#that is being perpetuated with the intent to harm.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 16: Riddles

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The manor is mute except for the scratch of paper as you flip the page of Astarion’s sketchbook and contemplate the detailed drawing of yourself. You frown as you try to brush the name over the woman, painting her with the letters and hues of every syllable. It doesn’t matter what portrait you look at; the name still feels foreign and unrecognizable.

Whoever the woman in these drawings is, she is lost to you. She took her name to the grave, and some things cannot be exhumed. You close the book, your eyes sailing up the wall toward the ceiling.

Should you miss her? Grieve her? Forget her?

Climbing onto the bed, you hold your palm out, summoning the flames from the candles. You close your fist to extinguish them and let the black wings of darkness envelop the room. You have a strange feeling that you’re not entirely that woman any longer, which you can’t put into words. You were disassembled somewhere between life, death, and this everlasting afterlife, and your pieces weren’t arranged in quite the same pattern.

You have lost and gained so much in so little time. Would you recognize yourself even if you had a reflection?

There’s an ache in the vacant chamber where your dead heart hangs, frozen in the static state of death. The pang of discomfort doesn’t belong to you, though. Astarion has been leaving the link open more and more, and you’re learning what he meant when he said the world around him seems to move in slow motion.  

You once made the mistake of thinking Astarion could no longer feel, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. The reality is that he feels everything with an intensity you cannot begin to fathom. His emotions are like shooting stars. They streak through him, blazing bright and winking out in the blink of an eye.

His beating heart gives away Astarion's return. He doesn’t bother lighting a candle when he enters the room, hanging his formal suit coat.

You light a candle with a twitch of your finger. “You must forgive yourself, Astarion.”

Astarion sighs, rubbing his face. “What gave me away this time?”

“The same thing.” You splay your hand across your chest. This is not the first time you’ve mentioned the ache, as if your heart is in a perpetual state of being torn. “When you hurt, I hurt.”

You feel his intention to cut the coupling, to give you a break from the pain, and you fight against it.

“Don’t,” you rebuke, narrowing your eyes at the increasing pressure in your head. “Please. Stop trying to shut me out.”  

Astarion’s eyes fall to the sketchbook you left on the bedside table. “Do you not recognize your name still?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head and fidgeting with your fingers. This is the whole reason for the pain he’s been wallowing in—a bog of guilt and shame. He’s more upset over it than you are. You smile, making your voice a gentle hug. “Give me some time, and I will get used to it.”

“You should not have to get used to your own fucking name,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes closed, and the pain in your chest increases. It feels like your heart is warping itself into knots. “Not even Cazador went as far as to remove my name from my memory.”

“You are not Cazador,” you snap back sternly. “Stop comparing yourself to him. The situation is entirely different.”

“No,” Astarion growls, raising his voice, overtaken by repulsion. “I’m something much worse. At least there were limits to his power. No restrictions hinder me.”

“Good Gods! Just stop!” You yell, jumping off the bed. You’re unsure if your anger is partly due to what Astarion is feeling or your irritation at his self-loathing. At least he cannot remember taking you to the kennels. You don’t think he will ever recover. “You’re not him, and you’re not the darkness inside. You must separate the two.”

Astarion scoffs, turning away and waving dismissively, “I think it best if you rest in your room tonight.”

You deflate, anger being replaced by his disregard and the sharp sting of rejection. Astarion has been making you sleep in your room for days. At first, you thought he needed space, but he’s only become increasingly distant and withdrawn.

“Why are you doing this?” You step toward him, but he tenses and shies away, making you halt. You try to decipher his retreat through the bond, but Astarion is carefully guarding his emotions.

“Doing what?” He asks casually, keeping his blank stare on the wall.

“You show me an open door, then slam it on me and pull the rug out from under my feet!” You look up, hating that tears have begun crawling down your cheