It’s rude at the best of times, and most of them are terrible sticklers for manners. 

“At home here, you said?” You ask, knowing that something about him seems terribly familiar. 

Your question makes him pause, brow lifting before he finally pushes himself to his feet. He unfolds, all long, heavy limbs, but doesn’t move from his spot on the variscite. “M-.. Arroven. You do think of the city as home?” He breathes in, hesitantly lifting his chin. “Not to be rude,” he says, a little awkwardly, “but you smell like Arroven.”

All at once, the old poem flickers back into your mind, the one about hearts and desires and winter. The oldest folktales of the first cities, those built around the serpent towers, all seemed to carry the poem with them. It was both a warning and a blessing to those that wished to stay. You’d have to hunt down the entirety of it, but the ending couplet?  

The city promises, you’ll be most adored So can you, will you, join the hoard?

You bite down fiercely on the desire to blurt out dragon, but he must sense it, might even see the aborted twist of your lips. 

“..you’ve figured it out, then?” He asks, and when his shoulders droop, you spy the barest edge of a wing, tucked in close to his back. “If being in my immediate vicinity is a problem, I quite understand, but please stay in the city. You-” He blows out a breath, large hands fussing about with his hoodie pocket. Everything about him reads awkward, almost shy. “You’re safe here, I promise.” He breathes in again, like he can’t resist, eyes falling closed when his violet tongue appears, there and gone before you can blink. “You belong,” he murmurs and tangles his fingers in the material of his hoodie, like he would reach out if he didn’t stop himself.

Inexplicably, you wonder if Mora knows about the city patron. If you should waltz into the shop tomorrow and announce: I’ve officially been welcomed to the hoard.  ...Sort of. Before you lose your nerve, before you can bite your tongue, you ask. “An official welcome involves more drinks though, doesn’t it?”

-Arroven, the dragon, the founder of the city, is sitting across the table from you, slouching in a barstool that has a difficult time encompassing his enormous body. Despite his height, and the way his hood shadows his face in a frankly ominous way, no one is paying him any attention. One of the bartender’s had slid a drink list your way as soon as you’d claimed the seats, but she hadn’t even glanced at Arroven. In fact, you think her eyes might have skipped right over his seat. It’s a little disconcerting, seeing as he’d claimed that Wink was one of the best bars around, but if they ignore him, if they can’t see him?

“What’ll it be?” A different bartender asks, a tall elf, with his hair plaited back in a complicated braid. He has pleasant features, though he looks a little flustered, a lock or two of dark hair escaping his braid. You think he might be on the newer end when he fumbles a bit with the card you slide his way, olive skin flushing when his fingers nearly touch yours.  

“Uh, the special,” you finally decide, expecting him to turn to Arroven so he can order as well. Your jaw drops when he whirls, not even bothering. “Ar- hey, wait!” 

The elf turns back, smiling vaguely, looking even more tense now that he can’t leave straight off, but he doesn’t seem to see Arroven when you gesture towards him. His gaze zips right through the neckline of Arroven's hoodie, straight on through to the next customer. 

Perturbed, you lean in close to Arroven, heart skipping a beat due to his proximity. He smells faintly of musty books, and stone, cooling in the early evening after baking in the sunshine of a warm day. "Didn’t you want something?” You force yourself to ask, unwilling to let the elf leave without at least checking with him first. He doesn’t have to get anything, but you’d hoped he would, if only so you can spend a while longer in his company. Maybe the flirtatious tone you’d struck had made him uncomfortable?

For a moment Arroven hunches further into his sweatshirt, and you think your fears might hold weight. You are a little close, and you still don’t know each other terribly well yet. You straighten, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel and Arroven heaves out a sigh. He finally tugs back his hood, though the elf behind the bar doesn’t even blink. “Just a.. a Beetle Wing," he mutters, large, sharp teeth catching the light. The elf nods, though his gaze is still on you when Arroven speaks, and turns away to go make the drinks. 

Without the darkness of night, without his hood shadowing his face, you see that his eyes aren’t permanently reflective. In the dim lights of the bar, they’re a lovely shade of blue-green that matches well with his skin. What you thought were ear gauges were actually his horns, thick and curving, and trailing after the clean arch of his jaw. His ears are heavy with plugs though, and they clink against his horns when he turns, noticing that you’re staring. The scent of hot stone grows stronger when you smile at him, and then he huffs, looking away and running a hand through his already tousled, short dark hair. You catch sight of scales on his scalp and then blink. It’s not hair on his head, it’s feathers. His eyebrows are much the same, in miniature. Fine, thin feathers, as ink dark as the scalloped edges of his scales. 

“So,” you tease, hoping your questions won’t come off as prying. “Can the rest of the people in here see you at all? You said that it’d been a while since anyone had felt at home enough here to stumble across you, but.. I don’t know exactly if that means Magicis is at work, or something else.”

Arroven breathes in, glancing up at the filigreed round sign hanging over the bar. There’s a single neon eye in the middle, opening and closing on loop under the word WINK. Even with the noise of people talking, and the music coming steadily from the small corner of a dance floor, you can still hear the faint buzz and click of the neon switching over. “Not many,” he finally confesses. “If the proprietor were here, she would see me, but she’s been here for a.. For a while.” She’s one of the long lived races then. Arroven turns, taking a quick look over the other patrons, tense, as if he expects one of them to approach. “The couple near the dance floor there,” he finally says, pointing out two women leaning into each other, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. “The orcish fellow on his phone. They can see me, though I doubt they’ll realize who I am. Just living here doesn’t make someone part of the hoard, though it’s always a step in the right direction.” For a second, he looks like he might let the subject drop, but then he cringes, glancing at your eyes before he looks away. “I don’t- I don’t steal from the people living here, whether they’re part of my hoard or not, even if they don’t realize I’m around. Even if they can’t see me.”

That’s reassuring, though you hadn’t planned on diving into that topic.

“What then,” you ask, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, and your elbow on the bar, “makes someone part of your hoard?” 

Arroven’s rough looking scales don’t shine, but the neon light over the both of you shifts again from blue, to pink, and back. It was already hard for you to take your eyes off of him, knowing who he is, attracted to the nervous quirk of his lips, but now? The magic that you’ve only ever felt the after effects of, the strange aches and coincidences, it feels like more in this moment. More than a soft nudge in the correct direction. Arroven is sitting at your side, winking neon sign a spotlight over both your heads.

Hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, Arroven lifts his hand, reaching out, and taps once, softly, against your sternum. “It sounds esoteric, but the only explanation I have is that all of you feels like you should be here. From the way you smell, to the echoes of your voice or your footsteps along the pavement...” Arroven swallows, and then inhales, letting his hand fall away from your chest as his eyes close. He doesn’t pull his hand back completely though, just lets his hand hover over your thigh. “It’s always the desires of the heart that bring my hoard home,” he murmurs and starts to sway towards you.

There’s a soft clink on the bar, your drinks being set carefully in front of you and Arroven. When you look, the bartender still hasn’t noticed the city patron, the dragon, but the drink is still clearly set aside for him. Your card is placed very quickly next to your glass, the elf flashing you a much more jovial smile than earlier. 

“Your drink has been taken care of,” he explains, but doesn’t stay behind to point out who might have bought them. When you look, Arroven is sitting straight up in his seat, and his guilty expression is answer enough.

“I was supposed to be welcoming you to the city,” he murmurs, turning in his stool so he can take hold of his glass. The liquid inside is iridescent, shifting from what looks like violet, to a strange umber. You’re willing to bet that it’s more blue and green, but the neon light isn’t doing it too many favors. Arroven lifts his cup, patiently waiting for you to do the same and then quietly toasts your arrival. The clink of the glasses rings in your ears with the clarity of a bell, echoes lasting far longer than the noise itself.

“Goodness,” you say, coughing when you finish your swallow. Your drink is a little stronger than you thought it would be, heat already spiralling down into your chest and filling your belly. “So, uh, the city blessings seem to be true, I take it?” You don’t look at him as you speak, afraid he’ll cringe away from the mention of them.

“Blessings?” Arroven asks, and then you have to search up the poem. He sounds like he doesn't know, but they're supposed to be as old as the cities. Or near as.

“Sometimes they vary, from city to city. But most of the time they have almost the same structure. The same meaning,” you explain, pulling up the poem on your phone. “Hoarding hearts, keeping people safe in winter. The, uh-” You turn it his way, but he doesn’t take the phone from you, just reads the words out of the palm of your hand, brows raised by the time he gets to the end.

“‘Sinking talons into your thighs?’” Arroven’s slit pupils grow wide, nearly drowning his iris in darkness. He straightens, taking another hasty gulp of his drink. He laughs when he’s finished, nerves finally beginning to ease. “That’s how they’re translating it these days?” He asks, but you notice his eyes lingering on your hands, drifting down to your knees and the way you’re sitting. 

You pass a good portion of the evening, teetering back and forth with conversation about the city now, and how it was when Arroven had first settled. For all that he’s wearing modern clothes and walking on two feet, you can see him in a larger, more draconic figure, delving into the variscite mines and overseeing the people that had decided to settle under his watch.  

He’s just as enthralled with your stories though, hanging onto your every word, even though he’s still clearly a little anxious. He abandons his hunched and wary demeanor as soon as you start talking about the magic though. All the little aches and nudges and postcards that had led a clear path to his city. To him.

You insist on buying the next round when he makes to wave down the bartender, who is still completely oblivious to his presence, but Arroven stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

"Another time," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "A welcome isn't a single round, is it?" He asks, a tentative smile revealing a small glimpse of those sharp teeth.

You could argue. You have the feeling that he would let it go if you pushed, but the smile sways you. It's the first time he's spoken without lowering his eyes mid sentence. You accept the drink, and try not to stare when his smile grows, shy and small and all the more endearing for it.

You both pretend not to notice each other grinning after that.

It’s just past 1 AM by the time the both of you leave the bar, only slightly unsteady after a few drinks and a few plates of bar food. Warmth floods you when Arroven’s hand finds your elbow, just barely keeping you from stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. All it takes is a single stroke of his thumb over your arm for you to throw aside any worries you might have about flirting. 

He's reciprocated, in quiet ways, for the last hour or so. He’s leaned into you whenever you lowered your voice, had let his eyes linger on your hands and thighs after you brought up the poem.. The worst thing he can do is say no.

“Come to my place?” You blurt and Arroven stutters, hand spasming in his grip on your arm. For a heart wrenching moment, you think he might turn you down, but he finally bobs his head, gauges clicking against his horns with the motion. “...You said you’d been out of the loop with the people living here,” you start, mouth dry, wondering if he knows what you’re trying to ask, but still a little too sober to spell it out. “I’m asking, I’m not just asking you to come visit. I-” 

Arroven stops your worried speech with a slightly awkward smile. “I know what you’re getting at,” he finally says with a gentle huff of a laugh, hand sliding down your arm until he can twine his fingers about yours. His breath hitches, and for a moment you think he might stop, might pull away. “I- I would love to,” he says quietly, and squeezes until his fingernails gently prick the back of your hand.

Wordless with triumph, you flash another smile his way, heart pounding as you keep hold of his hand, ventral scales dry, but slick against your palm.

“The walk back to my place is a bit of a long one from here,” you confess, glancing at the handful of cabs loitering along the street. “Seeing as you got the drinks, I can—” You nearly trip over your own feet when Arroven tugs you back, keeping you from approaching any of the cabs. 

“I don’t.. Fit very well,” he says, apologetically. “If you would rather take one, I can, but if you aren’t opposed..” Arroven’s wings, still tucked in flat along his back, quirk and stretch, spreading wide enough that he nearly clips another leaving bar patron in the face. They don’t move, don’t see him, but they blink, as if a gust of wind just hit them, and shield their eyes until they’re well past you and Arroven.

His statement leaves you staring, jaw beginning to grow slack. “Are you saying you can fly us back to my place?” Your eyes trace his wings again, the fragile veins spider webbing across the membranes. It’s not that you thought they were ornamental, but it’s one thing to see them, and another to know you’ll get to witness their use first hand. 

Arroven’s shoulders start to hunch, but his eyes flick down to your hand, fingers still curled around his. He smiles instead. “Yes?” 

You glance at the cabs, and then back to Arroven’s tall figure and broad shoulders. As much as you’d like being pressed up against him, trapped in the backseat of an uncomfortable cab isn’t quite what you’d pictured, and he’s already nervous enough. That settles things. You nod, just the once and lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Flying it is then! We can’t have you getting stuck in one of those, can we?”

While Arroven walks you through how he’s going to pick you up, how he’s going to hold onto you, some of the people on the sidewalk start to watch you. You’re nodding readily at what they assume to be empty air. You spare a second to wonder if they’ll see you vanish, or if they’ll be able to see the equivalent of a magical wind carrying you away. That would cause quite a stir, wouldn't it? You forget to ask Arroven about it though when he holds out his arm, waiting patiently for you to step closer, fingers gentle in their continued grip on your hand. 

He’s still giving you the chance to turn away. 

You take a breath, thinking back to the nerves you’d felt, packing up a bag and deciding to visit somewhere based on coincidences and the hearsay of magic. You think of Mora, and the apartment that feels more like home to you than nearly anything else ever has. The way everything fits here, every piece of the city you've set foot in branded on your brain, clearer than any map. You step close, eagerly letting Arroven curl his arm around your back and then lift you up in a bridal carry. His forearms and biceps tense, bracing you as he prepares, and then the snap of his wings flaring open makes your heart jump before he leaps. His wings catch a sudden breeze swooping into the street, allowing it to lift the both of you well clear of the ground before he starts to flap. The slight dip in elevation as he finds his rhythm makes you clutch a little tighter, but Arroven doesn’t complain. In fact, when you glance at him, he seems to be holding back a smug little smile.  

It’s cold when he finally crests over the top of the nearest buildings. Between the chill, and the fast growing height between you and the ground, you have no issues absolutely clinging to Arroven’s neck. You don't feel like you're going to fall, but it's still safer than sitting meekly in his arms, isn't it? You try to twist your head about to see everything below you, but another rush of cold wind makes you squint. It takes a moment before you realize Arroven isn't moving though, he's simply keeping the both of you suspended in midair.

“Your address?” Arroven asks as soon as you start to frown, his voice rumbling against your ear.

“Ah.” You give it to him, laughing when you meet his still-shy gaze. “I suppose that’s a little important.”

While the walk would have left you both a little tired, the flight is a fairly short one. You have just enough time to relish all the places you’re pressed in close, to enjoy what little warmth you’ve managed to keep with the wind seeping through your clothes, when Arroven lands in front of your quiet building. There are no witnesses but the dim streetlights, the sound of his flapping wings muffled by the mist beginning to roll through the city. Arroven lowers you almost reluctantly, fingers slow to uncurl so you can step down onto the pavement. He takes a step back as soon as you do, like he needs the space between you to think.

“Still up for coming inside?” You ask, giving him the same chance he’d given you earlier. You jerk a thumb at the locked door, searching for your keys with your other hand. 

Arroven’s head jerks forward almost too fast, the dark feathers on his skull prickling upwards. His wings snap closed, tight against his back again as soon as you unlock your door. It’s only mildly nerve wracking, having him follow you up to your place, and you think it might be because of how nervous he’s acting. He flinches away from the wall when he barely brushes it, almost tripping over his own boots as he goes up the stairs. He’s been shy from the get-go, but this-

“Arroven,” you murmur, turning to look up at him, hand pausing on your door handle. “Is something wrong?”

He breathes out, turning his head so the plugs in his earlobes clack against his horns, blue-green eyes roving over the hall. “No,” he says slowly, forcing himself to stop hunching into his hoodie, to take his wringing hangs out of the front pocket. “I’ve just, it’s just that I keep-” He stays where he is, brow furrowing for all of five seconds before he’s huffing and stepping into your space. When Arroven leans down, his pupils are needle thin, that sunshine warm smell suffusing the air. He was summoning up courage, you realize, just in time to let your eyes fall closed as he cradles your jaw with both hands. They dwarf your human face, his fingertips easily reaching all the way to the back of your neck, but his touch may well be the softest thing you’ve ever known. His kiss is more the brush of his mouth over the shape of yours, a slip of a taste when his tongue follows the curve of your lower lip. He hums, softly, but when you kiss him back? When your tongue touches his and you try to stand on your tip-toes to deepen things, when you stumble a step closer—Arroven’s groan is gratifying. Achingly slowly, he draws his hands down the side of your neck, leaving you free to control the pace of the kiss. His thumbs trace your collarbone, slow, deep circles that make you wish you weren’t standing out here, fully clothed and too warm.

You pull away, licking your lips and glancing down the hall. There’s no one there, despite your pulse loud in your ears and your breath heaving, surely loud enough to wake even those in the very depths of sleep. Arroven’s breath hitches, and for a moment he sways, ready to chase you for another kiss. “Wait, wait,” you say softly, trying not to smile too wide when his eyes flicker open, dark pupils growing larger. He starts to straighten, embarrassment lifting his shoulders. “Maybe we should get in my house first?” You rush to say, not wanting to potentially scar one of your neighbors, but not wanting him to rush away either.

His mouth opens on reflex, and then closes, slipping into a gentle smile. “Yes,” he says, and then you have to swallow, watching his eyes slide down to your hands and then further down to your knees.  

You get your door open before he touches you again, but you’re only a few steps inside when Arroven reaches for you. He strokes the back of his knuckles down your forearm, fingertips only barely grazing your hips. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, one of his fingers catching two of yours. “Touching,” he explains, the edge of his thumbnail stroking over your wrist and the base of your thumb and back. “Being close to, well…” He breathes in when you step into him, and grows as still as a statue when you balance against him, reaching around his middle to swing the front door shut. This close, Arroven still smells of sunshine, but there’s a sweeter, crisper undertone that makes you want to close your eyes to savor it, to breathe it in. He’s nearly vibrating with you pressed close though, hands hovering somewhere over the middle of your back, trying to keep himself still. He’s waiting for you to give him the go ahead, still caught up in his nerves... Or maybe just manners?

You grin, gently pushing yourself back a step before you smooth out your expression. “Part of your hoard?” You wonder aloud, but then you can’t keep yourself straight faced any longer, wanting him to recognize the words for the gentle teasing they are. You smile. “How about you touch me then?”

Arroven huffs, pleased, and then you quickly discover how needy he can be. He kisses you all the way down the hall, his wings nearly catching on picture frames, hands trembling in their stroking over your back. He keeps pausing at the top of your hips, like he wants to let his hands drift lower, but focuses on his mouth instead, mouth and teeth moving from your lips, to your jaw and down to your neck. You don’t think he’s willing to risk going further though, knowing that it would likely end up with both of you unbalanced and on the floor instead of the bed. 

“Distracted?” You ask, reaching blindly around your doorframe, searching for the lightswitch as Arroven’s tongue flickers over the pulse on the left side of your neck. Your own breathing stutters for a moment, heat building in your veins. “You keep-”

Arroven’s breath puffs over the damp patch he’s left on your skin as he lifts his head, violet tongue sliding along the sharp points of his teeth. “Hardly,” Arroven interrupts, and his wings tense when you hook your fingers into the neck of his hoodie, drawing him further into the room. Your fingers find the lightswitch, the soft ring of the bulb lighting strangely loud in the room. “You’re all I can see. All I can focus on. ..am I missing something? Cues?” He asks, voice gone lower when you give his hoodie a fierce tug. He follows, all too willingly, fingers flexing around your hips. 

“Hardly,” you say back, teasing as you back up towards the bed. You pull when you lean back, expecting him to let you fall, to fall with you, but his wings flare again. He catches himself on the blankets, hands to either side of your body, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by his pupils as he takes the sight of you in. “Still good?” You ask after a moment, because he’s staring, because he hasn’t moved a muscle. 

“Tell me,” Arroven blurts, arms tensing as his fingers twist into the blankets. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, gaze catching on every sliver of bared skin he can find. “I’m.. finding it a little difficult to think. All I want to do is make you happy, make you want to-” He stops, feathered brows drawing together as he considers his words.

You arch an eyebrow, your hands stilling just shy of his chest. The way he’d hesitated, his flighty touches? they all make a bit more sense now. He’d asked you to stay in the city, had mentioned your belonging here. If you wanted to leave, if you insisted on stopping, Arroven wouldn’t keep you. But he wants you to stay here.

  “Little to no thinking,” you muse, unable to keep from smiling as he hangs onto your every word. “Undress me,” you finally decide, and his nostrils flare before he sets to work. He’s terribly careful, every brush of his scaled knuckles whisper-soft and cool against your skin, but his breathing is ragged by the time he’s finished and your heart has sped in response. You’re tempted to make him undress himself too. In fact, he would probably do just as you asked, but you’re too impatient to get your hands back on him. “Hoodie off,” you declare, half amazed that he’s obeying your whims, “and lay down on the bed.”

Arroven listens immediately, tucking his wings in close before he’s pulling off the hoodie, careful around the curl of his horns and the arch of his wings. He isn’t wearing a shirt, but with his wings, you understand why. Most of those with wings don’t favor mass produced clothes or modern fashion. He’s on the bed before you can finish pushing yourself back up, jeans low on his hips, pale belly and chest all the brighter compared to the black and teal pattern of his scales. His legs spread reflexively when you stand, jeans growing taut when you reach for him. Your hands are steady, even if your pulse isn’t, but Arroven doesn’t seem to care. He looks blissed out from this much touch alone, jaw gone slack, eyelids heavy as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He exhales when you pull at his jeans, eyes zeroed in on your face.

He’s thicker than he is long, and as pale as his abdomen, save for a violet tinge that makes you think of his tongue. Nestled as he is in the ‘v’ of his unzipped jeans, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from stroking him straight away, or even leaning down to-

“Maybe I can think,” Arroven says hoarsely. He lifts one of his hands, gentleman-like, offering it to you palm up. “Let me?” He asks, though you’re not entirely sure what he wants you to let him do.

Mannerly, you can’t help but think, lips twitching as you place your hand in his. The older races are, generally. It’s something to fall back on if they’re nervous or unsure. Not that most of them would ever admit to it.

“Are you thinking I should leave your boots on?” You get one knee on the bed before you pause, glancing back at his legs still hanging over the edge.

Arroven hums, but his grip on your fingers tightens for a second, not wanting to let go. “I’ll worry about those later,” he says, and then inhales sharply when you straddle his lap, cock pulsing as you settle against him. If he wants to let his jeans tangle around his boots, you’re not going to complain. It’s a bit of a thrill, knowing that he’s too impatient to fuss with them.

“Boots on, then. Now, what am I supposed to let you do?” You lean forward, drawing an aimless, spiraling pattern from his abdomen up to his ribcage. He’s much warmer now, with you astride his thighs and his wings trapped beneath him on the bed. It looks uncomfortable, but he hasn’t mentioned them once.

Hesitant, Arroven’s hold on you loosens, and then his hand drops to your thigh, eyebrows furrowing when he finally speaks. “Sit on my face?”

The brevity of it, the tone of uncertainty, makes your mouth twitch. “Jumping right in there, aren’t we? And here I thought you were kind of shy.”

“I am!” Arroven blurts and then covers his face with one hand, laughing quietly at himself. “I am,” he says, a bit more composed when he lets his hand fall away. “Though shyness has hardly ever been a factor in my favor. What is it humans say? Better to rip off the bandage?”

You crawl halfway up his body, smiling wider when he forgets to breathe. “Had to get the anxiety out of the way?” You brush a kiss over his chin, eyes catching on the curl of his horns. He’s moved so carefully that you’ve yet to feel the sharp points of them catching your skin, but if you sit on his face… You ignore Arroven’s disappointed sigh as you turn away to stroke the pad of your thumb over his right horn, wondering whether he has any feeling in them. They’re as ink dark as some of his scales and twisted in a lovely spiral that perfectly circles his pointed, gauged ears. Arroven isn’t reacting like he has sensation in them, though he reacts to every other little touch of you against his scales. “You’re going to have to help me balance,” you confess, sitting back against his middle. “Because even though they aren’t terribly sharp, I rather think I’ll be risking my thighs. Don’t you?”

Arroven stares, blinking, and then he looks horrified, which makes you wonder how long it’s been since he’s been close to a human, if ever. 

“I’m not against this,” you add, grinning, “just to be clear.”

For a moment, all he says in response is a strangled sounding “Ah,” before he blinks again, glancing up at the ceiling. “I can... I will help. I’ll be careful. More than careful.”

It takes a few moments, and some adjustment, before you’re finally able to settle over his face. Your heart starts to pound a little faster when Arroven opens his mouth, those dagger-like teeth flashing in the dim light. His hands are strong though, curling around your thigh and bracing your hip. He’s too tall for you to do more than help balance against his chest, though you can see that he’s still wonderfully hard, and his cock is starting to leak. You’d love nothing more than to take him in hand, to taste him, but then Arroven nips your inner thigh, and you stop paying attention to his cock and start focusing on sensation. Your fingers curl at the first hot swipe of his tongue, pressing a little hard into the ventral scales over his chest, and the next slow lick has your eyes falling closed. 

It’s not easy to stay steady, to keep your arms and legs from quivering the longer he licks and slurps. Arroven sucks small kisses over your thighs and the left cheek of your ass, his teeth only ever the barest pressure on your skin. His horns graze you, but he’s true to his word in keeping you balanced. The texture of them against your skin is just something more to feel, to enjoy as he tilts his head this way and that. Pleasure builds, faster by far than the magic that built in your veins, that left you aching with the need to come to the city. If that ache had been anything close to what you’re feeling now, warm, and slick, with the heady pressure of Arroven’s fingers on your skin, you would have picked up on the breadcrumb trail a lot sooner.

“You’re go- going to push me over the edge,” you warn with a gasp, legs starting to tremble. He moves you in response, starts to rock your hips so all he has to do is stick out his tongue, but your hands are shaking now too, cluing him into your urgency. Arroven shakes his head from side to side, a little wild, the plugs in his earlobes clattering against his horns with every shift. You bite down on your lower lip, orgasm rolling swiftly over you and nearly choke on the curse that wants to leave your mouth. He keeps you there, aching and weak, until you pat awkwardly at his chest, releasing you reluctantly with one last obscene noise of satisfaction. 

You sit next to him, still a little unsteady and grin down at his pleased, messy face. “Now, unless you have any other lovely thoughts to share - your turn?”  

His rough sounding “Please,” has your libido jumping back into overdrive, but it’s safety that has you slipping off the bed to dig out a bottle of lube from your things. He’s half pushed himself back up when you come back to the bed, resting on his elbows, fingers twisted gently into the blankets. His wings are partially stretched out now too, one of them reaching all the way to the end of your bed. 

“Are your wings alright?” You ask, wondering if you should throw away the idea of climbing back into his lap, lube already pooling in the palm of your hand.  

Arroven smiles again though, waving away your worry. “Tense,” he offers, as explanation. “I was more focused on you, but they’re good. I promise.” His cock bobs as you approach, and then he lays back down, irises vanishing into the ether of his pupils. 

“If you promise, I suppose I’ll let it go.” You close the lube, only a bit ungracefully, and toss it to the side, climbing back onto the bed and straddling his thighs.

  Your first wet squeeze of his cock has him whimpering, your hand barely fitting around him at his thinnest point. When you stroke, he bucks nearly unseating you until he claps his hands onto your thighs, muttering a hasty apology. Despite being tempted to laugh, you narrow your eyes, squeezing him just a little harder. “You don’t have to be still, but move a little slower for now, hm?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say, and then his jaw goes slack when you press him against you. “Oh,” he breathes, nails pricking your skin as you hold him in place. You rub yourself against his cock, up and back down, a slow undulation that makes you tense, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm. 

And then you straighten, pressing the head of his cock into you. The first slow stretch of him inside you echoes the steady ache of magic, has your breath rushing from your lungs in a gasp. “Fuck,” you breathe and then glance at Arroven’s face. His head is tilted back, mouth open to reveal all of those sharp teeth, and his eyes are closed tight. You think he might be keeping himself from looking at you, might be trying to stem the urge to buck again, to move at all. You tilt your hips and press yourself down though, wiggling, and then Arroven is cursing. You don’t recognize the language, but you understand the sentiment behind it, the pleading tone that softens the edges of the words. It’s hard to concentrate, to keep yourself from getting distracted when all you want to do is sink down every inch of him and then just lay on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Too much?” You manage to ask, but all Arroven does is shake his head and then carefully ease his grip on your thighs, stroking down to your knees and back up. Your legs, among other things, are definitely going to ache after this.

You ride Arroven until he’s a shaking, breathless mess, until he can’t help but tense his thighs every time he bottoms out, and you can barely stay up. You reach up, fingers just barely brushing his chin to make him pay attention. “Fuck me,” you command and his wings stretch to either side with force. You nearly scream when he starts fucking into you with purpose, and as lovely as your neighbors have been, you have the feeling they’re going to complain at some point. Every thrust has you tightening up on reflex, still shaky from your earlier orgasm, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright. A few moments later and Arroven arches as he comes inside you, clutching tightly to you until he’s finished, breath deep and rasping. You don’t wait. Carefully you flop down next to him, smiling tiredly against the blankets. You’re not sure your legs will carry you for the next hour or so, but it’s hardly something to complain about. 

“Do you give all newcomers to the hoard such a.. Vigorous welcome?” You ask, laughing, your voice rough, not really expecting him to answer. Even though he’s clearly a little more comfortable, even though he’s been clinging to your skin and he looks wrecked by all the activity. Arroven nearly chokes.

“No,” he says immediately. “Moments like this,” he murmurs, reaching out for you, ventral scales on his palm smooth over the apple of your cheek, “moments like this are few and far between.” There’s a low rumble of noise from him when you roll close to brush another kiss over his lips, eyes fluttering closed. It’s all you can do not to laugh again, not to quote the poem at him or interrupt the soft moment. It still sits in the back of your mind though, sweet and lilting.

the city is hoarding hearts

it draws them in, with coin, with art

reflects their dreams on mirrored glass

sings siren songs to catch them fast

the lights?

they gleam, they glitter, bright

it steals a piece, with every sight

roots get worn

they split, they splinter

'but i'll keep you warm, in the depth of winter'

the city whispers, it cajoles, it cries

it'll sink it's talons into your thighs

it tears, it scrapes, it batters the unwary

but oh, the love it gifts, to those who tarry

the city promises, you'll be most adored

so can you, will you, join the hoard?

[dizzyiscrocodile]

WHY I THINK ENA IF BEST FANDOM GO

--AND I"VE BEEN IN THE HK FANDOM AND THEIR SUPPOSED 2 BE THE BEST FANDOM SO THAT SAYS SOMETHING I THINK RANT GO! Ena is so random and out there that any interpretation is not only up in the air but welcome and appreciated and respected. Theories are anyone's guess and trailers tell us next to nothing about the next ena, accept forget us hyped so we can have a shitfit and scream over the hottest character when the next comes out. We all know were fucking ridiculous- were all aware of the content we're working with, and how little to no sense it makes, and how we are making a positivity mountain out of a molehill. We can't really make fun of each other, like the brony or Roblox fandoms- it's just so dumb and ridiculous that we're all on the same level (those fandoms are still toxic, btw, and I have no fucking idea why.) We all have that 'we aren't normal people for liking this enough to be part of its fanbase' sense and it unites us. ENA as a base content is genius - so weird and appealing and nonsensical all praise Joel. The voice acting, music, animation, graphics, mood- This is about the fandom tho. not the content itself. so enough. WITH being as open as it is, everyone ships everything and nobody judges anyone! it is a fandom, so if the only things ever onscreen were two unrelated rocks they would be shipped, let's be honest. Were also all very queer and neurodivergent, often seeing ourselves in ena- weird in a world that doesn't make sense, so were just the right kind of people to create a cool-ass welcoming fanbase. ENA IS ALSO SHORT AND FREE! This meaning ANYONE ANYWHERE can just get in the fandom without having to pay money or sit down and watch something for three hours, making it very very accessible. SPEAKING OF ENA BEING WEIRD! With just as out there and open for interpretation the series is, it is QUITE easy to relate to the characters if you have a little bit of imagination. It's like, the dream fandom, nobody knows what he looks like so they fill in the blanks with what they want to see. Nobody knows too much or can make out too much about ena, so it's easy to fill in the blanks with -- yourself! Making Neurodivergent and queer headcanons welcome and explored, and of course, if ena doesn't fit you, we HAVE enasonas? :))))) It doesn't make sense so it does. Other fandoms will cutthroat and argue neck and neck about lore and theories. We have NO FUCKING IDEA what's going on! so every theory is unprovable, though cool and often adopted by the fandom- we cant go neck and neck. that'd be dumb. WE ARE SMALL AND PASSIONATE! we have a drawing pencil and BOYYYY DO WE LOVE TO DRAW! We have incredible amounts of beautifully created art by a small (more medium now, but if we consider indie game fandoms small, DEFINITELY SMALL) and welcoming community that is easy to weave yourself into and snug in. If there is toxic shizz in the fandom it's easy to avoid. Surprisingly a lot of gatcha around here, but if your not into that stuff it is easy to avoid. Much like other pieces of the fandom, if you arent into MoonyXENA it's easy to avoid. Nothing seems flanderized or in your face like in other fandoms stuff is. Our fandom is small and doesn't really have any toxic saviors. We have big figures in the fandom, but they are all wholesome and genuine people, we also don't idolize them like bigger communities tend to. Hell, I've dm'd Gamer duck (Happy ENA's VA) and he was kind and responded to us. It's small enough that the VA's, creators, and team are involved and friendly when interacting with the community down on personal levels. most of it is drama-free too- and we recognize pretty quickly when people try to spark stuff. for example, the only drama post saw here was about Gabbo the banana man- someone spoke up and tried to say they were transphobic and stab at Joel We saw this was pretty weird, and unlike other communities I've had the displeasure of being a part of, we shut it down immediately and explained kindly why it was a misunderstanding. Why does his matter? In other places there would've been a debate and

people angrily attacking not only Joel, but the creator of the post often, to just start a tizzy. Here, we do not want drama, we aren't here to cancel anyone, we want to have fun with polygons. --Bonus points for Ena's google page is SFW! which is strange for a female character with something resembling boobs. of course, rule thirty-four of the internet applies to her, but we aren't as down bad. Our only issue by far is Ena's gender. Please, collectively, stop arguing over Ena's gender. do we really wanna start a new mangle debate? Go down that hole? no, we don't. Ena's gender whatever you want it to be you hoes. Oh and we're just... slightly, starved for content. Joel is doing his best and we're here 2 support it. We can ride out off Rubypanda in the meantime.

This post will definitely be edited to add more l8r tysm

[comrade-meow]

Spell-caster's notebook, 2nd half of the 19th century - 1st quarter of the 20th century, Haute-Saône. Photo credit: Musées départementaux de la Haute-Saône

“When total war is being waged with words, one must make up one’s mind to engage in another kind of ethnography.”

—Jeanne Favret-Saada, Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977)

One of the best studies of the power of language and its relationship to violence is Jeanne Favret-Saada’s Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977). In this groundbreaking ethnography, Favret-Saada discusses how witchcraft employs language to gain power and catch the subject within a web of words. For Favret-Saada, the ethnographer is the unwitcher who lets herself become entangled within a network of power in which words create spells. She calls this being “caught.” For “those who haven't been caught” spells simply “don’t exist” (15).

Similar to Favret-Saada’s work on witchcraft in France, today’s cultural-political economy is immersed in another politicisation of language. This time the catching of subjects, government and institutions is happening in the public sphere under the guise of linguistically codifying identity. All this necessarily relies upon a previous “bewitching” of subjects who are willing to recycle the language of the magical spells despite the absence of evidence.

In witchcraft, language becomes the contested space that Favret-Saada rightfully notes as having taken hostage the very premise of communication, writing, “[I]t is no longer truth or error that is in question, but the possibility of communicating.” Addressing those who have been caught within the spell of language—the bewitched and the suffering—Favret-Saada asks:

In what way are the bewitched right when they say they are suffering? And the unwitchers, when they say they “take it all” on themselves? (And what of the alleged witches, who remain obstinately silent, or claim they do not believe in spells?) What, then, is at stake when such a discourse is being used? These questions led to other, more fundamental ones, about the effect of spoken words and the very rationale of this discourse: why is talking in this way so like the most effective kind of act? How do words kill as surely as a bullet? Why do people talk rather than fight or die, why do they use precisely these terms? And why this kind of language rather than another? If one talks in terms of witchcraft, it must be that the same things cannot be said any other way. (13)

Although Favret-Saada asks these questions about rural Normandy of the 1970s and the role of the ethnographer in studying her own culture, we can easily expand upon Favret-Saada’s premise here. For as she posits in the Bocage that one need not believe in sorcery, there is an accounting that takes place by virtue of the group’s symbolic code where “you have to be caught to believe” and where those who haven’t been “caught” have no place speaking about spells. Favret-Saada poses this question to herself: “What ultimate authority could I invoke, in talking about spells to a bewitched person or an unwitcher?” Does being an insider lend to the currency of language and belief such that any interaction with an outsider necessarily invokes a turf war over space, bodies and language?

For Favret-Saada, words do not merely represent or communicate beliefs—they have noticeable effects on the vitality and well-being of both the bewitched and the dewitcher. Where her work examines how words “kill” and “heal,” today we are in the throes of a culture war where the claim—contrary to fact—of words causing death, of words being “literal violence” are now thrust to the fore. Indeed, words are laden with such potential for “violence” today that many think twice before speaking or writing. The mere accusation of violence has become the negative reinforcement of a movement that has been allowed to make up facts, statistics and now even the very non-reality of violence.

If we are to move forward through the current debates over gender, race, and various other orbiting identities whose moral framework rests almost uniquely upon claims of victimhood, often in direct opposition to material fact, we must return to some of the primal tenets of reason posed during the Enlightenment. We are in the throes of a society caught within a hall of mirrors—many of which are firmly and uniquely fixed within the virtual world of social media—where the narcissistic output is unparalleled even by a three-year-old having a strop on the playground. Where words are “violence” and opinions akin to “murder,” we are witnessing the conflicts created when a direct antagonism between perceived identity and material reality is met on the social stage.

In order to understand what is driving this culture of identifying with oppression—often feigning oppression—our task must be to address those who claim to be suffering. While the subjects caught in the spell of words have been at the centre of media and political attention in recent years, these communities rely upon the language “witchcraft” to divorce themselves even further from ontological and empirical reality while surrendering themselves to a language that holds no resemblance to the material world. There is something to be said for the punishing efforts of these lobbies which seek to project phobias and other -isms into any thoughtful debate or prose on issues of “race” and gender.

Favret-Saada noted that those who resist the language of sorcery will be made to suffer. Today, we must ask ourselves if those fighting for the recognition of their identities even if the older remedies of psychiatry or religion have failed:

The priest and the doctor have faded out long ago when the unwitcher is called. The unwitcher’s task is first to authenticate his patient’s sufferings and his feeling of being threatened in the flesh; second, it is to locate, by close examination, the patient’s vulnerable spots. It is as if his own body and those of his family, his land and all his possessions make up a single surface full of holes, through which the witch’s violence might break in at any moment. (8)

This study considers how the aporia left by the fading grip of religion and medicine has been filled by outside forces coming to confirm the subject: the suffering subject. Having worked with those who were caught up in a spell, the dewitchers and the wives and families affected by witchcraft, Favret-Saada notes how suffering forms the core of how witchcraft is exercised in this community and she explores the reasons for this suffering.

Today, suffering is undergoing a cultural redefinition in the west through the recycling of historical tropes of violence and oppression injected throughout identity politics. Unlike the distant witchcraft of Favret-Saada's fieldwork, historical atrocities cannot simply be cut and paste into a present-day reality in order to rejuvenate a fresh violent act of suffering through which the subject identifies. Where Favret-Saada shows how working with the bewitched and their unwitchers implicates the constant manoeuvring of “good and evil," she claims that all unwitching "is impossible to cure without switching to a position of indirect violence.” Violence is a discursive marker for Favret-Saada where "he who does not attack automatically becomes the victim."

To understand the political forces that revive discourses of racism and sexism today by those claiming victimhood, we must ask those suffering why they suffer. Then, we must also ask why the spell involves converting others to their ideology so that the subject might suffer less. The symptom of suffering that we see by those claiming to have a gender identity, for instance, is inextricably linked to their need for others to mirror their self-image through language. This is similar to what Favret-Saada claims about dewitching, “a technique that neutralizes and exteriorizes venomous self-doubt." There are clear ideological manoeuvres meant to inscribe healing through fiat.

We need to understand how people weaponise emotionally-laden discourse today. The public shaming of those who do not confirm the suffering or pronouns of another seems to be part of a larger network of “sorcery” where the current structural functioning of our society rewards those individuals who engage in the aforementioned language games while punishing those who refuse.

Favret-Saada’s identification of power as the primary element in the effectiveness of ritual forms is a crucial contribution to our understanding of such rituals. Still, we can see the pitfalls of reducing the language of witchcraft to a tidy binary of the subject who suffers and the dewitcher who does violence. Where “the sufferer can choose to interpret his ills in the language of witchcraft,” it is also the case that those who do not claim to suffer are deemed de facto oppressors.

Where oppression is a historical and current-day fact, the truly oppressed subject is mostly not heard. What time has the underpaid or economically destitute worker to chime in on Twitter or to write her local politician? We are captured within a political field where segments of the population use words like “literal violence” to refer to another group whose push back on their notion of oppression. Those who use the stage of oppression in order to be heard are as numerous as is their narcissism expansive. When the media prints that something is “oppression” or “murder” today, we can pretty much bet that what is being communicated is invariably the opposite. In a world where narratives of oppression have taken hold of democratic processes with fury and where the mere claim to victimhood is tantamount to fact, we must concede that we are living in a post-truth era.

Emotions are given enormous weight over facts in media today and all it takes for one to be considered oppressed is to use the “magical spell” of language. The only way out of this chasm between truth and narcissism is to revert to the institutions of science, philosophy, journalism and law. Let us not forget that long before smartphones it was possible—even pleasant—to have heated discussions over a meal with friends and strangers, everyone chiming in with their thoughts and disagreement.

We must reject illogical, illiberal hokum being fed us as the "new progressive" language of the day and instead we should return to the table of dinnertime debate where facts outweigh feelings and where individuals are held accountable for good-faith debate. I have often wondered if the current popular authoritarianism would have ever taken hold without the cloaked anonymity that social media affords. Still, I am quite certain that the current stifling of free speech, academic debate and the media's drive of anti-science narratives are all directly linked to the fact that politicians are not held to account for their performances that have zero political vaue. From AOC's sporting her "tax the rich" dress at the Met Gala for which attendees paid £25789 to attend to David Lammy who claims that males have cervixes, the left is in dire straits with a political class of professional liars who use words to bewitch us all.

I suspect that were the online debate moved to the salon or dining room, we would all be able to see the ruffian sulking silently in the corner, angrily seething because his arguments were unconvincing. His fist banging on the table evidence his every iteration as less rational and credible than the one before. As he struggles to bully all those in disagreement around him, his turbulent behaviour reveals him to be fundamentally an irritable prig who harbours deep-seated misogyny and homophobia.

Real-life interactions are part of the remedy to the addiction-addled cycles of social media use. We cannot replace the vacuum left by religion's demise with political or ideological orthodoxy any more than we can unwitch the possessed who identify with their fictional oppressions.

One of the options we have at our disposal is to unplug and go outside. I’m heading there now. Come join me.

[lesbian-dp]

Royally Fucked

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Words: 2,271

Warnings: Misogyny, frustration, bath sex, strap on sex... p sure that's it.

Request: Yah.

Summary: The Queen will always be your world.

A/N: Just an FYI this is obviously set in the medieval times, so the reader is pretending to be a man, bc they’re a Knight. Just wanted to let you guys know that.

18+ ONLY.

“-A woman cannot rule on her own-!”

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, near enough seeing your own brain, before you tuned out the dull drawl of the aged man.

His Royal Highness. Howard Stark. A pompous old git, who rules his kingdom with an iron fist. The man, who was currently ranting in front of each kingdom’s officials. All because, he was trying to wed his son, for his own selfish greed. And you. The Queens General and secret lover had to be there to witness it.

“I’m sorry you think that, you Highness.”

Ah! There she was.

A small smile tugged at your lips, hearing her husky voice.

Glancing out of the corner of your eyes, down to where Natalia sat regally beside where you stood.

God.

She was gorgeous.

How you ever got so lucky, is beyond you.

Her red layered dress, lined with the finest gold thread, the world had to offer, pushed her soft perky breasts up. Giving you a fantastic view of them, from where you stood above her. Your agile eyes were soon drawn to her plump, moving lips. Watching Natalia’s plump, moving lips. Watching them intently, remembering the look of them clasped around the crystal toy strapped around your hips. And the way they felt gliding across your wet core. How soft they were against your own lips. Moaning into your mouth, in a telltale way of what was about to come undone.

Spoiler alert! It was you guys!

Realising you had probably been staring at her beautiful self for minutes too long. You repositioned yourself, placing a hand upon the hilt of your sword, and staring blankly at the wall of the meeting room, in front of you. The door within your eyesight, able to see any and all newcomers, should they arrive.

“However, I would like to remind you of which of us are in their bankruptcy.”

“How dare you-?!” His face grew red with rage, light grey moustache and hair clashing, terribly, with the raspberry hue it had taken on.

“Watch your tone while you are speaking to the Queen,” you ordered.

“And I’d watch your tongue!” the King argued back.

Natalia placed her hand gently upon your leather-bound arm, just as you opened your mouth to shout a reply. Glancing down at the red-headed Queen, she shook her head, and you knew to hold your tongue.

“I’d rethink about who you appointed to be your head Knight. They’re obviously lacking in some basic training.”

“With all due respect, your Highness,” Natasha began, an entirely fake smile drawn upon her face, “My General is of the highest order. They live by the highest standards. And I respect them and their opinion. I can’t help it if you expect everyone but yourself to watch how they speak.”

“Now, General?”

You turned to face Natalia. “Yes, your Majesty?”

“Would you be so kind, as to personally escort King Howard from the castle. I think we have all heard enough for one morning.”

“It would be my pleasure.” You gave her a half bow, before moving towards the infuriated man.

***

Huffing, you slammed the door to the quarters the Queen had “gifted” you with. Reasoning that it would be better for her safety, if you were close by, in the castle. The royal quarters being only a few doors down from your own.

You kicked off your dirt-covered boots, as you threw your ornated sword across the room, and into the wall, in frustration.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”

The voice to your side made you snap your attention to it. You knew that voice. You loved that voice.

There she sat.

The Queen.

Her legs were crossed, hands folded upon them. Watching you from her place on your bed.

“That sword was very expensive. And a gift from myself, if I might add,” Natalia said, the corner of her lip up turning slightly, as she cocked an eyebrow.

You sighed. Taking a step towards the red-headed Queen, you said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

She waved you off.

“I don’t care about the sword,” she said, “I care about what has gotten you in such a foul mood,” Natalia finished with a pout.

You knew how bad she wanted to make you feel better. How much she hated seeing you any other way, but happy.

“They’re incompetent fools.”

Natalia smiled at this.

“The Trainies?”

“Oh, no!” You shook your head. The memories of your day, attacking your mind. “Not just the trainees- If anything, they’re better than most of the men we have now.”

The Queen stayed silent as you spoke. Listening to you intently, her face the only give to any reactions. Namely being a tick of an eyebrow, sometimes even both, and a roll of her eyes.

You drew closer to the beauty that is the woman you have devoted your life to serve. And now to love. However secret that may be.

“I swear. If we ever have the unfortunate luck as to be thrust headfirst into a war... I am afraid we might not survive.”

It was quiet for a moment, as the Queen debated her words. Right now, she was not Natalia, your Natalia. The woman who told you she loved you at the dead of night. The one who called out your name during the throngs of passion. The one who was soft to touch. Who’s skin was perfectly smooth against yours.

No.

This was the Queen.

All business, and took no shit.

The woman who did what she had too for the good of her kingdom, to keep her people safe.

“What do you need?” she asked, finally.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, now only a step away from her, “Time?” you asked simply. Before breaking out of your stress-induced trance. And closing the distance between you and Natalia. Placing a gentle, but firm hand upon her shoulder, you said, “But let’s not think about that now...” You leaned down, to be eye level with her. “I want to spend some time with, my Natalia.”

The Queen smirked at what you called her, it quickly turning into a soft smile.

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Good.”

And with that, you lifted the shorter woman up into your arms, beginning to make your way out of the room.

“Now, I think, after the long day we’ve both had, we deserve a bath.”

***

The water was a milky white, red rose petals floating upon the calming water. The same water that swayed with every movement.

Gasps and moans filled the air, as the wet red-head bounced upon the blue crystal that was almost always strapped against your hips.

You said because it helped in making people believe you were one of the opposite gender. But mainly it was because of how much you love the availability to take the beautiful Queen, whenever, and wherever you two so wanted.

One of your bedchambers.

The throne room.

The dining room.

A random palace hallway.

Hell.

Even in the royal courtyard, if you so wished.

You watched Natalia’s silky wet body move on your lap. The water gliding against her body, her hair wet, and nipples pert. With your hands on her hips, helping her chase bliss. Then continuing to slide along her glistening body, pulling her closer to you.

Natalia panted as you left open-mouthed kisses all along her neck, them travelling up to her cheek, and finally her full lips.

With your arms wrapped tightly around her, one around her smooth shoulders, and your other around her waist. Pressing her against your body, as you kissed her earnestly, pouring everything you felt for the queen into that one kiss. Natalia’s arms wrapped around your neck, as she fucked herself onto you, kissing you the very same way.

“The bath’s starting to get cold,” you mumbled against her mouth.

“Then we should hurry, so that we can go to bed.”

“To sleep? Or...?” You rose your eyebrows. Once. Twice. To convey what you meant.

“Or.”

You smiled brightly at her.

Your lips were around her nipple in the very next second, sucking with enough power to make the Queen cry out. Causing her to buck her hips into your lap, faster than ever. Riding you like one would upon a station, on a long journey. Chasing her realise.

She jumped back in surprise when your hand connected with her small bud, rubbing away at it, but she soon continued to drive the object deep within her “sinful” hole.

It was not long after when she cried out in pleasure. Throwing her head back and crying out to the Gods.

Once Natalia had recovered, merely breathing heavy, with her head tucked into the side of your neck, you spoke.

“Let’s get to bed. Huh?”

***

Sat upon your calves the royal silky sheets rumpled beside you. Natalia’s legs thrown over your hips, and your hands gripping hers. Rutting into her. Drawing out her beautiful sounds.

How the powerful Queen could be reduced to this, you did not know.

You were only thankful that she chose you to reveal this secret side of herself too. Knowing how closed off she was to the world. If she even showed a thread of emotion, like she wanted too, on many occasions, other than her cold and calculated, yet caring self. The surrounding kingdoms would be out for blood.

More than they already were, that is.

“My lord, Natalia,” you husked, “You are beautiful.”

And she was.

She was beautiful, no matter what.

But right now, she was especially stunning.

With her hands gripping yours on her hips, her flushed chest rocking with each of your thrusts. The sweat, and remaining bathwater, making her body shine like the sun. Her mouth parted and gasping, and her eyes heavy-lidded.

You could go on and on about all the things you loved about the woman below you. For an eternity if you could. However, you were in the middle of something, as Natalia reminded you.

“I’m all yours, Y/N,” she spoke softly, “No one could ever compare to you.”

“Nor you, my love.”

Your hands on her hips tightened slightly. Helping her to lay in her stomach, Natalia moving to grip tightly on the silky pillow, pressing her face against it.

Her legs straddled tightly against yours, ass in plain view. The crystal resting on Natalia’s slick, wanting heat.

Groaning softly, you spoke, “There are no words in this world or the next, that could convey how much I truly do love you.”

The Queen hummed softly at your admission, her shoulders moving, and then relaxing with a sigh.

Your hands gently brushed down her silky back, until they reached her ass, caressing the plump asset.

“You were crafted by the God’s,” you said, adoration clear in your voice.

“Then why don’t you make me see them?” she replied, smirk upon her face, as she wiggled her ass to tempt you. The toy rubbing against her core.

And she did tempt you.

Of course, she did.

Pressing down on the crystal, you watched as it steadily disappeared into your loves throbbing head. Natalia moaned, as inch by inch, it vanished within her. Brushing against every crevice, drawing her high-pitched whines when it hit the special parts within her, bringing the Queen utmost pleasure.

With your hands now on her ribs, you slowly started to thrust into her. Working in drawing moans from her.

“Oh, God!” Natalia cried.

“Can you see them yet?” you asked playfully.

“Not quite,” she replied, matching your pants, as she backed herself u onto the toy you fucked her with.

“Guess I’ll just have to go harder.”

The bed was creaking below you, as you worked harder to pound into the woman you loved. Natalia's grip on the white pillow, patterned with red, tightened as cries poured from some unknown place, deep within her.

“Fuck! I love you, baby!”

“I love you, too, Natalia.”

She was close. She was oh so close. You could feel it every time you moved. Every time you pulled the crystal from her depths, only to push it back in, with vigour. It getting harder and harder to do.

“You’re close,” You stated.

Natalia nodded vigorously in agreement. Going to bite against the pillow.

“Don’t do that,” you told her, “I want to hear you, when you arrive.”

At your request, Natalia unclenched her teeth and allowed the pleasure-filled noises to pour from her mouth.

One of her hands snapped to one of yours that lay on her ribs, it surely leaving light bruises in their wake. Gripping at your hand, as she got closer to her much-anticipated release.

You couldn’t pull your gaze from her pleasure-filled face. Her hair sticking to her forehead, and around her ears. You knew that this would be her last orgasm, for a little while.

Pressing kisses against Natalia’s neck, jaw, and cheek. She came with a powerful cry. The hand not holding yours, came to grip the back of your head, fingers sliding through your hair, as her insides tightened around the toy.

You let her ride out her realise before you pulled from her.

With a tried sigh, you flopped down on the luxurious bed, besides the blissed-out royal.

“How you doing there?” Natalia nodded at you. As to say she was okay.

She came to cuddle into your chest.

Your hand was combing through her slightly damp, sex mused hair when the Queen spoke.

“I think it’s about time we came clean to everyone, about our relationship.”

“What?” you asked, shocked.

“Marry me.”

[thewincestgospel]

Do you have any gender-bent fics, either wincest, J2, or gen??? Thanks!! (This blog is awesome, it's super helpful, so thank you so much for it!)

But of course! There are so many though that I might have to do a part 2

Female Dean    

Another Way to Get to Know You  by IndridGrey   New city, new apartment, new job, new gender presentation.Dee Smith leaves the menswear at home, starts her new job at Sandover Iron & Bridge in a skirt and kitten heels, and finally, fucking finally gets called the right things.  Things are going great for a few weeks and even with the fear of being outed she's the happiest she's ever been.And then someone decides to pop their own kernel in an office microwave.(This covers the three weeks that the Winchesters are brainwashed into Smith and Wesson up to the end of It's a Terrible Life)             

 Dress to Impress  by  KillerOfHope Deanna and Sam are undercover as a married couple in a gated community where several strange murders have taken place while undercover, the two have a little roleplay in the bedroom as 'husband and wife' with Sam as the dom Hubby and Deanna being the ever submissive wife, taking every order he gives, referring to Sam at some point as 'sir'.                

Judgment That Will Never Come  by  xHelenxOfxSlash   “Yeah, I mind. Dee, you want me. We need to-” Sam started in his “caring and sharing voice.”

“We don’t need to do anything. Besides, who says I want you, huh?” Before She knew what was happening Deanna was flipped over onto her back again, Sam’s hands slipping under the waistband of her shorts and cupping the wetness there. She let out an embarrassing mewl, face coloring with shame and arousal     

Let's Get this Party Started  by   firesign10   16-year-old Sam gets invited to his first party and is totally awkward and feels uncool. Girl!Dean shows up and pretends to be his cool, older girlfriend in college and lets him feel her up in front of his envious peers.          

 A Most Unusual Realisation  by BronteLover       He took in the sight of Dean’s new mouth-wateringly luscious body, only dressed in white, lace underwear. The smooth, soft curve of her breasts were accentuated by the line of the bra, and her flat stomach led down into lace panties that left little to the imagination. He imagined ripping them off and plunging his cock inside the tight, wet heat they hid.                  

Orlando by ellerkay   While working a case in a small town in Massachusetts, Dean ends up with a very different body than the one he’s used to. He thinks it’s the most fun thing ever. Sam, on the other hand, is barely holding it together. He can’t stop thinking about Dean’s new shape, and it’s making it much harder than usual to keep his desire for Dean at bay. 

Sweet Sister  by  Anonymous   Sam has pined after Deanna for years.  Finally, they can't resist each other anymore.            

there's an opera out on the turnpike by cherryvanilla She's tried to fill the hole Sam’s left behind with saving other people. Tried to fill it with rock salt and matches and grave digging and shotguns. Tried to fill it with whiskey and beer and fucking and sucking. (Or, five times Deanna Winchester hooks up with someone who reminds her of her brother plus one time she sleeps with the real thing.)

 Thicker Than Water by Edwardina  Dean's got cramps, and Sam knows just what to do for him.  

Until it All Falls Down  by  Callisto   Jess burned, Dad died, Mom never really was, and Samuel never mattered. She figures if surviving all that doesn’t entitle Sam and her to each other for ever and ever, then Castiel in his heaven can sit on her middle finger and rotate.She once said that aloud, expecting a little shock and derision from the brother who’d prayed every day once upon a time. But all he said was ‘amen’ before he crowded her against a wall and kissed her.(Pre-series to season 6)     

 You're The One That I Still Miss by tebtosca     A curse sends Dean running to Stanford to hide out, but an unexpected life with Sam keeps him there.            

Female Sam

All Right, Mr. De Mille  by britomart_is  Sam's thighs are controversial. They're a matter of public debate.    

Beggars Would Ride  by   victoria_p (musesfool) He tells himself that the line he's crossing can be redrawn, slightly over the edge into fucked up, and isn't that where they've been living anyway since Mom died?                       

Bewitched Again by DickBaggins  Someone didn't read the fine print on the curse, and a month after Bewitched, Sam transforms into a super hot lady yet again. This time, Dean thinks he's better prepared. Thinks. 

Blues Won't Haunt You  by darkdecay   When John gets Dean severely injured on a hunt, Sam decides she's had enough. She gets Dean in the impala while their dad is out, grabs what she can, and gets herself and Dean as far away from John—and the life he wanted them to lead—as she can.                            

Dean's Bad Girl by Annabeth_Crestfallen_LeMorte  Not a lot of plot...basically some gender-swapped Wincest-y goodness.  SHAMELESS SMUT!  You've been warned.              

Don't Be Such a Girl, Sammy by  LoveThemWinchesters   Okay, yeah. Dean makes mistakes sometimes…some are worse than others. But maybe the end result isn’t so bad this time. 

Exit Sign in the Mirror by  keysmash   Sam lets things go pretty far before she bothers to tell him.              

Heaven is High and the Earth is Wide  by  lexicale  As wide open as the untamed west is, the Winchesters are always trapped between a rock and a hard place. Sam can't escape the trappings of her gender, and Dean is irrevocably in love with his sister.A western!AU with always-a-girl!Sam.            

The Hunt Gone Girl-Shaped  by Viridescence   Your typical monster-turns-Sam-into-a-girl fic. Or, how Dean DIDN'T get to play with Sam and his shiny new vibrator.      

I Am Sam By: Sorrel   It's hell being the girl. But Sam makes her own way, come hell or high water, and there's plenty of the former when she reunites with big brother Dean, and remembers all of the things she'd thought long forgotten.

The Old College Try by Anonymous   Sam's getting ready to graduate from high school and Dean's worried about Sam up and leaving him. So he starts plotting to get Sam pregnant.

Only Love Can Make A Home  by  KassandraScarlett   Soulless Sam seduces Dean and they begin sleeping together, and Dean does his best to hide the fact that he's in love with her. But then Sam gets her soul back and has no memories of what she did while soulless, until her wall breaks and her hallucinations remind her.                  

Samantha & Dean  by  Destiel_Cockles   AU where Sam is a girl and she wants nothing more than to be with Dean. She comes up with a plan to seduce him because she knows he wants her just as bad. 

A Supremely Black Tai Affair by setissma  The year she turns sixteen, Sam's Christmas list to her father has exactly three things on it: a house, a real Christmas tree, and the OED.

 The Thrift Store Tragedies by Blue_Jay  For hunters, being a woman is seen as a weakness. Samantha figures out quickly how to make it a weapon instead.                          

Underground Wires by eggnogged It’s hard enough being a teenage girl even without all the extra crap: they move around all the time, her family is as far removed from normal as it’s possible to get, and she’s in love with her older brother. Sam has no control on any of it, she’s just trying to stay afloat.

Both Dean and Sam are females

Bleeds for a Week and Doesn't Die by Nutkin   John Winchester has two daughters named Sam and Dean.

The Cursed Beaver by  Mayalaen   Sam and Dean find a cursed object that allows them to switch genders whenever they want.  

The Female Advantage by   DckBaggins   Dean's still feeling the full effects of a nasty little sex spell courtesy of a banging succubus, but she decides to lie about it to Sam; of course, her soulless sister sees right through her.  

For My Prayer Has Always Been Love by  The_Circadian  Back on the road after tragedy finds them again, Sam and Dean find themselves seemingly cursed by an unknown source. With little to go on, their previous plans to find their father are put on hold while they try to fix whatever has changed them into female versions of themselves.Despite the curse and his grief over the loss of Jess, the situation does nothing good for Sam's long running, hidden feelings for his brother. If anything it's harder and harder to deny how he feels.Takes place soon after the Season 1 Pilot.              

We Still Have Tonight   by ds9trekkie   Sam and Dean experience lovin' from a very different perspective. Witches, lesbian sex, and all the feels.          

[blackrose343]

Come Back - V x GN!Reader

Warning: Angst and depression

V x Gender Neutral Reader

4,857 words

Fanfic Summary: This takes place after Devil May Cry 5. You have been depressed ever since V merged back with Urizen. Today, you feel just that and also sadder but have no idea why. You try to get through work but that doesn't work out too well. You're just grateful your friends help you out.

You were lying in bed debating if you were up to going to work or just call out sick. You weren’t sick per se but you knew you felt off. If you had to describe how you felt, you would say depressed but with more sadness. Something about today intensified the sadness but you had no idea what. It’s been a couple months since V “left” but you already knew that’s why you’re depressed. You just had no idea why you felt sadder than before. Nothing eventful or serious happened recently. So, you kept trying to think of why you felt like this. 

You dismissed your alarm as you made your way to the window. You greeted the gloomy view: rain pouring onto the grey world. As you stood there you remembered how your mornings started. V turning towards you trying to reach your alarm. He would purposely push on your head instead of the alarm. You would imitate the alarm until Griffon yelled for you to shut up and shut off the fucking alarm. You would shut it off and lie on V’s chest while running your finger on V’s tattoos. V would be sly and try to initiate morning sex by leading your hand to his lower region. One of your hands would push his head towards you for a kiss. Your other hand would be stroking V’s cock. Before you knew it V would be on top of you and the mind blowing sex would begin. But that’s just a memory. You would never feel his embrace again.

Ever since V “left” your entire world has turned into the view you were looking at: a grey and gloomy blur. At first, you felt angry and sad. You would cry yourself to sleep every night. As time went on, you started to shut down. You did the bare minimum to take care of yourself. You didn’t want to go out as much. Instead you slept most of your free time away. Everyone tried to cheer you up and be there for you but you felt it was futile. Sure Kyrie invited you to hangout with her and Nero but she always does. Everyone always invites you to hangout with them but you never want to. You always assumed you'd ruin everyone’s mood or were just invited out of pity. Before you knew it, you stopped talking to everyone except Kyrie.

You believed that nothing was ever going to make you feel the same as when V was around. V took a part of you and you were never going to get it back. He left a void that only he could fill. The light inside of you was dying. You missed V so much. You missed his voice, his touch, the way he used his cane as a violin, everything. All you wanted was for V to come back but that wasn’t going to happen...not completely. You knew that V and Urizen merged to become Vergil once again but it wasn’t the same.

You didn’t want to continue thinking about the past so you decided to go to work. You stepped away from the window to look for some clothes. As you were searching you felt something familiar. You pulled out a black tank top with a few holes and you knew it was V’s. You took a deep breath and used it to wipe your tears. You don’t know how but it still smelled like him. You fell onto the floor silently crying into the tank top. You missed the times when you and V cuddled while he read poetry to you. Shadow would be lying on the floor. Griffon would be falling asleep or crack a smartass comment about how he already heard the poem V was reading to you. Thinking of those times made you smile but it was bittersweet.

As soon as you got in the office you were told to get multiple documents prepared, signed and mailed before the day ended. You went to your desk and started to mindlessly type the day away. Your subconscious knew what it had to do but you had no idea what you were doing.  You just had to do what you could to make today end sooner.

From time to time your mind would torture you by coming up with daydreams of V coming in to go to lunch with you. He would stand in the waiting area until you caught sight of him. You would jump out of your desk and run to him. You would kiss him so hard and hug him so tightly he would have to ask you to let him breathe. He would look down at you with his devious emerald eyes and sincerest smile. You would try to compose yourself but end up burying your face in his chest. 

Another was Griffon flying up to your office’s window with a bouquet of flowers. Everyone would be freaked out by the giant blue talking bird but not you. You’d blink multiple times to reassure yourself what you were seeing is real, then go to the window. Griffon would be asking you if you didn’t recognize him and tell you to hurry up. You’d look down to the ground and see V. You’d mouth “wait” to him then race out of the office to see him. You would greet him with your biggest smile then drag him away with you not caring where you went. V would pull you under the umbrella with him while telling you he doesn’t want you to get a cold. You would kiss V and tell him how much you missed and love him.

Now you really wanted nothing more than for this day to be over. You were either torturing yourself with work or the false hope of ever seeing V again. You tried your hardest to focus on work but you kept losing it. Your mind wouldn’t let you stop daydreaming about V coming back. You weren’t sure how much more of this torture you could take. 

You looked at the time on your computer hoping you would be able to go home soon. Sadly, your lunch break wasn’t for another hour. You leaned back and listened to the conversations going on around you. You overheard someone mention today’s date. Today was your birthday. V told you he had something special planned for you. You tried to pry your surprise from him but he wouldn’t budge. Every time you asked Griffon snickered.

A co-worker came over to you singing “Happy Birthday” while the rest of the office sang along. Once the song was over she asked if you had any birthday plans for tonight. You tried to keep calm while telling her you had work to do and had no time to converse with her. She wouldn’t budge and kept trying to guess what your plans were. She guessed a party with friends and family but you gave no indication if she was right or wrong. Her next guess was a romantic dinner with your boyfriend. She took your eyes widening as the indicator that she was right. She tried to find out who you were dating while going off about how lucky you are to have a boyfriend.

You couldn’t contain yourself any longer. Of course you knew how lucky you were to have him but that was the problem. V was no longer here; no longer with you. You wanted to scream at your co-worker to shut up but literally bit your tongue. You bolted out of your chair, pushed your co-worker aside and left work. Everyone stepped out of your way. They assumed you were sick so they didn’t stop you from leaving. You didn’t care if you got fired for leaving early without notice. You just wanted to get away from everyone and find a place to cry.

Part of you was driving home with tears running down your face. Part of you was internally screaming and trying to contain it until you got home. Everything merged together creating one giant blur. You honestly didn’t know how fast you were going or which way you chose to go home. As you tried to turn left, you saw something blue. You slammed on your brakes before running anyone over. The blue thing returned the favor by hitting your car bringing you back to reality. He was going to yell how terrible of a driver you are but stopped himself. You both recognized each other.

“(Y/N), are you alright?” You barely heard Nero because of the car horns but couldn’t answer. All you did was shake your head “no”. You gripped the steering wheel tighter and lost it. Every emotion you have been feeling since this morning came out. You couldn’t contain yourself any longer. You screamed so loud that people thought you were injured. Nero reassured everyone that you were okay (physically). He knew how much you missed V. He knew how much it killed you to see him and Kyrie together. He tried his hardest to help you cope with the loss but it was getting harder for him to. 

Your tears were flooding out of you. You couldn’t stop. Nero walked over to your car and tried to calm you but to no avail. He knew he was going to have to drive you home. He opened your car door and put your car into “park”. He then unbuckled you and carried you to the passenger side. The entire time you were apologizing to him for ruining his day and bothering him with your mess. Nero kept reassuring you that it was okay for you to feel the way you felt and you had nothing to apologize for. Deep down you knew what Nero told you was true but hearing some assholes yelling at you to hurry up and get the fuck out of the way didn’t help you.

By the time Nero got you home your voice was completely lost. You were trying to silently cry to yourself. You felt so bad for getting Nero involved. (Also for almost running him over.) You gave Nero a hug and reached for your keys. Nero playfully pulled them out of your reach. He opened the car door to get them further away from you causing him to fall into a puddle of mud. You couldn’t help but laugh. Nero gave you a “what the fuck look” but soon laughed with you.

Kyrie greeted the two of you as you two got inside. She gave Nero a kiss as he headed to your bathroom. She gave you a big hug as she led you to your dining room table. All of Devil May Cry was sitting at the table with a big birthday cake sitting in the middle. You couldn’t believe they were here. You thought they would forget about you since you haven’t talked to any of them for awhile. You looked up at them with a big smile. You were happy that everyone came to see you today. In between sobs you said “Thank you.”

Trish was going to ask how you were feeling but your stomach growled. You haven’t eaten anything today and barely anything for the last few days. Dante took your stomach’s growl as the cue to get himself a piece of cake. Lady just hit Dante in the head while lighting the candles. Everyone sang happy birthday and told you to make a wish. Everyone knew the wish but you didn’t care. If you remembered correctly, the wish would come true if you wished hard enough and didn’t tell anyone what it was. With all you could you blew out the candles and wished for V to come back. 

Lady gave you the first piece before Dante could steal it. Your eyes widened as you took a bite. You could taste what you were eating. It was a vanilla cake with chocolate mousse topped with strawberries. You actually tasted the cake and frosting. It was like your sense of taste popped out of nowhere. 

Before you knew it you opened all your presents and some of you were drunk. You were about to figure out how the present Nico made you worked but she told you she’ll show you later. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. Dante kept trying to convince Nico and Nero that you would be fine but no one was going to listen to him at this point. Patty was on her phone looking up ideas for a new outfit. Kyrie, Lady and Trish were trying to clean up so you wouldn’t have to worry about it later.

Kyrie tried to convince you to let her stay so you wouldn’t be alone for the rest of your birthday but you assured her you were going to bed. You knew she wanted to be there for you but you wanted to be alone. You knew that you overexerted your social battery. You thanked her for cleaning up as you hugged her goodbye. You waved goodbye to everyone else as Nico pulled out of your driveway. You felt bad for everyone when Nico drives. You won’t deny her driving felt like you were on a roller coaster. You just wondered how her van hasn’t broken apart yet and sometimes how she got her license. 

As you cleaned up a couple things you pictured Griffon flying around you asking where his food was. Shadow would be trying to pounce you to get to any leftovers. You would more than likely lose your balance but V would be there to make sure you didn’t fall. He would hug you from behind as he kissed your cheek. You would turn your head so he would kiss you then happily go to the kitchen and put the leftovers away. V would be right next to you doing the dishes. Your mind was going to the sexual route but got interrupted.

Someone rang your doorbell. You saw a delivery man through the peephole. You grabbed your gun as you opened the door. You gave the delivery man a confused look as he greeted you. “Good evening. Is (Y/N) here?”

“That’s me but I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Ah, well it is a delivery for you from…” The delivery man was trying to find out who the sender was. It seemed like his electronic pad was slow. “Well, my thing must be acting up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our records are saying your delivery is from some named ‘V’. I’m guessing it’s a nickname.”

“N-no, that’s his name. I’ll accept whatever he sent me.”

“Sure thing. I have this and one other thing I need to get from the truck.” The delivery man gave you a cardboard box. It looked like it could have contained a book but the weight of it said otherwise. You tried to guess what exactly he would have given you but you saw something red coming towards you. You opened the door wider and had the delivery man follow you to your dining room table.

As soon as he left, you ran to your dining room. Sitting on your table was a cardboard box and a giant bouquet of red roses. A stuffed animal was holding the bouquet and there was a card. You unwrapped the stuffed animal. It was a bat with green eyes. You thought it was the cutest and softest thing in the world. As you were holding him in your arms you read the card. All you could hear was his voice.

“Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,

Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,

Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the 

Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon,

Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.

The fleece of our flocks are covered with 

Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.”

“To the Evening Star” by William Blake

Happy birthday, my little wanderer. I will always love you

          -V

You decided to open the cardboard box. Being unable to guess what was in it was getting to you. You carefully opened the box. You took a couple seconds to pop some of the bubble wrap before taking out the present. The box contained what you thought was a silver rectangle, along with an advertisement for the present. As soon as you saw the advertisement you knew it was a picture frame. It was a hinged frame so two pictures could be placed in it. You were trying to think of what pictures to put in it. You thought of the one when Devil May Cry was celebrating a kill so you had everyone in the frame. You also thought about a few from the dates you and V went on but there were a lot of those. V wasn’t a fan of getting his picture taken but he did it for you.

You opened the frame to get a better idea of what would look good in it. You didn’t have to think any harder. V beat you to it. One picture was of you, V, Griffon, Shadow and Nightmare. You remembered that day. You and V were walking through the park trying to get a break from all the chaos going on. V wasn’t too comfortable with you walking around Redgrave City at the time. You kept reassuring V you would be fine as long as you had your weapons and he was with you. You were able to find a swing that was intact so you had V push you. As you were thinking of jumping off V grabbed your waist and pulled you to him for a kiss. Afterwards you found some place to sit and you and V talked about what else you needed to do to complete the mission. To lighten the boredom Griffon pestered you to take pictures of him. You rolled your eyes and did as the little chicken wanted wishing this would shut him up for a few minutes. Griffon tried to get Shadow to join him but she wasn’t in the mood. She went over to you and V hoping Griffon would leave her alone. Nope, he flew to all of you and encouraged you all to get a picture with him. You set your phone to selfie mode but had to get V to take the picture so all four of you could fit in. After you asked V if it was possible to get a picture of all of you including Nightmare. V wasn’t too sure but Nero found you and offered to take the picture if you could make it work. It took a bit of thinking but you figured it out. Nightmare had to lie on the ground with his purple core facing the camera. You and V were sitting on top of him. Griffon and Shadow were at Nightmare’s sides.

The other picture was the Devil May Cry group photo before everyone left to fight Urizen. Nothing too eventful happened for this photo but it was the only one that had everyone in it...except V’s familiars. Patty wasn’t too happy about Dante not coming to her 18th birthday party. So Patty chose to throw herself a surprise party at Dante’s. She decorated the whole place with Kyrie’s help. No one would have believed that was where you go if you were looking for someone to kill a demon or anything. Dante wasn’t thrilled and tried to undecorate the place. That didn’t go well so he relented. Everyone ended up having a good time. 

You were happy with the pictures V chose. It was as if part of him read your mind but you knew that he knew you well enough. You put the bouquet in some water, then headed to bed with your new companion. You started to think of what to name the bat as you got ready for bed. You also wondered how V got those pictures. Okay, you knew others had the group photo from Patty’s party but what about the other one? You knew V didn’t have a cell phone. You don’t remember sending the other picture to anyone.

You climbed into bed with your phone trying to figure out how V got the other picture. You saw all the messages from your boss but you decided to deal with it tomorrow. Before you knew it you were looking at the pictures from your first date, when you went to the fair, along with other places even if it was just to get a coffee. You don’t remember how some of the pictures were taken so you tried to remember those days as best you could. As you were going through your pictures you stumbled across a video. You didn’t remember recording it and were going to delete it but thought it couldn’t hurt to watch it first. Hell, it might explain how V got the other pic. You cuddled the bat, pressed play and heard Griffon’s voice.

“Come on. It can’t be that hard to get this thing to record something? You were able to take a fucking picture with it before.” Griffon was taunting Nero as Nero was trying to get your phone to record. You didn’t remember ever leaving your phone with either of them but kept watching. “Now to find V. Do you know where he is?”

“How would I know? I was helping your annoying ass.”

Griffon was able to find V after flying all over Devil May Cry. (Although he basically ran into everyone else before finding him. You could hear Griffon getting more annoyed each time he asked someone where V was.) V was outside reading from the book he always carried with him. Shadow was lying next to him. She growled in annoyance when Griffon approached them. Griffon started to spout smartass comments. V sighed and asked what the familiar wanted. “Well, since I made it so your ‘princess’ could remember your face I thought I’d make it so she can remember your voice and of course mine.”

“What are you talking about?” V closed the book as he talked to Griffon. V was confused. He thought Griffon decided to record a conversation between them for your sake. You were partially hoping that wasn’t the case. So you kept watching. “You want to record me reading a poem for her? I’m starting to think she’s your princess; not mine. You’re treating her so well compared to the others.”

“Watch it, Shakespeare.” Griffon kept flying around V and Shadow. V was going through his book deciding which poem he should read to you. He knew you heard a good chunk of them since you enjoy it so much. He was trying to find one you haven’t heard or one that would express his feelings for you. “Come on, V. We don’t have all day.”

V put his index finger to his lips while looking at Griffon. It looked like V was looking at the camera, looking at you. Even though it was a video you couldn’t help but blush. V showed the poem he was reading. Griffon questioned why he was showing the class a book with no pictures but you knew the reason. V wanted you to know which poem he was reading to you so you wouldn’t have to look it up. He started to read “Love and Harmony” by William Blake.

“Love and harmony combine,

And round our souls entwine

While thy branches mix with mine,

And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,

Chirping loud and singing sweet;

Like gentle streams beneath our feet

Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,

I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,

And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young,

Sweet I hear her mournful song;

And thy lovely leaves among,

There is love, I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,

There he sleeps the night away;

There he sports along the day,

And doth among our branches play.”

When V finished reciting the poem he tried to get your phone back from Griffon. Griffon flew up higher so V couldn’t reach it. You could see V trying to figure out how to get your phone back. You had a feeling V didn’t do anything because he didn’t want to break your phone. V ended up giving Griffon an annoyed look while holding his hand out. Griffon flew down to V and gave him the phone so V could stop the recording.

                                      ------------------------------------

You were outside a coffee shop eating a breakfast sandwich when your phone rang. You answered the phone already knowing how the conversation was going to go. You ate your breakfast as your boss yelled through the phone. He yelled about how the whole office is behind because you didn’t do what you were supposed to do and left early. You held the phone a few inches away from your ear because he was so loud. You honestly thought if you had him on speaker the phone’s speakers would break. You didn’t bother to defend yourself because you didn’t care. Your boss was an asshole, he ran the office horribly, you didn’t really get along with anyone, and you didn’t enjoy working there. You debated for months about leaving and just took it as a sign to do so. Before you could squeeze in “I quit”, you heard “You are no longer part of this company” then a click.

You tried to call your boss back to find out when was a good time to get your last paycheck but was sent straight to voicemail. Five times you tried but no luck. You decided to go to the office after your breakfast. You started to look for other jobs you could apply to through your phone. Nothing looked good to you. You started to wonder if Dante would let you work with Devil May Cry again. Sure it’s an unusual job but it was fun. You got along with everyone, it’s a great way to get your anger out and it’s how you met V. 

You thought about the times you and V fought side by side. You found it quite amusing when he would twirl his cane around. Fascinating when he pretended his cane was a violin. Intoxicating when he recited William Blake. You had times when you lost focus on what was going on around you because you were watching him. As your mind started to go deeper into thought, someone sat down across from you.

You snapped back to reality and jumped out of your chair. A hand grabbed your wrist as you were turning to leave. You tried to step away but the grip tightened. You turned your head to see who it was as you got ready to throw your coffee at them. You lowered your guard once you realized it was Vergil. You were confused but sat back down.  You and Vergil quickly caught up with each other. Vergil just got back from a mission when he saw you sitting by yourself. You told Vergil about the birthday party last night and that you got fired not too long ago. Vergil was a bit shocked since he knows you’re a hard worker and take your work seriously. You then explained that you were okay with it. “Do you think Dante would let me come back to Devil May Cry?”

“More than likely. Your skills are better than some of the people there. Everyone misses you and were sad when you left.” You could tell Vergil genuinely meant what he said. You knew he was (still is?) a hungry power asshole but he had his moments. You thanked Vergil for his company then got up to leave. “Before you go. I found something you may want. Consider it a late birthday present.”

“One day off isn’t too bad.” You stuck out your hand as Vergil placed a small box in your hand. When you opened it you saw a necklace with an animal’s tooth. You looked at Vergil; your eyes asking if it was V’s. Vergil confirmed it was by nodding. After you put it on you hugged Vergil and gave him a kiss on the cheek. You felt him stiffen when you hugged him and thought it was cute. You remembered V did the same thing when you hugged him the first time. With the biggest smile you thanked Vergil then left the table. You didn’t know what would happen next but you knew things were going to get better. V was with you once again even if it’s not physical.

[script-a-world]

(sorry this is long) I'm creating a fantasy matriarchal society that's a combination of like America post WW2 and like the amazons/valkyries crossed with magical girls. I could use some help figuring out the gender dynamics, since part of my goal is to use the swap to highlight some inequalities that still exist in our gender expectations today by flipping them. I'm trying to figure out if it's better to have the men be primary caregivers (1/?)

since there’s no reason to assume that the gender that gives birth has to be the caregivers) or if I should go the “matriarchal society would value childrearing above other jobs” route. Some thoughts I had: Women are the main magic-users in society (magical girl/amazons blessed directly by the god who rules the city with power)and that perhaps all young women are expected to go through military service of some sort before becoming matrons, politicians and doctors. (2/?)

Maybe women are associated with Life and Death and “important duties” that revolve around them, including duties regarding both killing and saving lives. So healing, leading armies, fighting, hunting, childbirth (possibly care?) and politics are feminine jobs, while “lesser duties” that revolve more around menial labor are relegated to men (manual labor, maintenance, ‘uneducated’ jobs, support jobs like scribe and secretary, cooking, cleaning, perhaps some jobs like fashion design or art). (3/?)

Do you think this is a good balance? What are some other ways I could divide gender roles? The world situation is a magical land with about early 20th century level tech (trains and private schools and like phones/radios).Also, what is the best way to objectify men in this society? I was thinking of making it so men are seen as useless/only for the purpose of providing sexual pleasure and siring children to women. (4/?)

They don’t’ actually create children or take the ‘important jobs’ (the poor dears just don’t have the brains for it, they’re too simple and direct, men don’t have the emotional maturity to handle serious issues, they lack empathy, they only want sex anyway so it’s not like you need to worry about their emotional needs, etc). I’d love some suggestions on how a society like this might work or if there are other ways to divide the gender roles, (5/?)

as well as some ways men might experience objectification in society. How would fashion be different, and how would this society put pressure on men to look or act in certain ways (and women as well). Any suggestions? Thanks, and sorry for the long question(6/?)

Mod Miri Note: If you have a question that requires multiple asks, please use the google form! That way there’s no risk of parts of the question being lost.

Tex: “Do you think this is a good balance?” No, I do not. I disagree with the notion that a group of people ought to be objectified, neglected, abused, pigeon-holed, or otherwise mistreated under the guise of inversion as a way to tout a certain prescription of thought. I think this methodology perpetuates stereotypes, and with stereotypes come all the -isms that are used as excuses to treat people poorly just because they’re different from the originating group.

I’m going to be radical and say “none of the above”. There’s a few reasons for my answer, but aside from the brief overview in the previous paragraph, let me go through and try responding to all of your points in a more precise manner.

Let’s start with American culture post WWII - and I’m going to assume that, because of this choice, you’re working from an American perspective. This is important! But I’ll handle that detail in a bit.

Post-WWII culture is heavily influenced by WWII culture. For women, this meant enlistment in the military, as well as filling the gaps in the domestic labor force left by men being shipped off (History.com, The Atlantic). Their service in the military - quite often voluntary - was as critical and crucial as their domestic work (Wikipedia 1, Wikipedia 2, Wikipedia 3). They usually received lower pay than men, true (though interestingly the women in the UK were often treated better; Striking Women), though governments of the time admitted that without women the war effort would have crumpled.

Rosie the Riveter is a popular piece of propaganda (where it was also considered patriotic for women to join the workforce and military service; National Women’s History Museum), but don’t let that dissuade you from thinking that women were not recognized for other types of work during the war. Many women in the US were recognized for their military service (USO), and other women’s histories endure today - Lyudmila Pavlichenko (Wikipedia), Vitka Kempner (Wikipedia), and Virginia Hall (Wikipedia). I’m going to toss in the official synopsis of Queen Elizabeth II’s involvement in her own military to round things out (The Royal Family), complete with a picture of her in uniform (Wikipedia).

Many women after the war went back to strictly domestic duties, and I think that parallels their wartime efforts - both situations are of the “all hands on deck” type, but the play of gender roles here means that the duties of a functioning society are divvied up by different functional spheres - and make no mistake, men and women relied on each other equally as much to cover the gaps, despite the sexism inherent in modern Western society. The difference between war and non-war time cultures was that the latter wasn’t necessarily cultivated by patriotism that could unite the different “factions”. The Oxford Research Encyclopedia of American History gives a thorough examination of this topic.

The following era - typified by the birth of the Baby Boomer generation - saw a marked increase in economic prosperity (Wikipedia). With that came increased social mobility for women (Citation 1), usually catalyzed by the actions of their fathers (Citation 2). This may typically be achieved by consistent, conscientious public policy formation (Citation 3). In short, many cultures - if they haven’t already - are realizing that it’s good for business to let women control how they participate in society and the flow of money.

In the US, this was precipitated by the boom of social development (American History; archived version). Aside from the Truman administration negotiating price fixing to prevent inflation, a significant factor was the passing of the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944 (AKA the G.I. Bill). This primarily benefited the Greatest Generation, though other pertinent legislation by the 79th Congress benefited the Silent Generation onwards: the Fair Deal, Revenue Act of 1948, Taft-Hartley Act, Employment Act of 1946, National School Lunch Act, and Hobbs Act.

It’s debatable how well this impacted long-term economic development, considering the almost immediate rise of McCarthyism in the US in 1947, which was heavily intertwined with the Truman Doctrine that precipitated the Cold War. The results of the war, at least economically, were… mixed (Wikipedia 1, Wikipedia 2). I have no doubt that this impacted the social mobility of women in all affected countries - which is all of them, but I’m sure hairs could be split on this if you wish.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s tackle the Amazons.

The modern, popular interpretation (that is slow to be shaken by archaeological evidence) is mostly mythological (Wikipedia). While some ideas are thrown in the way of a Minoan Crete ancestry to the myth, there are more similarities drawn to the Scythian and Samartian cultures on the Eurasian Steppe (CNET). It’s possible that instead of the equally-extreme pole end of the gender dichotomy that is patriarchy-matriarchy, the Scythians just scandalized the Athenians with a comparatively more fluid society (Smithsonian Magazine).

As for Valkyries… there’s been a revival of them in pop culture, probably as a net-casting to see what’s out there aside from Amazons. TVTropes covers the many, many ways media utilizes them as a trope, to varying degrees of mythological and cultural accuracy. As they state, valkyries are a form of psychopomp, as they decide who among the battlefield’s dead will go to Valhalla (ruled by Odin) or Fólkvangr (ruled by Freya). Freya seems to have assumed the “type” (as opposed to characteristics salient to a particular individual) of a valkyrie, as the female counterpart the warrior archetype. To wit, Freya herself may be a type (Wikipedia).

Here’s where the issue gets thorny - modern popular understanding of valkyries, and by extension Scandinavian women, is skewed through the modern lens.

@fjorn-the-skald has a lovely series called Viking History: Post-by-Post, or An Informal Crash Course & A Historical Guide to the Vikings, that typically focuses on medieval Iceland. In his post “Lesson 13.c - Women in the Viking Age, Part III: Were Women “Vikings”?”, discusses the particular penchant of modern times to romanticize and/or skew history to their own biases - in this instance, how medieval Icelandic women functioned in their culture, as well as how valkyrie myths play into this.

The TL;DR of that is: “viking” women were a societal anomaly, the battlefield was a male domain (and they were expected to die on it), a woman’s prowess of the domestic sphere was highly respected to a level often equivalent to men, and the domestic sphere was the sphere of commerce. Scandinavian culture prized strong women, just as they prized strong men, and their culture rested upon the concept of different genders having their own distinct, complementary, and equal domains.

Fjörn builds upon this history in an ask about gender roles outside the usual dichotomy of male-female. Valkyries, and shield-maidens, may be classed as a third gender in medieval Scandinavian culture, because women were temporarily occupying the male role in their society. While valkyries are of divine origin, shield-maidens are not, though they seem to have taken on a supernatural bent by performing feminine qualities while living in the male sphere (something that they can literally wear, by the donning of their armor).

That probably comes across as distasteful to, especially, a modern American perspective, but many ancient cultures are like that. There’s a footnote on that ask about links to a contemporary perspective of same-sex relationships, as well, to round out that talking point.

With those historical and mythological details discussed, let’s move on to magical girls.

Interestingly, the genre and trope derive from the American TV show Bewitched (Nippon.com). Its evolution reflected Japan’s changing tone about female sexuality, focusing on girls.  Magical Girl doesn’t seem to be intended to attract the male gaze in a sexual light - and in fact was generated as a form of female empowerment by by way of growing up (TVTropes), but it seems to happen anyways (TVTropes).

Magical girls, as a genre, originated in the 1960s - the archetypical Sailor Moon encompasses not only magical girls, but also the kawaii aesthetic. Kawaii, incidentally, followed after the magical girl trope, and plays upon women performing as girls in society.

As magical girls are intended for young girls, a demographic known as shōjo, it is considered a subgenre of the target audience. Please note that shōnen'ai (Fanlore) and yaoi (Fanlore) are also subgenres of shōjo.

For some context, the adult female target audience is known as josei, the young adult men is known as shōnen, and adult male audience is known as seinen. Many manga and anime are often misattributed to the wrong category, so it helps to know which is which, and why.

Kumiko Saito argues (through an unfortunately paywalled article that I’m more than willing to disseminate to those without JSTOR access) that magical girls reinforce gender stereotypes as well as fetishize young female bodies. She argues this point more eloquently than I can, so I’ll be quoting a few sections below.

Page 148 (7 of 23 on the PDF):

The 1960s “witch” housewife theme waned quickly in the United States, but various cultural symbolisms of magic smoothly translated into the Japanese climate, leading to Japans four-decade-long obsession with the magical girl. Bewitched incorporated the concept of magic as female power to be renounced after marriage, thereby providing “a discursive site in which feminism (as female power) and femininity has been negotiated” (Moseley 2002, 403) in the dawning of Americas feminist era. Japans magical girls represented a similar impasse of fitting into female domesticity, continued to fascinate Japanese society, and came to define the magical girl genre. In direct contrast to the American heroines Samantha and Jeannie, however, whose strife arose from the antagonism between magic (as power) and the traditional gender role as wife or fiancée, the magical girls dilemma usually lies between female adulthood and the juvenile female stage prior to marriage, called shõjo. In other words, the magical girl narratives often revolve around the magical freedom of adolescence prior to the gendered stage of marriage and motherhood, suggesting the difficulty of imagining elements of power and defiance beyond the point of marriage. In fact, these programs were broadcast exactly when the rate of love-based marriage started to surpass that of miai (arranged marriage),4 which implies that the magical girl anime, founded on the strict ideological division between shõjo and wife/mother, may have been an anxious reaction to the emergent phase of romance.

Page 150 (9 of 23 on the PDF):

The combination of magical empowerment and shõjo-ness framed by the doomed nature of transient girlhood naturally created ambivalent, messages in Akko-chan as well. In the societal milieu in which Japan was undergoing the politically turbulent era of Marxist student movements at the largest scale in the postwar era, Akko-chan’s super- human ability to transform into anyone (or anything) is quite revolutionary, implying a sense of women’s liberation. Despite this potential, her metamorphic ability never threatens gender models, as she typically dreams of becoming a princess, a bride, or a female teacher she respects. The use of magic is also largely limited to humanitarian community services in town. Akko-chan’s symbolic task throughout the series focuses on how to steer her power to serve her friends and family, leading to the final episode in which she relinquishes magic to save her father. Akko-chan embraces the cross-generic mismatch between the radical idea of empowering a girl with superhuman ability and the hahamono [mother genre] sentimentalism idealizing women’s self-sacrifice. All in all, the new setting adopted in this series, that a mediocre girl accidentally gains magic, became a useful mechanism for the underlying theme that the heroine is foredoomed to say farewell to magic in the end. This rhetorical device transforms latent power of the amorphous girl into the reappreciation of traditional gender norms by equating magic with shõjo-hood to be given up at a certain stage.

Saito discusses the thematic shifts in the magical girl subgenre in the 1980s to a more sexualized view, and the according rise of both an older audience and otaku fans, the latter of whom, she clarifies, make a habit of recontextualizing canon to categorize characters into stereotypes that are stripped of the majority of their original context.

On pages 153-154 (12-13 of 23 on the PDF):

The conventions of the magical girl genre transformed significantly against this paradigm shift. Both Minky Momo and Creamy Mami originally targeted children, recording a decent outcome in business and eventually leading to the revival of the genre. Because the plots are directly built on the genre clichés, however, the jokes and sarcasm of many episodes appear comprehensible only to adult viewers equipped with the knowledge of the Töei magical girls. The intrigue of these programs largely lies in the way they parody and mock the established genre conventions, especially the restrictive function of magic and the meaning of transformation. The genre is now founded on the expectation that the adult viewer has acquired a diachronic fan perspective to fetishize both the characters and the text’s meanings.

Creamy Mami presents the story of fourth-grader Yū, who gains magical power that enables her to turn into a sixteen-year-old girl. Yū’s magical power is more restrictive than Momo’s, for her superhuman capacity simply means metamorphosis into her adult form, who happens to become an idol singer called Mami. Given that the magic’s ability is self-oriented cosmetic effect and bodily maturation, the heroine’s ultimate goal by means of magic is to grow old enough to attract her male friend Toshio, who neglects Yū’s latent charm but falls in love with the idol Mami. The series concludes when Yū loses her magic, which correlates to Toshio’s realization that Yū is his real love. Mami’s thematic messages teach the idea that magic does not bring much advantage or power after all, or rather, magic serves as an obstacle for the appreciation of the truly magical period called shõjo. The heroine gains magic to prove, although retroactively, the importance of adolescence preceding the possession of “magic” that enables (and forces) female maturation.

It’s noted in the article that the 1990s-2000s period received criticism for showing a physical maturation of girls, so codified euphemisms via garment changes such as additional frills and curled hair were used instead. This “third-wave” magical girl challenged standing norms of its predecessors by doing things such as likening adult responsibilities (“childrearing and job training”) as a sort of game, as well as the transformation implying that the character’s power is in being herself, something that juxtaposes previous norms.

Due to shifting power dynamics and other changes in Japan’s culture, it became more common for boys to become magical girls as well, further separating the magical girl concept from a strict reflection of gender roles. As such, Japanese culture - insofar as my English-based research can guide me - no longer immediately implies a direct and distinct correlation between magical girls and the female gender.

An analysis of Puella Magi Madoka Magica (PMMM) by Tate James (2017; PDF) discusses an additional dimension of the magical girl genre. Two pertinent points of the piece is that 1.) PMMM dismantles archetypes pitting women against girls, and 2.) PMMM reinforces the gender stereotype that the best type of girl is a passive girl.

Now for the issue you’ve raised about who ought to be the primary caregiver of children.

Consistent, immediate, and continuous interaction between a mother and her child benefits both of them (Citation 4, Scientific American 1, Live Science, Citation 5, Scientific American 2, UNICEF, WHO). Mothers have a distinct neurobiological makeup that predisposes them toward caring for infants (Citation 6), and likewise infants have a predisposed preference to their mother’s voice and heartbeat (Citation 7). I would like to think that is sufficient evidence as to why nearly all cultures encourage mothers as the primary caregivers.

This said, cultivation of a father-child dyad is immensely beneficial to the child (Citation 8, Citation 9), and can alleviate the effect of maternal depression on the child (ScienceDaily). Partnered men residing with children have lower levels of testosterone but a higher risk of cardiovascular disease and adiposity (Citation 10). It’s interesting to note that higher prolactin levels in the mother’s breastmilk has a correspondingly higher level of sociosexual activity with their partner in cotton-top tamarins, which stimulates pair bonding (Citation 11), as well as in other species (Citation 12).

Paternal postpartum depression is recently recognized in fathers, to severe and reverberating deleterious effects on themselves and their family (Citation 13). Screening tools for detecting depression in Swedish fathers is not sufficiently developed, and many men may be passed over despite reaching cut-off suggestions in other criteria for depression (Citation 14).

It has been observed that while human mother and fathers have the similar oxytocin pathways, the exhibit different parenting behaviours when exposed to elevated levels of oxytocin - primarily that fathers will react with high stimulatory behaviour and exploratory play (Wikipedia).

Men being socialized in a culture of stoicism and an encouraged reaction pattern to violence have poor mental health that can culminate into death and other long-term effects (Citation 15). Suicide in the US is currently the leading cause of death at time of posting this response, that the total suicide rate increased 31% from 2001-2017, and in 2017 male rates were nearly four times higher than females (NIMH).

On the topic of magical culture: it’s incredibly difficult to research because it’s a component of overall culture, and one that’s not typically available to strangers/foreigners/the uninitiated. As such, a lot of authors default to what they already know. It’s not a bad thing, but if someone wants to reach outside their comfort zone, they’re going to have some trouble.

I’m going to go off the three, four-ish, cultures you’ve already come to us with: American, Scandinavian, Scythian/Samartian, and Japanese just to round things out.

For a very, very rough overview of America, we have:

Native Americans of the contiguous US

Hawai’i

Alaska

Whatever the colonizing peoples brought over (including, but not limited to, English, Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, German, and Italian)

Whatever the myriad cultures of Africa brought over as slaves

Hispanic

NB: I’ve put Hawai’i and Alaska as separate items because they’re not part of the contiguous US.

European settlers were of a few groups:

The merchants working on charters

Indentured servants from the merchants’ homelands

Slavs

Immigrants in post-colonial eras

This is an important distinction because 1.) contemporary culture matters a lot politically, 2.) how people came to the US determined how they and their family were treated, and 3.) the contemporary job culture determined their social class.

(Slavs, as a note, are the origin of the English word “slave”, something that Western Europeans historically liked to propagate.)

I’m not going to go into the details of everything the US has to offer in terms of cultural diversity aside from a nudge in the direction of Santería. What you pick up to research is up to you.

Scandinavian folk magic is known as “trolldom” (Swedish-language Wikipedia), and the region was known for their cunningfolk. Please note that klok/-a, klog/-e, and related words relates to the English word cloak, and these people are so named because wearing one was an integral part of how they interacted with the supernatural.

The InternetArchive has a book (albeit in Swedish) about the history of magic in Sweden, which is available in multiple formats. If you’d prefer to have something in English, you can either buy this book, or inform your library you’d like to them to buy it for you.

I’m a little surprised you hadn’t mentioned either the völva (Swedish Wikipedia, English Wikipedia) or seiðr (Wikipedia), as they’re quite a well-known part of Scandinavian folk culture. Fjörn, as always, is my first stop for this area of research, with the post “Lesson 7 - Viking Spirituality”, the Víkingabók Database, the tag of Old Norse words, and the post “Norðurbók: A List of the Tales and Sagas of Icelanders” as incredibly good starting points. I encourage you to peruse them, especially because the words you learn will help you be more precise during research.

The Scythian culture is quite far reaching, as they had occupied most of the Eurasian Steppe during the Iron Age, and much of this area can be found in modern-day countries such as Russia, Iran, and China, among others. Because of how far their peoples spread out, the Scythians intermixed with their neighbors, and as such there are sub-groups to the culture.

The Sarmatians were more Russian, as that’s where a large amount of their territory laid, and were absorbed into early Slavic culture. Both their and the overall Scythian language group is eastern Iranian.

In order to help you orient yourself, here’s a map from Wikipedia:

Description: Historical spread of Iranian peoples/languages: Scythia, Sarmatia, Bactria and the Parthian Empire in about 170 BC (evidently before the Yuezhi invaded Bactria). Modern political boundaries are shown to facilitate orientation.

Japanese magical culture is intrinsically tied to their religion, and as such it would be beneficial to read about Shintoism and Japanese Buddhism. The wiki for Japanese mythology is a thorough primer, though if you get stuck, then I’m sure @scriptmyth would be glad to help you on not only this culture, but others.

As for the jobs you’ve proposed - I’m going to jump right into scribes because the irony of that is it’s historically a male-dominated job, and is the progenitor of jobs such as “public servants, journalists, accountants, bookkeepers, typists, and lawyers”. It is, with even greater irony, European women that are noted in Wikipedia, and that medieval women are increasingly thought to have played an integral part in manuscript writing (New Scientist, Science Advances).

I’m not the best person to ask for medieval culture, unfortunately, so you’ll need someone more knowledgeable than me on the subject to direct you to the finer points.

The wiki for women in war links to a lot of lists, so I would suggest poking around for historical references by era (that will likely lead to by culture) to orient yourself on how women have participated in war in the past. There’s quite a bit of mythology to be found there, as well, so if you pick up some specific goddesses you get stuck on, then pop over to @scriptmyth.

Likewise, the wiki for women in government is an interesting read, as is women in positions of power. Since both are primarily modern-times oriented, I would suggest looking at the list of queens regnant for a more historical perspective. I would have difficulty giving you more than that, as you would need to pinpoint your reference cultures first.

As history often neglects women’s contributions to society if they weren’t a ruler or similarly powerful ruler - and, frankly, that frequently applied to men as well the further back you go - I’m going to toss a couple of starting points at you for the area of medicine:

Women in medicine § Ancient medicine - Wikipedia

Women in medicine - Science Museum: History of Medicine

One thing to keep in mind is that as goalposts changed for medicine - the standardization of knowledge and the need to attend a medical school to be legally allowed to perform medicine - the availability of women to participate went down.

Another is that medicine, historically, relied upon herbal medicine, and Wikipedia itself notes that there’s a heavy overlap with food history - something that’s traditionally a domain of women. This abstract by Marcia Ramos‐e‐Silva MD, PhD, talks about Saint Hildegard von Bingen, and the first page available tells you that medieval women were in charge of quite a lot despite not being allowed to participate in the male-dominated sphere of war. The Herbal Academy dips briefly into not only the saint, but other historical aspects of herbalism that might interest you.

The wiki of women in the Middle Ages, along with that of Hildegard of Bingen, nicely rounds out this particular topic.

I need to bring out the fact that Ancient Egypt was and is well-known for the equality and respect afforded to their women - in the interest of staying on subject, particularly in the field of medicine (Ancient History Encyclopedia). Isis was well-known as a goddess of healing (Wikipedia), an aspect she has in common with goddesses in many other cultures (Wikipedia). As an added side-note, Merit Ptah in her popularly-known context has been concluded to be an inflated misunderstanding - and misconstrued interpretation - of a historical figure with significant fabrication (LiveScience, Oxford).

The presence of women in medicine fluctuated in every culture, an in ancient times often shared some correlation with the use of magic (Citation 16). Healing, historically, has a high correlation with the supernatural - and if you care to look, women are usually responsible for the domain of the supernatural. (Or at least the feminine part, which was complementary and complemented by the masculine part.)

I’m going to hop back to politics real quick to bring up abbesses, particularly the social power they exercised as women heading religious orders. An article by Alixe Bovey for the British Library gives the TL;DR of medieval women and abbeys, though if you’d like something with a bit more detail, Medieval English Nunneries c. 1275 to 1535 by Eileen Edna Power is also available.

Abbeys, with their rise and fall, are important to modern American culture. Midwives, to be even more particular, have the most direct impact. In Western Europe, a midwife may under certain circumstances perform baptisms. This was a debated topic of its time, as baptisms were rituals of the Church, and the Church had strict regulations allowing only men to perform their rituals.

During the 1500s - and up to the 1800s, in some cases - midwives were defamed to be witches. You’ll notice that this corresponds to a standardization of medical knowledge, with its corresponding legal restrictions on who may practice medicine. For the Church, the politics playing behind the scenes of midwifery and female physicians fluctuated with their observations about women’s power relative to their own (Citation 16).

Malta is an excellent case study of this phenomenon (Citation 17), and encapsulates the movement of witchcraft accusations that took place throughout this period - something historians noted as corresponding to the rise of Protestantism (ThoughtCo). There’s some debate that the increasing orientation to wages in contemporary economy facilitated this adverse behaviour against women, as well as various other social pressures as politically mitigated by the Catholic Church (Wikipedia).

As the practice of medicine was segregated according to sex - male patients to male physicians, female patients to female physicians - there were proportionally fewer men in trades such as midwifery than women despite the medieval shift toward male encroachment of territory (Wikipedia). This corresponding money- and thus male-oriented intrusion into the female sphere of medicine can be seen with the invention of the obstetric forceps (JSTOR). The rising culture of appropriation constituted the witchcraft trials that, incidentally, influenced American culture during their colonization years.

A pertinent name to remember for American history of the witchcraft trials is Margaret Jones, a Puritan midwife and the first person to be accused of witchcraft in the trails taking place in the Massachusetts Bay Colony (Wikipedia).

The Salem Witch Trials, as an offhand note, could well be an anomaly due to ergotism (Citation 18).

One thing I’m willing to bend on - a little bit - is manual labor, but mostly because you’re describing something very similar to what’s already been invented: corvée labor. There’s plenty of other forms depending on what culture you’re going for, though unlike what you’re proposing, does not necessarily imply the direct and permanent subjugation of people.

I will absolutely quibble with the idea of “uneducated” labor equating to “less valuable” labor - universities offer non-vocational degrees, typically in the areas of research and/or religion, and guilds were created as a means of quality control (that unfortunately got out of hand and committed crimes such as rent-seeking). Women in guilds were a thing, vulnerable to the same fluctuations as their other occupations outside the house.

If we are defining “uneducated” labour as “menial” labour, then this set of occupations inherently varies by culture, as does its relative weight of importance. One example of this would be writing; it may be menial but important, whereas holding negotiations could be a “major” role but wouldn’t exist without the support of workers “less than” them.

Correspondingly, gender divisions may not necessarily mean an assignation of “lesser” or “greater” when compared against each other. In medieval Europe, at least, the creation of textiles was split along the general lines of spinning and weaving. Women held the former (hence “spinster”), and men held the latter. Spinning was often not formalized into guilds then, but it was an important cornerstone of the economy that could support entire families. A guest post on The Freelance History Writer’s blog seems to indicate that this gender division was due to influence by the Bible, which seems to corroborate with the history of both professions as detailed on Wikipedia - the further back we go, and also the less connected to Christianity, the more textile work women presided over. This granted them greater control over their presence in society, since the selling of textiles was useful leverage to support themselves and others.

A similar discrepancy can be found with agriculture. Hamer women in Ethiopia are traditionally the one to cultivate sorghum, a cornerstone crop to their diet, and they exhibit preferences in which varieties they grow according to criteria such as which is easiest to grind and long-term storage feasibility (Citation 19). Accordingly, there’s been an increasing orientation around the growing of crops rather than the pastoralist habits of their men, with trading standards occuring at one goat for one Dore (“pile of maize or sorghum”) (Citation 19).

A study examining the male sphere of hunting within a society discusses the various cultural implications of defendable vs non-defendable meat sharing, with respect to how the meat is distributed and its corresponding social range (e.g. immediate social circle vs entire community), something I find interesting given that the kilocalories obtained from meat is roughly equal to that of the female sphere-acquired agriculture/gathering (Citation 20). The division of labour along gender lines when it comes to food flow in a community seems, historically, to be both comparable and compatible to each other - a recurring theme with many of the topics I’ve already covered.

Gender roles in their historical perspective - especially the further back you go - are often complimentary to each other, and are an economical way to divide up the burden of maintaining a society to a functional level. There are plenty of exceptions to this (see: third genders), as well, and many cultures exhibit the idea that a productive person is good for society; their roles may look a little different from the person next to them, and not only is the work considered equal in terms of importance, but also with a bit of poking around, you’ll find that few cultures have harsh punishments for anyone “stepping outside” their predicted roles.

Men are already objectified plenty. That their treatment by society looks different than women’s, or other genders, is by no means an excuse to sweep things under the room and pretend that they have it best - or worse, purposefully ostracize them in a fictional work to further mock, ridicule, and isolate them. This contributes to the societal issues in your culture that you wish to address, and stems from a uniquely pervasive perspective from modern American culture that differs from many other cultures in the world.

TL;DR - The way you wish to objectify men is already being done, especially in American culture. It is harmful, and will have an impact that will reach further than you might anticipate. This approach is counterproductive to your goals, and the cultures/media you cite either directly contradict your beliefs of said sources or otherwise undermine your beliefs. It is vastly more productive to take a deeper look at the origins of the issues you wish to address in your writing, as well as the reference material that you wish to use. Learning perspectives outside your native culture will benefit you immensely, and the results could surprise you.

Citations

Citation 1 -  PDF - Doepke, M., Tertilt, M., Voena, A.. (2012). “The Economics and Politics of Women’s Rights,” Annual Review of Economics, Annual Reviews, vol. 4(1), pages 339-372, 07.

Citation 2 - PDF - Fernández, R.. (2014). “Women’s rights and development,” Journal of Economic Growth, vol 19(1), pages 37-80.

Citation 3 - PDF -  Duflo, E. (2012). “Women’s Empowerment and Economic Development”, Journal of Economic Literature, Vol. 50, No. 4: 1051-79.

Citation 4 - PDF - Crenshaw J. T. (2014). “Healthy Birth Practice #6: Keep Mother and Baby Together- It’s Best for Mother, Baby, and Breastfeeding.” The Journal of perinatal education, 23(4), 211–217. doi:10.1891/1058-1243.23.4.211

Citation 5 - Faisal-Cury, A., Bertazzi Levy, R., Kontos, A., Tabb, K., & Matijasevich, A. (2019). “Postpartum bonding at the beginning of the second year of child’s life: the role of postpartum depression and early bonding impairment.” Journal of Psychosomatic Obstetrics & Gynecology, 1-7.

Citation 6 - PDF - Bornstein, M. H., Putnick, D. L., Rigo, P., Esposito, G., Swain, J. E., Suwalsky, J. T., … & De Pisapia, N. (2017). “Neurobiology of culturally common maternal responses to infant cry.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 114(45), E9465-E9473.

Citation 7 - PDF - Webb, A. R., Heller, H. T., Benson, C. B., & Lahav, A. (2015). “Mother’s voice and heartbeat sounds elicit auditory plasticity in the human brain before full gestation.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 112(10), 3152-3157.

Citation 8 - PDF - Pan, Y., Zhang, D., Liu, Y., Ran, G., & Teng, Z. (2016). “Different effects of paternal and maternal attachment on psychological health among Chinese secondary school students.” Journal of Child and Family Studies, 25(10), 2998-3008.

Citation 9 - PDF - Brown, G. L., Mangelsdorf, S. C., & Neff, C. (2012). “Father involvement, paternal sensitivity, and father-child attachment security in the first 3 years.” Journal of family psychology : JFP : journal of the Division of Family Psychology of the American Psychological Association (Division 43), 26(3), 421–430. doi:10.1037/a0027836

Citation 10 - PDF - Lee T Gettler, Mallika S Sarma, Rieti G Gengo, Rahul C Oka, James J McKenna, Adiposity, CVD risk factors and testosterone: Variation by partnering status and residence with children in US men, Evolution, Medicine, and Public Health, Volume 2017, Issue 1, January 2017, Pages 67–80, https://doi.org/10.1093/emph/eox005

Citation 11 - PDF - Snowdon, C. T., & Ziegler, T. E. (2015). “Variation in prolactin is related to variation in sexual behavior and contact affiliation.” PloS one, 10(3), e0120650.

Citation 12 - Hashemian, F., Shafigh, F., & Roohi, E. (2016). “Regulatory role of prolactin in paternal behavior in male parents: A narrative review.” Journal of postgraduate medicine, 62(3), 182–187. doi:10.4103/0022-3859.186389

Citation 13 - PDF - Eddy, B., Poll, V., Whiting, J., & Clevesy, M. (2019). “Forgotten Fathers: Postpartum Depression in Men.” Journal of Family Issues, 40(8), 1001-1017.

Citation 14 - PDF - Psouni, E., Agebjörn, J., & Linder, H. (2017). “Symptoms of depression in Swedish fathers in the postnatal period and development of a screening tool.” Scandinavian journal of psychology, 58(6), 485-496.

Citation 15 - Pappas, S. (2018, January). “APA issues first-ever guidelines for practice with men and boys.” Monitor on Psychology, 50(1).

Citation 16 - PDF - Kontoyannis, M., & Katsetos, C. (2011). “Midwives in early modern Europe (1400-1800).” Health Science Journal, 5(1), 31.

Citation 17 - PDF - Savona-Ventura, C. (1995). “The influence of the Roman Catholic Church on midwifery practice in Malta.” Medical history, 39(1), 18-34.

Citation 18 - PDF - Woolf, Alan. (2000). “Witchcraft or Mycotoxin? The Salem Witch Trials. Journal of toxicology.” Clinical toxicology. 38. 457-60. 10.1081/CLT-100100958.

Citation 19 - PDF - Samuel, T. (2013). “From cattle herding to sedentary agriculture: the role of hamer women in the transition.” African Study Monographs, Suppl. 46: 121–133. [Alternate PDF link]

Citation 20 - PDF - Gurven, Michael & Hill, Kim. (2009). “Why Do Men Hunt?.” Current Anthropology. 50. 51-74. 10.1086/595620.

Further Reading

Harry S Truman § Domestic Affairs - Wikipedia

Marshall Plan - Wikipedia

Interstate Highway System - Wikipedia

Medieval Icelandic Law (The Grágás) – Women’s Rights: On Reclaiming Property during Separation. By @fjorn-the-skald

Fjörn’s Library

“Notes on Valkyries and the like?” by @fjorn-the-skald

Fjörn’s chronological tag on women

Epigenetic correlates of neonatal contact in humans - Development and Psychopathology

Feral: So, obviously, everything Tex just said- round of effing applause!

I do want to hone in on one specific part of your ask, “since part of my goal is to use the swap to highlight some inequalities that still exist in our gender expectations today by flipping them” and direct you to this blog post on Mythcreants specifically addressing the Persecution Flip Story and why it’s not a great idea from a social justice perspective.

Happy reading!

[zevlors-tail]

Hi hii!! May I get a matchup for one of Class 1A? I don't mind what gender because I think that both girls and boys are sexc *cough* anyways,, I have black- kinda wavy hair that goes right below my shoulders and I'm a person who's always laughing at terrible jokes I make because I'm a funny person haha- I also LOVE to draw and I would love for someone who showers me with affection because I'm very touched-starved like that 🥺🥺 thank you very much!!

Hi hi hi! I was so excited when I saw you sent a request in for a matchup because I love making friends and doing and writing stuff for them alsdjflsdj so uh yeah I had so much fun with this! <3 Also, I knew exactly who I shipped you with the second I finished reading this lol.

I ship you with: Mina Ashido!

-Okay firstly, she would absolutely shower you in attention, cuddles, snuggles, rub her face against yours, she’s just so touchy with you. She’s like that in general, but especially with her close friends, and even more so with you. She’ll just come up behind you with a “Whatcha doin, Y/N???” and drape her arms around your neck and down your torso. And even before you got together romantically, she would just casually cuddle you in the common area or in your rooms, and she didn’t really care if others saw or not.

-Will totally laugh at your jokes with you. She loves your sense of humor! Mina is another person who would definitely have inside jokes with everyone, and you two are always coming up with new ones. Contrary to you thinking that your jokes are terrible, she lives for them. She’ll sit there and hype you up and come up with terrible jokes with you. Sometimes both of you crack yourselves up so much that you can’t even get the joke out before you’re wheezing and wiping away tears from the corners of your eyes.

-The best part about the jokes? They start randomly. Both of you do it; you could just be sitting there studying or talking about something else entirely when it suddenly goes dead quiet for a moment, and then... “Hey, Y/N.” “Yeah?” “What did the socks say to the pants?” “I don’t know, Mina, what did they say?” “Sup, britches?” Cue the wild laughter and hollering. You’ve probably woken some others up in the middle of the night before during one of your sleepovers because of how much you make each other laugh.

-Mina loves your drawings. She’s so supportive of your work and will help you with it in any way she can! If you make her your muse, she’ll be head over heels for you in an instant. Not that she wasn’t already before, but she would really enjoy knowing she’s a source for your inspiration and passion. Also, Mina is hardly a serious person, but if you’re ever feeling down on yourself for how little you’ve drawn or like your your art isn’t good enough, she will 100% get serious with you and tell you how amazing your drawings are and how much hard work she sees you putting into them. She’ll make it her mission to build your self confidence back up.

-If she ever hears you say that you’re touch starved, you are NEVER getting rid of her. Like, ever. She will constantly be all over you 24/7 (as long as you’re okay with it) and holding you, cuddling you, and sneaking into your dorm to snuggle up to you at night. You’re not sure how many times the teachers have scolded her for that, but it’s way too many to count. You don’t mind though...she’s warm and soft and very very cuddly. :) She is a precious pink gremlin who loves you with her whole heart!

Fall Drabble: Hayrides 

I didn’t see a fall themed word in your ask so I just went ahead with this one, I hope that’s okay! Also I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors, the second half of this was written while I was v tired and it was not proof read at all.

“Alright, here we are. Please make sure to behave yourselves accordingly.”

Aizawa stood up and hopped out of the doors to the giant bus you’d been on for over an hour now, which prompted the other students to stand and stretch or grab their things before exiting the vehicle. You and Mina had been at the very back, so you relaxed a bit as everyone else filed out into the field filled with pumpkins.

“I can’t believe they’re really letting us take a field trip to a pumpkin patch this year. Isn’t this so awesome!?” Your girlfriend squealed beside you as she waved her arms around and jumped up in excitement. Her eyes shone bright with joy, and you found it adorable how she could be so full of sunshine over the smallest things. You were so glad she was a part of your life. “Do you think they have apple cider here? Awe, man I hope they do! I haven’t had any in ages.”

“I’m sure they do,” you replied as you finally stepped off the bus.

The field in front of you was filled with pumpkins for as far as the eye could see, and off to the left there was a small gravel road that led to a dusty old barn with chipping red paint and a few boarded up windows. In front of the barn was a peculiar booth setup, and as you read the sign above it, you nudged Mina in the side and pointed over in the general direction of the building. 

“I think I found your apple cider. Wanna go get some?” you asked with a grin.

“Oh, hell yes!”

The two of you made your way over and quickly got in line where you waited for what felt like forever before you were finally served. You reached your hand into your pocket to fish your wallet out and cover the cost, but Mina smacked your hand away and payed with her money instead before thanking the server.

“Why’d you do that? I’ve been saving up for this all week!” You pouted and whined, but she just brushed you off and smiled at you.

“Don’t worry about it. You know I love spoiling you!” Your pink counterpart giggled and bounced along next to you as you walked around the field looking at pumpkins after that. It didn’t take long to finish your drinks, and you were debating going back for another when a loud sound coming from the right caught the attention of both of you. “What do you think that is?” Mina asked you curiously. 

“It kind of sounds like...a tractor?” 

Sure enough, the giant machine was weaving it’s way through a beaten path in the middle of the pumpkin patch with a huge open trailer attached at the back. You watched as other students seemed to gather around it in anticipation for something. The tractor finally came to a stop a minute later by the entrance to the field, and some of your classmates hopped up onto the trailer bed where there were bales of straw for seats, and leaves scattered all over the floor amongst the loose strands of straw.

“It is a tractor, and they’re giving hayrides Can we go can we co can we go? Y/N please!” Mina begged. She clasped your hands in hers and shook them around as if that would help to convince you. Not that you needed any convincing, anyways. Of course you would go with her; all she had to do was ask.

“Let’s do it!” You tried to match her enthusiasm, but you weren’t sure anyone could outshine Mina, yourself included.

“Yassss! Come on then!”

The two of you scrambled your way over to the huge green tractor and hoisted yourselves up and into the trailer bed, greeting the other students as you did so. You spotted Ochaco and Midoriya on your right towards the end with Asui, Shouto and Iida were on your left, Tokoyami, Sero, Kaminari and Jirou were in front of you sitting in a neat line, and to your amazement, even Aoyama had tagged along. Mr. Aizawa sat at the very front of the trailer to oversee everyone and communicate with the driver, a stack of blankets in his hands in case anyone got cold.

As the tractor took off with a bumpy start, you accidentally lurched sideways into your girlfriend. She wrapped an arm around you to help keep you steady as you were all pulled along slowly, the holes in the ground making you bounce up and down every time the tractor drove over them. But you had to admit, this was fun. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been out to do something like this. Maybe when you were a kid?

“Aizawa sensei, can we have a blanket?” Mina asked, and suddenly there was something soft being thrown at you. Mina unfolded it carefully and tossed it around you both to keep you warm. You leaned further into her, glad to be with her on a perfect Fall day like this one.

What more could you ask for?

[imaginesebastian]

TLC

A/N: I wrote this over the span of...forever. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get something to you guys. This goes with a slow burn request and a smut request sooo 18+ my darlings!!:)

Warnings: Smut and cussing 

Weddings. 

Your distaste for them had grown since graduating college. With every friend that got pregnant or hitched, you pushed yourself further into a hole of self-loathing and doubt. 

Unfortunately, this is one particular wedding that you had to be at. Your best friend stood at the alter with a small tear running down his face. You couldn’t help but scoff, he was marrying a woman after meeting her 8 months ago. Something about him knowing that they were soul mates or some other bullshit that you didn’t believe. 

“Jesus christ. . .” you muttered under your breath as the wedding march began playing. You put on a smile, standing up and turning back to look at the woman in a traditional white dress. Her hair was curled perfectly and cascaded down her back in a waterfall. She was perfect, it was no wonder that Bucky was so into her. 

When she reached the front of the alter, Bucky sighed with content. “Hi James.” You heard her whisper. 

God. . . nobody calls him James. Who the fuck does she think she is?

“Hi Jess.” He responded, his smile just as wide as hers. The crowd laughed, Bucky leaning back and fanning his face as he looked over her in the dress. You rolled your eyes. 

“We are gathered here today. . .” and here was the part where your brain shut off. You looked anxiously at your hands, playing with the ring on your thumb while you felt the pit of your stomach drop. 

He looked at her with so much. . . comfort. Like she was her home. You couldn’t help but think back to when at one point you hoped that he looked at you like that one day. 

It was pathetic. Of course you were in love with your best friend, what kind of cliche are you? He wanted you to be one of her bridesmaids, he said he wanted you to be a part of the wedding but you had to politely decline. The hurt in his eyes made you nauseous, but you didn’t necessarily get along with Jess. It’s not like you could fake it until you made it in this scenario. 

Of course you didn’t start off the friendship with an attraction to him. It only started when he called you darlin’. Or when he stayed at your apartment one night while you showed him every one of your favorite video games from Mario Bros. all the way to The Last of Us. 

His admiration for modern technology left a childlike wonder on his face for what was to come. His metal arm was the closest thing he had experienced to “super advanced” until he saw the graphics on the PS4. He would tell you stories about the 30s and 40s, and with every word you couldn’t help but fall a little more in love with him. 

You wanted to tell him, but you kept putting it off and putting it off until eventually he found a girlfriend. As wrong as it was, you hoped every night that they wouldn’t last. That he was meant for you. Surprised was an understatement when he told you of their engagement. “She proposed to me. . . how weird is that?” 

“And does anyone have an objections to this union?” The priest spoke with a light chuckle laced in his words. You struggled to stop yourself from standing up, from yelling at her while Bucky watched, from running up there and throwing yourself on him, confessing your undying love for him. Life doesn’t work like that though. 

“Okay, James and Jessica. I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest grinned, “you may kiss the bride!” 

You looked away, swallowing while meeting eyes with Steve. He gave you a small empathetic look while you shook your head. You could feel your eyes prick with tears but you didn’t want to give anything away. 

The music played again and they walked down the isle hand in hand. Finally, you were able to walk away. You covered your shoulders and walked towards your car, opening the door and sitting in it. 

You debated turning on your car and driving away. You debated never speaking to Bucky again, starting a new life and wishing him the best in life. You couldn’t throw away your friendship though. 

A sigh left your lip while you wiped away the one tear that managed to slip out. Soon, you heard a knock on your window. 

“Hey darlin’,” Bucky stood on the other side of the slightly fogged glass, causing you to panic and wipe your face of any tears. You put on a smile and opened the car door, “Hey Bucky! That was some ceremony, huh?” 

“Yeah, yeah! It was gorgeous, better than I could have imagined.” 

An awkward smile fell on your lips and you looked away with a cough. “Hey, so as much as I would like to stay, I’m not feeling very well so the celebration aspect is gonna have to be saved for another time.” You attempted to grin but you couldn’t quite muster up the energy. 

“Awh,” his face dropped, “but how can I celebrate if I don’t have my best friend with me?” 

“You’ll get there.” You sent a wink his way, before you got into your car and started it, leaving Bucky there with an astonished look on his face as you pulled out of the church parking lot. 

Five years had never gone by so quick. 

“Alright Mrs. Willems, we’ll have that ready for you by tomorrow. Thank you so much for your order!” You talked happily into the phone, writing down a cake order and pinning it to the cork board in the back of your bakery. 

After the wedding, you decided it was probably best for you to move on. As much as it hurt to end the friendship, it was better for the both of you. you couldn’t go on in pain. 

It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears but finally you were able to open your dream bakery. Amazingly enough, the business was booming, and you’ve even taken up catering. 

The New York Tribune named it the greatest bakery on the south side of NYC. You’ve had a few Food Network shows feature you and the business started growing. 

As the night closed off, you began counting the till and cleaning. You told the night crew to head home, they’ve been working really hard and you wanted to reward them. 

“130, 140, 150. . .” It was in the middle of counting the till that you heard a small knock on the door. You looked up and moved the glasses on your nose away from your face, walking towards the lock. 

“Hi, I’m so sorry we’re clo-” you looked up and met eyes with a tall, blue-eyed beauty who you hadn’t seen in quite a while. 

“Bucky?” 

“Hey. . . I saw your face in the newspaper.” 

You swallowed your nausea, not knowing what to do. “I- uhm. . .” 

He smiled, something you wished you could have woken up to every morning for the past five years, “I knew you would be able to do it someday.” 

Your hands started to shake and before you could stop, you found yourself opening the door wider and making room for the super soldier to enter the small bakery. He inhaled through his nose, the smells of freshly baked cakes and breads filling his senses. He remembered you playing around with recipes all those years ago, and it wasn’t until he saw your face again that he realized just how much he had been missing you. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, “it took a lot of work.” 

His back was still turned to you as he spoke, “Yeah, but you still did it.” 

You studied the curve of his back, and how he had somehow become even more muscular than you remembered. His hair no longer rested above his shoulders, instead it was cut much like the 30s haircut you remember from the photographs. The ends curled at the top, your breath almost catching in your throat. 

“Is there anything I can help you with?” You questioned, pushing your hair behind your ear while you stepped from foot to foot awkwardly. 

“Yeah. . . I was wondering if you could make a cake from me.” 

Your chest heaved, “Well usually I’ll tell someone to come back during our operating hours, but I’ll make an exception.” You walked behind the counter and pulled out an order form, leaning forward and taking a pen out of your apron. 

“So, what’ll it be Mr. Barnes?” 

“A vanilla cake, decorated with blue and pink frosting,” of course it was a gender reveal cake. You almost scoffed but you held in your annoyance for a moment, you had done plenty of gender reveal cakes before, “Ah, Jess is pregnant! How exciting. Okay, and the filling? Will it be blue or pink?”  

“What? No, no,” Bucky leaned on the other side of the counter, “Strawberry filling, and across the top I want the words, ‘Happy Divorce Day, Cheater!’ Written in black.”

You looked up, your brows furrowed immediately, “You two are getting a divorce?” 

Bucky nodded, his bottom lip being drug in between his teeth, “She, uh, she slept with her co-worker. Has been since before we even got married apparently,” a chuckle left his mouth, “she hates strawberry filling.”

“Oh my god. . . I’m so sorry.” You knew that bitch didn’t know what the fuck she had. Of course she’d fuck it up with Bucky, and she’s gonna hate herself for the rest of her life.

“You know, I always knew that something was off, but I was so blinded by infatuation that I ignored all the red flags.” He spoke, almost as if this isn’t the first time in five years that you two had spoken. Like you never had left in the first place. 

At this point you put the pen down, clasping your hands together in front of you and listening intently. “I don’t think I ever really loved her. I lost five years of my life on her.” 

You nodded, mostly in agreement but you had hoped he took it as a note that you were listening. He paused, his eyes meeting yours for a split second. You loved him. You knew that for sure. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I can’t imagine that.” 

“Yeah, well you know. . . Life goes on.” Bucky grinned, “I’m 100 years old and 5 years doesn’t seem that long at the moment.” 

You smiled back, the first time you had smiled sincerely since he had arrived. “How about you and I go back and make this cake right now.” You suggested, motioning for him to hop over the counter and follow you to the back where the giant mixer sat, cleaned and untouched. 

“Okay, you grab the-” a screech left your mouth as you felt arms around your waist, “Bucky, wait!” 

“(Y/N),” he sat you down on top of the counter, “I didn’t come here for a cake. I came here to ask me something.” 

You smiled, “and what would that be, Mr. Barnes?” 

“Did you like me back then? Ya know, more than a friend?” Bucky said, his arms on either side of your thighs. 

You laughed off your shocked cough, “Bucky what are we, 12?” 

“Answer the question, darlin’.” 

You looked away from his eyes, “I loved you. More than anything else in the world.” 

“Loved?” he questioned. 

“Love.” You sighed in defeat, your cheeks turning red. 

“I’ve always loved you too. I was dumb and stupid for marrying her. I thought you’d never love me and I thought the only thing I could have possibly done was move on.” Bucky lifted your chin up to meet his eyes and softly and slowly, pressed a kiss to your lips. 

Your body froze, almost as if you couldn’t believe what was happening. Without thinking, your hands found themselves at his shoulders, your palms touching his prominent collar bones as your skin burned against his. With one quick motion, you pushed him away. 

Bucky stepped back, shocked as if he didn’t expect that to happen. He wiped his mouth, the expression on his face made you nauseous with guilt. You knew it had to be done though. 

Your blood burned in your veins, you could feel your ears heating up while you took a deep breath, “Did you really think that you could come here out of the blue and do that?” you hopped off of the counter, “because in all honesty, that shit hurt more than it did help. You think I want to be your rebound girl?”

The shock from Bucky’s face was replaced with furrowed brows, “Reboun- what the hell are you talking about? You’re not a rebound?” 

“You came here after filing for divorce! What do you want? Do you want sex? Because I’m not here just for that.” 

Bucky’s mouth fell agape, “What kind of a man do you think I am?” his voice was much louder than before, “Do YOU think it was nice of you to leave me? Ignore my phone calls and emails, for five fucking years? Our friendship ended, with nothing being said to me! I was oblivious! It took Steve three years to tell me you were in love with me and I had assumed at that point you moved on! So tell me, again, why the fuck you think what you did was okay? I was a mess!” 

The nausea became stronger, “I-” 

“No! I’m not going to give you time to explain yourself, I love you too! Did I ever think the feelings were reciprocated? No! Because you did such a good job at not letting a single fucking person know what goes on inside your head,” he poked my forehead, “I thought I knew what was happening, so I moved on. Is that somehow my fault because you never told me you loved me?” 

“Bucky-” 

“So I come here, yes after five years, professing my love for you and what am I met with? Anger?” Bucky paused, as if he was waiting for a response. 

You swallowed, “I didn’t know how to work with my feelings so I figured I’d let them be. Leave you to be happy with your new life.” 

“Jesus christ, (Y/N), let me kiss you! Please!” Bucky almost cried, his eyes watering with frustration while you struggled internally with things you had masked away behind the facade of happiness for so many years. 

You were the one who tried so hard to forget. You knew it was impossible, but pushing your feelings down was the only way that you knew how to cope with the impossible task of forgetting Bucky Barnes. 

Slowly, you took a step towards him and pressed a small kiss on top of his quivering lips. You expected a lack luster response, for Bucky to smile and pull away. However, quickly his hands pulled you closer and he inhaled your scent as if it was the last time he was ever going to see you. 

You couldn’t breath, but you didn’t care. You were finally in Bucky’s arms and this was something you wanted for so many years. 

He lifted you back onto the table and your hands came to his cheeks, your thumb stroking his cheek bone delicately as his tongue slipped its way into your mouth. Before you could process what was happening, he laid you down on your back and hopped onto the table, straddling your thighs and slipping his shirt off of his body. 

“Bucky this is unsanitar-” 

“(Y/N), shut the fuck up.” He whispered, a grin on his face while his lips met yours once again. It didn’t take long for you to melt back into his touch, his hips grinding on yours. 

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long baby. You wouldn’t believe it.” His hardening member pressed into your thigh and you could feel yourself becoming more and more wet by the second. 

Suddenly you felt like your chest was being crushed, you pushed Bucky off and stood up from the table. “I- I need a bed.” 

Bucky’s chest heaved, “What?” 

You grabbed his arm and lead up towards your upstairs apartment, “Fuck me, on a bed.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” 

You walked up the stairs and felt Bucky’s hands on you the whole time. It didn’t take long for you to start throwing off your clothes and rush to the bedroom. 

Before Bucky could take off his boxers, he took a moment to look over your body. You could feel the sense of euphoria he had, his tears were long gone and were replaced with sweat, and love. 

In a second he was back on top of you, ripping off your panties and kissing his way down your body. A moan left your mouth as his lips wrapped around each nipple, his hand rubbing his finger on your clit. Of course he knew exactly where it was. 

His lips continued trailing down, turning up into a smile as he finally met your heat. 

You couldn’t help but let a more primal moan bubble from your throat. There was nothing hotter than seeing Bucky’s face buried in between your legs. Your hands gripped his hair and pulled, resulting in an even bigger moan from him. 

“I have wanted to taste you,” he took a breath, kissing your thigh, “since I first laid eyes on you.” 

“Then keep doing it.” You motioned for him to continue as you could feel yourself becoming so close. He bit his lip before inserting a finger into your sex, curling it upward while using his tongue to skillfully flick your clit. 

Before you knew it, you felt heat rise up from core and your legs shook from around Bucky’s head. “Ah, fuck!” You yelled, crying out Bucky’s name and grinding your hips harshly. 

Bucky didn’t give you much time to recover, pressing his cock against your sex before inserting it slowly. So slowly it was almost painful. 

Bucky didn’t move for a second, instead soaking in the absolute pleasure that the two of you were receiving after years of repression. His chest collapsed on top of yours, kissing you and biting your lip between his teeth. His hips finally started to move, but he stayed low and as close to you as he possibly could. 

Your nails dug harshly into his back and he thrust into you, the speed picking up. His icy blues bore into yours before his lips kissed your neck.

Way too soon, you felt heat build up in your core again. You tightened around him, pushing him over the edge. He fell on the bed beside you, grabbing you close and holding you tightly as you both came down from a long awaited high. 

“I think, that was the greatest sex I have ever had in my entire life.” Bucky stated, his face red. 

“Ah, not so much stamina for the super soldier, aye?” You teased, noticing how out of breath he was. 

“I’ve never felt anything like that before. I had to hold on from cumming while I was eating you out.” He praised, kissing your forehead. You blushed, never really one to be open about these sorts of things. 

“There’s more where that came from.” You whispered, leaning up and kissing his lips. 

Maybe these last five years were exactly what the two of you needed. Some time apart lead both of you to realize your feelings for each other and inevitably, fate would have you two together. 

Sometimes, all love needs is a little time. 

[shadowsong26fic]

Coming Attractions!

First Monday of the month, woohoo!

(And also kind of a NaNo roundup post because that was last month, after all…)

NaNo:

Sooooo I didn’t finish, lol. Not that I was…super expecting to, exactly, but I was hopeful! I think I just missed too many days in a row and lost all my momentum.

In terms of my goals, I was hoping to write:

1. 20-25k on Precipice 2. 20-25k on our faces like a mirror 3. 10-20k on Other Projects. 4. 50-70k total

In terms of what I actually accomplished:

1. 9,241 on Precipice (Sooooooo....about half of what I’d hoped, a little less. But I still got a fair amount done/prepped for upcoming chapters, plus a couple chapters actually posted, even while doing other stuff, so...go me!) 2. 9,043 on our faces like a mirror (Again, a bit less than half of what I’d hoped for, but I got enough done for the story/etc. to take a real Shape in my head. ...ish. See the specific OFLAM stuff later on in the post...) 3. 10,601 on Other Projects (Hey, I actually met this goal! ...barely, but still! Mostly thanks to the Nikita/Rebels crossover, lol...) 4. 28,885 total

Original Fiction:

I got a decent chunk of a big backstory piece for Lux done (in the form of a “then” and “now” set of scenes/vignettes for the five Archangels)--that being said, I’m not sure I actually like what I have there, lol. I know more or less what I need to cover, but the details are fiddly. Also not sure whether I should refer to Lux by her current name, for consistency’s sake, or use a different name (either Lightbringer or just Lucifer) since she does technically reshape her name after being released when the main Apocalypse storyline kicks off…also debating whether Lux should be/present as female way back when--angels don’t really do gender the way humans do in this ‘verse, but the closest human term for Lux would be genderfluid, sooooo IDK. Also also, for the ‘Now’ part…ehhh, I’m not sure I should have this be the first thing I post involving Trixie…but I’ll keep poking at it and see what comes out.

(I’d also planned to work on the big Kesshare character study saturation for The Farglass Cycle this month, and maybe go back to my untitled first-contact story, but neither of those happened, lol.)

Precipice:

We’re in the home stretch! Kinda. So to speak. Probably three to four more chapters in Arc Seven, which I’m hoping-fingers-crossed I’ll finish by the end of the calendar year??? (But given how much other stuff I hope to work on (see Other Fanfic Projects for more details…)

At that point--and I know I’ve said this before, and I’ll probably put it in an A/N in the next chapter or so, but following the end of Milestones, I’m planning to break off into a second/sequel fic, working title Protectors. This is at least in part because length (over 200k wtf I was anticipating 50-75k, maybe 100k, for these seven arcs @.@), but also was sort of planned even without the Length issue, due to some thematic/structure shifts following a six-year timeskip. Which, if you do the math, you can probably figure out where that’ll land us and why I might be structuring it this way…

Anyway, I’ve increasingly realized that there’s some stuff I should probably set up that I’ll need for later arcs in Part 2 involving some Rebels characters, more with the Last Batch, plus a Sith Apprentice who needs to turn up and die (although the gap between Infernalis and the next apprentice I actually care about/have a name and some kind of Plot for is only about four years in my mental timeline, so maybe there isn’t an active Apprentice in that period*…hmmmmm…), some background about the Hands, etc. But I feel like it’s all a little too disjointed for an entire additional arc. So, Arc 7.5, tentatively titled Preludes, is also going to be a thing XD I don’t think I’ll have a fixed schedule for that vs. the main storyline--and, honestly, it’ll probably work more like a collection of one-shots taking place during the timeskip than a proper Arc, but a little more Relevant than stuff that goes in Bonus Content, if that makes sense? It’ll probably be posted alongside at least arcs 8 and 9. Which, incidentally, take place more or less back-to-back and cover a fairly short period of time, but there is A Lot of plot/setup that goes into them. Like. If I tried to do it all as one arc, it’d be at least twice as long as any of the other arcs I’ve done, possibly including Arc Four--certainly over twenty chapters, I think--plus there’s a good (and by good I mean Horrible) place where I can split the arcs, so…we’ll see how that goes.

(…still not sure what to do with Maul, lol. He may just be Sir Darth Not-Appearing-In-This-Fic, or he might turn up in arc 10/11/13, which are the sort of vaguest of the next seven arcs which make up Protectors, in terms of how much I have planned out…)

(*On a semi-related note, I’ve been asked about Inquisitors a couple times in comments lately, and…well, I’ll probably mention this when I reply to the commenter in question, but I figured I’d set it out here as well, in case anyone else was wondering the same thing but doesn’t read other peoples’ comments. Like I’m pretty sure I mentioned at the start, when I plotted out** the bulk of this fic, I hadn’t seen Rebels yet. I’ve since decided to integrate a few characters/plot points (Kallus and Zeb will feature prominently in a subplot in arcs 13 and 14, for example), but, as a rule, characters and plot points from Rebels haven’t been taken into account unless I Really Like Them and/or they’re a good way to fill in a plot hole in a later arc, as with Kallus and Zeb. So, for example, when I include Thrawn, I’m writing more towards Legends!Thrawn in terms of personality, though the two have blended a bit in my head and I do reference specific events in Disney!Thrawn’s personal timeline; and b) more relevantly, I hadn’t made any plans to include Inquisitors, and that…hasn’t really changed. So, I might have them in Preludes, but they almost certainly won’t show up on-page/be super-relevant in the main arcs of the fic, sorry :/ )

(**Loooool I say “Plotted Out” like I’m the kind of author with a Master Plan or at least an outline. But I did have a general idea of the Major Plot Points going in, such as when Rex and Ahsoka would turn up, Luke’s storyline with Lavinia, how many Apprentices I would need to make them work, etc., and I’ve had parts of Arcs 8, 9, and 14 written for like at least two years now, so I know more or less where I’m going--though they’ll be edited once I have more of the connective tissue in place, in case I’ve accidentally Jossed myself…or I change my mind, which is becoming A Possibility with a major event set to happen in Arc 14, so…we’ll see.)

Aaaaaanyway. Exciting times ahead, I hope!

Other Fanfic:

This month, I finally posted another AU outline, woohoo! …I mean, it was a super-niche Nikita/Rebels crossover with a handful of OCs thrown in but who’s counting XD (I do actually intend to finish Let’s Go Steal a Crossover and update the Ventress one at some point but…yeah).

I also put out a Kallus one-shot that I think turned out really well. May do more of those at some point, who knows…

I made some significant progress on our faces like a mirror, as mentioned above! But now I’m waffling a little bit over structure. Basically, the fic covers Bo-Katan’s backstory from the time Satine becomes Duchess, through the Civil War, and eventually leads to Bo’s eventual break with her sister to join Death Watch. It comes in two pretty distinct halves--what I call the Fugitive arc in my notes, which covers the Civil War, and the Breakdown arc, which is everything after her return to Sundari.

So, my original plan was--prologue covering at least part of the final Epic Screaming Match that leads to Bo’s departure; jump back to the Fugitive Arc; and then follow through until we catch up to the prologue, with a coda/epilogue with her and Pre Viszla. The problem is, there’s…really not a lot to connect the two halves??

I’ve got a couple options on what to do about this, but I’m not sure which would be best.

Option One: Keep the structure as-is and just let it be episodic.

Option Two: Keep the structure as-is and find some way to connect the two halves (i.e., a recurring antagonist; I do have an idea of who this could be, but the problem is, it takes away a good chunk of the focus from Bo and Satine’s relationship for the Breakdown Arc…which I don’t really want to do.)

Option Three: Remove the framing device and focus on the Breakdown Arc, and include the Fugitive Arc as flashbacks, since the Breakdown Arc can’t really stand on its own. (The main issue I have with this one is that, if I want to actually write out future chunks of Bo’s life later--meaning, her time with Death Watch, and getting her from TCW to Rebels--I won’t have these flashbacks and I don’t want to change the structure too radically for any eventual sequels? Also, I’m not sure how I feel about a flashback structure for this fic in general…)

Option Four: Remove the framing device and focus on the Fugitive Arc, ending the story with Bo’s return to Sundari. (Two issues with this one--I really do want to go into the Breakdown Arc; that’s where my interest in this story started. Also, due to the constraints of setting and so on, Bo interacts with…like…two canon characters over the course of the Fugitive Arc? And while I don’t really have a problem writing a story that’s essentially a Backstory Epic for a tertiary character, populated by about 90% OCs, I’m not sure anyone actually wants to read that, except as the lead-in to the Breakdown Arc??? But maybe I’m overthinking…)

…so, yeah. Any thoughts/opinions on which option would be Best? (I may make a separate post asking the same question later, but figured I’d lay it all out here, too!)

Also, I’m working on a Secret Santa project, and probably not going to use OFLAM for SWBB, which means I need to come up with and write a different plotline of some kind, so back to the drawing board on that one…

Also also, I do genuinely plan to get Distaff off hiatus At Some Point, especially since I’ve gotten some new comments/responses lately…but given how much else I have on my plate, writing-wise, that probably won’t happen until next year, alas.

Anyway, the long and short of it is--lots of writing planned for this month! Now let’s see how much I actually get done XD

What about the rest of you? What’ve y’all been up to/what do you have planned for next month?

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CASSIAN BHATT, who is THIRTY years old. He is often called CASSIUS by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

He never loved his father, not even as a child. Perhaps it was their differences, a long list he’s kept since the moment he could write. Maybe it was the way Cassian had always detested what other little boys his age lived for—playing catch, riding their bikes, skinning their knees with kids in the neighborhood—and instead found comfort in the logic and reason between book pages far more interesting. One would think an avid reader would have adored a son who took to written word just as he, but the division always came down to one thing. Preference. His was non-fiction. REALITY. Looking to the clouds, Cassian never saw some great, profound potential, nor fluffy animals and fun shapes like other children; what he saw was weather patterns. Mother Nature rearing its ugly head on those too stupid to know they’re hurting her. He saw a world wrought with misconception, filled with beasts and famine. Misrepresentation of the plague an entire people had reaped by being WEAK. He had no time for their dreams, for their wild imaginations, or their incessant need to color outside the lines—just like his father. A renowned professor who always asked the two simple questions, what if? and why? He sought out the answers of the universe, pondered the wonders of man’s most celebrated philosophers as he spoke at colleges and universities throughout Cassian’s youth. And while his father loved language, too, written word to eat up with his hands like a barbarian, he also favored the unthinkable: man is good, man is worthy, man is trying. His son knew better. And he preferred a fork and knife when he consumed his DOCTRINES.

It was only fitting his mother was a POLITICIAN, another lover of words, but spoken to the masses with the conviction only a snake could possess, spinning lies into truths with such flawless execution. Part of him was proud, as he aged and watched her take over the whole city, secretly wanting to do exactly the same thing. Afforded the best possible education, Cassian spent his teenage years not with his nose exactly in a book, but at dinner parties where the guests were the best names in Science. The most progressive thinkers on cancer research were regulars of his parent’s Saturday night euchre party and the highest ranking government officials spent two weeks in the summer at their villa in Naples. And that’s not to say he spent these nights hidden in a corner, keeping to himself so as to not disturb theSHARPEST minds in the world—no. Cassian offered the quickest of wit, the most illustrious of answers to their questions, a rigorous debate over gender politics once ensuing one Sunday during brunch. He’d said something scandalous like society is the only reason we conform so strictly to such labels, nearly causing the bulging blood vessel in the poor, old cazzo’s forehead pop. He met the man with bared teeth, smug grin plastered along his reckless features. Without abandon, that’s how he always spoke, but only when it counted. Only when he knew his breath wasn’t going to be WASTED.

He dealt in cruelty the more he aged, grinding it out of the bones he deemed less than, those not worthy of his time then suffering the worst FATE of all: his attention. It was rare that one could easily draw his gaze; Cassian is not readily amused, if ever. He deals in facts, in history and how it so clearly repeats, saving little time and even less energy for brevity, for romance or comedy. But when you dare to look a monster in the eye, when you issue that kind of challenge, when you provoke a man who takes pride in evisceration, one gets exactly what they bargain for: DESTRUCTION. He harnessed this power by way of making the rules bend to his will, not a creator of such a power, but someone strong enough to wield—to tame such a brutal thing. Law school was met with eager ears and a hollow hunger in his chest, a craving for knowledge making a home in his throat, never to leave again. But he put it to use when he ran his mother’s second campaign and managed a full schedule with the ease and grace only a man meant to rule the world could possibly possess. And it was a dangerous thing at that, the poise with which Cassian carried himself, with such avarice for not money butINTELLIGENCE. The smartest man in the room, that was what he truly wished to be, and it wasn’t too hard assert such dominance with the title of dottore of the Law now fashioned securely on his shelf.

It didn’t take long for him to have to put his newfound degree to the test, in fact it came the moment his mother’s name was SLANDERED in the press. Dragged through the mud so clearly by the opposition that he couldn’t not defend her, if for no other reason than not a soul speaks ill of the Bhatt name whilst he still has air in his lungs. His father may have soiled it with his prophesying and idealizing, but Cassian and his mother—though she loved the man for some reason; he can’t imagine why—still had something left of their lives to need Bhatt free and clear of any skeletons in its closet. Suing for libel, he won the case in record time, his words more convincing than that of the piss poor District Attorney who dared to try and poke holes in the confidence of a man with EVERYTHING to lose. So he took the sad sack’s job instead, convincing his boss to offer it up in under ten minutes flat. I just beat him, he’d said with a smug smile. And? he’d asked, brows raised at the sheer audacity of this sore winner. I can do the same for you. And with that, he had him. The position was his and he’d stood in the hallway of the courthouse, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching as the fool lost everything. True power doesn’t come from giving orders, nor does it come from brandishing fine weapons or throwing mean fists; it comes from being the best, and Cassian Bhatt is just that. PERFECT in every way imaginable. Just ask him yourself.

LILLIAN WEN: Fiancée. A trophy, something to show off, to place upon his mantle with pride and evidence of his of true ambition. She is that and not much more, but what a pretty face indeed. Glistening like a diamond, he’ll wear her around town if for no other reason than how good she looks with his Versace loafers. Lillian is a prize he thinks he’s won, but he’s yet to cross the finish line. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, and silly boy, does she ever feed yours. Gloat all he wants, parade her around like a doll and forget all she’s giving him, but if Cassian isn’t careful his intricate little plan will foil right before his eyes as she walks out the door. There’s only so far to push someone standing on the edge of integrity. Best he start appreciating the good deed that’s come his way before it blows up in his lap. He can’t survive another tarnish on his good name, not after how hard he’s worked to clear it. Cherish her, Mr. Bhatt, lest you lose the one thing to make you look halfway decent: a good woman to love you.

MONA CHEN & TIBERIUS CAPULET: Extortionist & Captain. She has pictures, hundreds of them, and despite his best efforts to seize them time and time again—even going so far as to hire the best thief money can possibly buy—they remain in her possession. Kept taught between her palms, held tightly against her chest, used to pull the strings of a man not used to answering to God or anyone, let alone a Madame. But she’s smart, he’ll give Mona that, always protecting her Sparrows first even if it means ruining a good man’s reputation in the process. He has no other choice than to obey, no other option than to come to heel and kneel before her and her boss. Though it’s his captain he’s more worried about. Cosimo’s nephew isn’t a man he wants to find the bad side of, but he’s well on his way if he doesn’t do his part. If he doesn’t do exactly as she says, execute every single order perfectly, it’ll be his ass that’ll need saving. Not hers from whatever sort of wrath he thinks he can come up with to outsmart the most clever woman in Verona. Nor Tiberius’ from whatever power play the lawyer thinks the heir won’t see coming. Checkmate, Cassian.

CRISTIAN DE LUCA: Interest. He’s never been one to lust after kingdoms, preferring to stick to the shadows as a powerful entity of demise with the flick of his wrist not a booming voice. Cassian wishes to be flocked to, praised for his deeds not his ability to bring people to their needs but his knack for dissecting the brain, its desires and every machination. He sees something quite similar in Cristian, and it’s so very enticing, so exhilarating to spot a creature just like himself out here in the wild. He wants to know more, see more, hear more from the man who has done nothing but kick up dust in the subtlest of ways since his feet landed on Italian soil. Pulling at the strings of chaos is his specialty, but to watch a man so apt at his favorite wicked game is exciting to say the least. He knows the man’s allegiance, on which side of the bridge his loyalties lie, but when have rules ever stopped Cassian from getting what he wants? And what he wants is a look inside that beautiful Montague mind.

TAMURA CHIKO: War dog. Be careful with that one, they bite. Of this Cassian is positive, what with how many times he’s been on the receiving end of such sharp teeth. But there’s something lurking behind those eyes, he’s sure of it, if only he could just—no. They don’t let him. With an arm outstretched, Chiko keeps him at a distance, and with good reason. He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks, a serpent slithering beneath the shade of the brush, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce; and sink his fangs into their neck he will. Dio does he want to, oh, so very much. There’s something so fascinating about their restraint, their constant will to never break composure. They are a puzzle Cassian is desperate to find all the pieces to, if only to marvel at his handiwork for having put it together. Paying no mind to the wreckage looking at such a visceral image could cause. They are everything his opposite, all violent combat and trigger fingers. He wonders what it would be like to hunt a creature like that. Satisfying, he muses.

Cassian is portrayed by RANVEER SINGH and was written by SIDNEY. He is DECEASED.

[against-a-dark-background]

Cyborg Identities – Media and Identity – The Terminator & Terminator 2: Judgement Day

On the internet, we are able to create new cyber-personalities, avatars that bear no resemblance to ourselves, and free ourselves from the constraints of the physical limitations of the real world. You are posthuman, (Becker, 362). Identities are always changing shape, in the same way water takes the shape of whichever containers it fills. This happens in real life (IRL) as well as in the internet domain.

Becker (362) notes theorist Donna Haraway states humans have already become cyborgs, and any delineations between human and machine are evaporating. We should not be afraid. There is nothing to fear. Skynet (Cameron, 1984) is not coming online anytime soon, and no Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 (ibid) is going to come from the future and say “Your clothes. Give them to me,” (ibid). Haraway and Butler state that “gender and sex,” (Becker, 362) are not natural but imposed upon us by particular debates and forced on our bodies by society (362). Haraway notes that our bodies cannot be considered as amalgamated units with delineations and definitive, static identities (362). New models such as computer code, optical, copper, and Wi-Fi networks — the whole global data network, of which the internet is only a part, and the fragmentation of technologies and media, have eliminated the idea that the only thing anyone can be sure of is that they exist, and genuine knowledge of anything else is unachievable (362).

“This is deep!”  - John Connor, Terminator 2 (Cameron, 1991).

In the postmodern world, we appear to be living in a situation of overexposure. Telotte notes Jean Baudrillard finds this “obscene” and “everything…immediately transparent, visible, exposed,” (26). Telotte, writing in 1992, thought that true science fiction films echoed Baudrillard’s notes on the overexposure that focused on the synthetic, the “robot, cyborg, android…” (26). These unnatural bodies threaten and frighten us. They make us feel as if we are headed for our own destruction if technologies relating to cyborgs, robots, and androids are left to continue on their current paths (26).

The two Terminator films show a conflict between humans and robots, cyborgs, and machines. Humans have been subjected to nuclear genocide by machines, led by the autonomous defence computer network, known as Skynet. The survivors band together and strike back at Skynet and the machines in the year 2029, in Los Angeles. The Resistance, as they are known, are so successful that Skynet decides to send — first, a cyborg back in time to kill the mother of the leader of the Resistance — and a second, more dangerous, implacable, inexorable Terminator to kill the Resistance leader, John Connor, while he is still a child (Telotte, 26).

The first film The Terminator (Cameron, 1984), shows the cyborg body, a technological threat that plays on society’s fears of what Telotte calls “Technophobia,” (Telotte, 28). The danger is not just for Sarah Connor, played by Linda Hamilton, if she is killed by the Terminator (T1), played by Arnold Schwarzenegger, the future of humanity is at stake (28).

 Telotte argues that showing us the “technologized body” as a threat from the T1, plays to a societal fear of “technophobia” (28). The T1 passes easily for a human. He sweats, his skin is shiny and oily, and his first interaction with some punks does not go well. At first, the T1 repeats what the punks say. He is completely naked, and the epitome of hegemonic masculinity. He kills one punk, the rest but one run away. The T1 then says his iconic line: “Your clothes. Give them to me,” (Cameron, 1984).

The T1 is so difficult to “read” that Kyle Reese, played by Michael Biehn — sent back through time by the Resistance, as the protector of Sarah Connor — cannot shoot the T1 in the nightclub, where Sarah is holed up, until the T1 makes his move.

After this shootout, and the following chase, in which Reese is arrested and Sarah gives a statement, the T1 shows up at the police station. He surveys the flimsy structure and says: “I’ll be back,” (Cameron, 1984). He then ploughs a car into the front of the station and massacres police in search for Sarah. Reese and Sarah escape.

The T1 is now shown to be more machine than cyborg. He has a damaged hand that he must repair — he cuts the living tissue off, exposing the metal skeleton — and fixes his damaged hand. His organic eye is irreparably damaged, so the T1 simply cuts out the organic eye covering, exposing the digital video camera he has in place of eyes, (Telotte, 28).

In Terminator 2: Judgement Day (Cameron, 1991), Telotte argues that the T1 is not a threat, but a protector. “Holy shit! My own Terminator, cool!” – John Connor, (Cameron, 1991). Sarah and John remove and alter the cyborg’s CPU so it can begin to learn (29).

Terminator 2: Judgement Day (Cameron, 1991) shows the rehabilitation of one Terminator, but the introduction of a second, more deadly, more unstoppable Terminator — the T-1000, played by Robert Patrick. It has no organic covering, no metallic endoskeleton — it is “all surface,” (Telotte, 29). The T-1000 has no gender, it is a “poly-mimetic alloy,” (Cameron, 1991) that can take on whatever shape it touches. Telotte argues that the T-1000, being all surface and no depth, or inner workings, indicates misleading reassurances that society may feel about the increasing hegemony of technology in our everyday lives (29).

The T-1000 is a genderless, fluid thing. It can form solid metal objects: stabbing weapons, prying tools, and other human beings —both women and men, with near-perfect accuracy. (It does not know John’s dog’s name.) “Your foster parents are already dead,” – The T1, (Cameron, 1991). The T-1000’s formless shape gives rise to a new kind of fear — “what shapes we give to our technological imaginings — and what shapes they could, in turn, give to us,”  (Telotte, 30).

Judith Butler states in Performative Acts and Gender Constitution that gender is “not a stable identity,” and gender is “…an identity instituted through a stylized repetition of acts,” (519). The T1 is the ultimate in male hegemonic masculinity. He is tall, well-muscled, with razor-sharp cheekbones, and a square cut jawline. His appearing naked also showed a shot of his penis, leaving no doubt that this cyborg stands for a masculine gender performance. Once the T1 has the punk’s clothes, and later the iconic image of him wearing sunglasses at night; this repetition of acts that carries over through two films, cements the T1 as the apex of hegemonic masculinity. He performs his gender by wearing punk clothes, by wearing sunglasses, by the use of weapons, by his muscle-bound frame, by his ultra-violence, and by riding a Harley-Davidson in Terminator 2, (Cameron, 1991).

Sarah Connor is an interesting case for her gender performance. As Butler contends; “the body becomes its gender through a series of acts which are renewed, revised, and consolidated through time,” (523). In The Terminator (Cameron, 1984), Sarah is first presented as an example of the opposite of the epitome of the 1984 female. She performs her gender by wearing jeans, riding a motorcycle, and when she is stood up by her off-screen boyfriend, she goes to the movies alone. She ends up in a restaurant, eating pizza, where she discovers, not only that a second Sarah Connor from Los Angeles has been executed, but also a third. When Kyle Reese saves (and kidnaps) her from the T1, and forces her to listen to him, she relents — and becomes passive, “I can’t even balance my check book!” – Sarah Connor, (Cameron, 1984). Later the pair have sex, conceiving John Connor.

By the end of The Terminator (Cameron, 1984), Sarah has changed her gender performativities that have been placed on her by the T1’s inexorable quest to terminate her. After Reese dies to save Sarah, she lures the remnants of the T1 into a hydraulic press. As she presses the button, crushing and destroying the T1, she says in a firm and deep voice: “You’re terminated, motherfucker!” (Cameron, 1984).

Sarah undergoes a dramatic gender performance change in the second film. The first time the viewer sees her, she is sweating, oily-skinned, and doing pull-ups on her upturned bedframe. Not only has she become a cyborg, but also, she has changed her stylised acts of repetition. Sarah has become masculinised in the way she performs her gender. She looks like a Terminator — well-muscled and prone to violence and aggression. She is a weapons expert; she is in Pescadaro State Mental Facility because she was caught trying to blow up a computer factory, (Cameron, 1991).

The T1 performs his gender in much the same way as he did in the first film, except this time he is the protector, not the Terminator. After alteration of the T1’s CPU, he begins to learn — as he is lowered into molten steel, after hugging John and saying “Sorry John, I must go away now,” the T1 says “I know now why you cry,” (Cameron, 1991).

John Connor, played by Edward Furlong, performs his gender in a series of repetitions that become clearer throughout the film. At first, his performativity is that of the rebellious teen — he rides a motorbike and does not listen to his foster parents. In time, it becomes clear that John is compassionate. He discovers that the T1 must obey him, so he commands it not kill people anymore. The T1 now shoots them in the legs: “He’ll live,” says the T1 after shooting a security guard in the leg, (Cameron, 1991).

There is a moment in Terminator 2 where Sarah, fully armed and become a Terminator herself, masculinised and with deadly violent intent — goes to Miles Dyson’s house. Dyson, the inventor of Skynet, is days away from making a breakthrough which will set the future on a course of nuclear annihilation in 1997. At a considerable distance, the Terminator, Sarah Connor, aims an assault rifle with a laser scope at the back of Dyson’s head. She pulls the trigger. Dyson bends down at the last millisecond, and Sarah misses. She switches to fully automatic and begins spraying Dyson’s office with bullets. The magazine is empty, she pulls out an automatic 9mm pistol, and begins firing at Dyson, still a Terminator.

She enters the house and at close range, shoots Dyson through the shoulder. His family come rushing in and his son leaps onto his father. “Please don’t kill my boy,” Dyson begs. Sarah falters. Is she still a Terminator? She is a mother, with a son of her own. She slumps against a wall and begins to cry as John and the T1 enter. John hugs his mother, asks her if she is hurt and she becomes fully human in this moment: “I just couldn’t do it…I just couldn’t…I just couldn’t...I just…”  - Sarah Connor says. John holds her tightly as she begins to sob heavily. She is no Terminator. (Cameron, 1991).

Throughout the denouement of the film, Sarah regains and keeps her masculinised gender performance until the T1 is immolated, wherein she hugs the distraught John, in an act of motherly compassion.

   Works Cited

Becker, Barbara. "Cyborgs, Agents, and Transhumanists: Crossing Traditional Borders of Body and Identity in the Context of New Technology." Leonardo 33.5 (2000): 361-356. PDF. 16 October 2020. <https://www.jstor.org/stable/1576879>.

Butler, Judith. "Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory." Theatre Journal 40.4 (1988): 519-531. 16 October 2020. <https://www.jstor.org/stable/3207893>.

Telotte, J.P. "The Terminator, Terminator 2, & the exposed body." Journal of Popular Film & Television 20.2 (1992): 26-34. PDF. 16 October 2020.

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (Director's Cut). By James Cameron and William Wisher. Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Arnold Schwarzenegger, et al. Prods. James Cameron and Stephanie Austin. TriStar Pictures, 1991. Digital Video. 10 October 2020.

The Terminator. By James Cameron, Gale Anne Hurd and William Wisher. Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton and Michael Biehn. Prod. Gale Anne Hurd. Orion Pictures, 1984. Digital Video. 10 October 2020.

[theblessedwitch]

Arkham Asylum Survival Tips.

This is from my decaying Quotev account. I wrote this so long ago now, but I thought it might be fun to put it up here.

Arkham Asylum survival tips. As you know there are do’s and do nots to incarceration at Arkham here are some for a slight chance of survival.

Do not think singing the Batman theme song is going to result in any thing other than a painful expierance.

Touch Dr Crane’s books at your own risk.

Asking Edward Nygma if he wants to talk about his ‘daddy issues’ isn’t smart he will kill you.

Telling Deathstroke that Deadpool would totally kick his ass is grounds for immediate medication for talking about fictional characters again.

Flirting with Joker is a new level of stupid but be prepared for a blonde crazed Brooklyn women to try and kill you.

If you should escape and get access to the rogue’s confiscated weapons unless you hundred percent know what your doing don’t touch them and even then it’s likely they will hunt you down and kill you for the inconvenience.

Asking Bane who his dealer is isn’t going to get you any venom.

Please stop asking Copperhead if she can teach you swear words in Spanish, we do have Spanish speaking inmates and doctors it’s not a secret way to insult people.

Yes, Dr Crane is not the strongest person here this isn’t a go ahead to try and dominate him if he doesn’t get you back straight away then I’d suggest sleeping with one eye open for the foreseeable future.

If Edward Nygma should take a disliking to you giving him some puzzle books on the side isn’t entirely a bad idea.

Threatening ivy with weed killer doesn’t scare her, her 'babies’ are quite capable of looking after their selves.

Trying to persuade Selina Kyle to curl up in your lap like a kitten is your own funeral.

Shouting 'CROWS’ around Jonathan Crane just to try and scare him is going to result in a frightening death.

Asking Victor Zsasz to cut your food up for you is inviting trouble.

Asking Waylon Jones where captain hook is, will most likely end up with you missing body parts.

Touch Osito and you risk being broken.

Singing twisted fire starter at firefly may seem funny to you but God help you if he starts one.

Asking Edward Nygma what’s green, purple and black and regularly gets his ass handed to him by Batman is seriously stupid.

Telling Edward Nygma that he can use his Cain on you anytime he wants doesn’t sound sexual he will take you literally.

Asking if Crane wants a new test subject doesn’t sound sexual either he’ll gladly take you up on the offer.

Playing music aloud is permitted as one of your recreational activities but please be mindful of what you play as the last time someone played Justin Bieber aloud a fire broke out, a bomb went off, Bane smashed through two walls and Jarvis tried to initiate a flash mob.

Telling Harley you want to joke and fool around with her is in affect volunteering your head for a game of croquette.

Telling Jonathan crane that he is the grim reaper is only going to give him an ego boost.

Singing I’ve got a brand new combine harvester around Pamela isn’t wise.

If your not afraid of bombs then by all means scream capitalism on the top of your voice around Anarchy.

If you should be unlucky enough to draw the attentions of Jarvis Tetch then it is best advised to inform a doctor or guard and not to tell him your the reincarnation of the red queen or the jabberwocky he’ll take this just as seriously.

Asking any of the female prisoners for nudes may be asking for your phone to explode.

Telling Harley Quinn that vampires aren’t as good as werewolves will put you into a no exit lifelong debate.

Trying to flirt with any of the doctors and asking them if they want to start a 'mad love’ will mean that your doctors may have to be switched to the same gender as you and if you still persist then we will be forced to only use video connection to speak with you.

Asking Batman to bite you so you can join his legion of the undead is going to result in a neck brace.

Shouting to the Batmobile might end up with you being chucked under it.

If there is a break out it is advised to stay in your cell for your own safety and not to try to form teams of your favourite rogues.

Don’t think it’s funny calling Penguin happy feet or Mary Poppins.

Neither is calling officer Boyles Scarface.

Starting sleeve fights with your straight jacket is not their intended purpose.

Cash’s hook is not a kitchen utensil.

Although movies are permitted in recreational time there are some rules to when certain films can be shown as different inmates are effected by different things.

Neither of the Silent hill movies are allowed when Dr. Crane is present. Silence of the lambs is not permitted when Waylon Jones is present. Stephen King’s It isn’t allowed around Joker.

The Saw franchise isn’t allowed around Edward Nygma, he doesn’t need encouragement.

Tim Burton’s Alice in wonderland isn’t allowed when Jarvis Tetch is around, this should be common sense.

Most violence filled movies aren’t permitted around Zsasz, you don’t really need anything to trigger him.

If you find that Dr. Crane is taking a frequent interest in your personal fears and phobias you should immediately tell a guard or doctor and not tell him stupid made up fears and phobias as if he finds out that your lying he’ll make it his personal mission to make you frightened of your own lies.

It’s best to humour Joker when he asks if you want to know how he got his scars?.

Bragging about animal abuse is not only grounds for time being taken away from your recreational time but you may incur abuse from some of the animal loving inmates.

Instigating wheelchair races is not the purpose of the wheelchairs and is strictly prohibited.

Telling Jarvis that the ghost of Arkham is watching him sleep will earn you solitary confinement.

Writing riddles on the walls and then trying to blame Edward isn’t clever, because he will pick so many holes in your argument and ridicule you so savagely that your likely to end up developing a self inferiority complex.

Trying to steal Osito to sleep with at night isn’t going to end well. For anyone.

Please refrain from stealing medication as we regret to inform you that we believe some of them may have been tampered with, if you begin to laugh uncontrollably, start to feel that Jarvis is making sense or ten foot cockroaches are stampeding through the halls please tell a doctor or guard.

Asking two face to flip a coin for every mundane decision you make is eventually going to end up with your life being determined by a fifty fifty probability.

Telling Jarvis that the Grudge is looking for him is again not acceptable.

There are some patients that suffer from insomnia and stress induced sleep deprivation, if said patients happen to fall asleep then leave them alone it isn’t your place to be as loud as you possibly can to try and wake them up, it’s not just really annoying but it could result in them taking it out on the first person to wake them up, so just make sure it’s not you.

We would appreciate it if everyone who frequents the gym to stop trying to get Bane and Waylon to lift increasingly heavy weights, it always ends in competitions turning into fights.

Male inmates who try to sneak into the female showers please keep in mind that the last time this happened his remains was recovered from the drainage system.

And in relation any female inmates who try to sneak into the male showers…are actually non existent, seriously no one wants to go in there. O_O

Please check your personal toiletries before using them, apparently Joker and Harley has an ongoing bet to see which one of them can dye the most people’s hair.

Trying to play whack a mole on the other patient with Harley’s hammer is strictly prohibited.

Please refrain from laughing at Riddler’s green hair, it is being resolved. :?

The rumours aren’t true there isn’t going to be a 'trick or treating crazies field trip’ please try to remember your here for your own rehabilitation.

Hair dryers are very welcome but trying to thaw out Mr. Freeze with them is not.

Please remember that giving medication forms into the doctors that have been signed by either Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane or Hugo Strange are not valid they are patients their selves, there are reasons to why they can no longer practice.

Trying to show Jarvis Alice madness returns the game is strongly discouraged.

please do not touch Nightmare or Craw.

No, you can not have your straight jackets in sparkly pink.

Upon apprehension some patients may have their own personal work on their person, trying to plagiarise or copy their life’s work is going to end up you experiencing the product of their work firsthand.

Please use the doors and not make new exits.

Your sinking to a new level if you ask Mr. Freeze 'is your wife giving you the cold shoulder?’.

Deprive people of caffeine at your own risk.

Music Meister will not sing for you, why would you even want him to?

Killer moth isn’t going to follow laser pointers, he only dresses like a moth.

Touch Harley’s J necklace at your own cost.

The spinach in the canteen is not part kryptonite, and if your stupid enough to try and throw it at superman as a deterrent then on your head be it.

Detective J'onn johnz is not an alien.

No, Vicky vale doesn’t want an exclusive interview with you.

Jack Ryder might have published a paper on his triumph over Floyd Lawton but Deadshot says otherwise.

No you can’t phone Amanda Weller with your phone privileges and ask her to 'sign me up for the suicide squad!“.

Robin doesn’t have to sign in as a minor, stop insisting he does.

Bruce Wayne will not adopt you.

Music Meister will not serenade you, he might perforate your eardrums but he won’t serenade you.

Joker really doesn’t like cream pies in the face, who knew?

No you can’t use Zsasz as a living tally chart board when your playing pool, he might return the favour.

Deathstroke will not teach you some 'really cool Army shit!’ He could possibly demonstrate some 'really cool Army shit!’ On you but he won’t teach you.

The last person to sing Miley Cyrus’s wreaking ball actually ended up squashed by one, I have no idea how they pulled it off but they did, really creatively too.

Yes security levels at Wal-Mart are better, we all know.

Ichobod is not Jonathan’s real name.

Green arrow isn’t looking for maid Marian.

And no he’s not from the legend of Zelda either.

It’s quite easy to swipe Boles’s burbon. Just don’t tell him I told you.

Trying to lift Catwoman up like the lion king isn’t going to work.

Oswald isn’t pingu.

No you can’t redecorate your cell, it’s not meant to be homely.

Bribing the staff isn’t advised but we all know you could probably get away with it.

Batman isn’t into BDSM.

Ra’s al ghul isn’t going to die if you throw salt at him, you might though.

please be kind, I know it’s not the best written piece in the world. I’m resitting my English and maths and trying to improve by writing the subjects I like.

[acahyeri-blog]

→ introductions ! ☆

➣  [ ‘ wipes off sweat after following the masterlist ] woo! that was a workout! with that out of the way, it’s time to finally give my proper greetings to the great muns behind the wonderful muses of academykrp!! this is kitty, and this is my first time venturing out of mf/panfandom rp, and i think my friends made the right decision to drag me here to get started (=´∇｀=) i’m not too good with intros like these, but please do like this post so i could slide in your ims (or slide into mine). 

to get us started, click here and here for hyeri’s profile and essay! i also put a tl;dr, some little plots, and wanted relationships under the cut! please do check it out! ฅ(＾・ω・＾ฅ)

[ TL;DR ] 

hyeri is a 95-line junior taking a double major in political science and public administration, all in the name of taking over the world in the near future! she’s very serious about this, and has a twenty-step life-plan to help her achieve it (and with her skills, maybe she really can!)

she’s the daughter of two cosmetic industry giants--her mother owns riverlilee--a world-famous make-up and skin care line (which she models for, sometimes!) while her father is an internationally acclaimed cosmetic surgeon, whose consultation rates go above six figure won prices.

her IQ is over two hundred, and is a member of mensa

even with this, her father doesn’t believe she could be a rightful heir to their industry (spoiler: he’s sexist) and sends her to marriage meetings almost every other week, much to her chagrin.

she topped the CSAT with a near perfect score. she made a speech during the university’s opening ceremony and implied that everybody was inferior to her (”you can work hard and study hard--a great thing!--but you will never be up to my level. but that’s okay! i promise to be a benevolent leader once i’m elected into office. you’ll be in good hands with a genius like me!) you can already guess how the people reacted.

she was offered slots in harvard, along many other known ivy league universities, but declined in favor of bidulgi (she has her reasons!)

she’s jeonghan’s beard fake girlfriend, and have been dating for a total of six years (and counting). she has also known mingyu, chungha ever since middle school, and is cousins with lee jihoon. 

she lives in a three-bedroom, loft-style hotel suite with seola

personality wise, she appears ditzy and self-absored (and she is), but it all changes once she starts talking about the constitution, debating theoretical concepts, or solving high-level mathematical problems in record time. think legally blonde, except she’s a brunette!

hyeri genuinely thinks she’s better than everybody else (there is some truth to that) and has a hard time making friends because of her condescending personality. still, she’s a good kid deep down; her superior intellect just left a few holes in her emotional and social development. 

despite this, she’s still a bad drunk, and becomes touchy, giggly, and prone to stripping to her designer lingerie once intoxicated.=

in summary, hyeri is an over-the-top, larger-than-life, bunny-ears supergenius with genuine plans for world domination, and is gearing up to be the most extra world overlord to ever walk this earth.

[ WANTED RELATIONSHIPS ] 

freshmen who she pays to do mundane errands, like sprinkling flower petals in her path or blowing wind into her hair as she walks to class. these freshmen are either infatuated with her, or just want some extra cash. it’s open to all courses and all genders!

every queen needs a secretary, and hyeri is no exception. this one is a lowerclassman who helps our future world overlord with her hectic schedule, and makes sure she has a cup of her favorite sweet potato latte (soymilk, please) every morning. preferably female, please!

there are very few people who can match her intellect, so when hyeri meets a muse who can keep up with her rapid fire brain, she couldn’t help but feel a little threatened. and now, hands on her waist and high-heeled feet apart, she has publicly declared your muse as her lifelong rival. both an honor and a burden, really. open to all courses and genders!

a benevolent future overlord like hyeri also makes it a point to assist underclassmen and steer them to the right path, so she picks a hoobae from her course to groom. this means access to her well-written notes, free study tips, and even shopping sessions (or drinking!) when she feels like it. political science majors only, all genders!

kids are cruel, and hyeri has been betrayed by a supposed bestfriend when she was five years old, hence her distrust for “plebes”. but lo, their paths cross once more in bidulgi. will it lead to much needed forgiveness, or will you have her heel stuck in your thigh? open to all majors, preferably a junior, and required to be a female. 

everyone wants the benefit of being friends with a rich kid like hyeri, who spends money on her close friends like it was nothing. but do you really like her? or are you just there to get a taste of her fame? 

you’ve known she’s haughty, you’ve known she’s not available (but really, you don’t believe it’s true love), and you’ve known she has the tendency to step on plebes like she was made for it. still, that doesn’t stop you from falling head over heels in infatuation with the future queen, and you’re doing everything to get her to look your way. but really, all it gives hyeri is some slight annoyance and a lot of amusement. are you up for the challenge of a persistent suitor? any major, preferably male. 

[ POSSIBLE PLOTS ] 

you’re sleepy af from pulling an all nighter and was walking aimlessly along the university roads when a speeding car almost ran you over. you almost wanted to ask the driver to try again, but hyeri looks beyond worried when she parks to check if you’re okay. “world overlords can’t have criminal records, so you have to come to the clinic with me”

you know bidulgi is filled with celebrities and high-ranking people, but you still weren’t expecting to see riverlilee’s spokesmodel lee hyeri in the same bathroom as you. what would you do?

as a part of a well-known family, you’ve been invited to a marriage meeting for the lee heiress. what you didn’t expect is that the beautiful girl in your talks with your parents is the condescending genius from university. would you stay to watch how this would go, and maybe lead to discover that the ditzy queen has more depth than she puts out? 

you were quietly walking along the streets of seoul when you spot hyeri hiding behind a standee and she gets the scare of her life when you ask what she’s doing. apparently, her dad set her up to another marriage meeting and the man turned out to smell worse than an onion patch. she then gets an idea to get you help her out of the sticky situation and you’re now swept on a day-long adventure in seoul, hiding from her many bodyguards until the clock strikes twelve (or maybe, beyond?)

get the resident genius as a tutor! 

one of her hobbies is destroying other budding lawyers in mock-court, and you’re picked to be a member of her team for this week’s round.

hyeri is a bad drunk, and is always in a tight situation if she’s not flanked by jeonghan or mingyu. there’s a lot of ways this night could go. 

all of these plots could be picked more than once, and i am absolutely up for brainstorming if nothing here fits!! i hope to have a lot of fun here with my dear extra baby! please take care of me and this baby queen!

xoxo

kitty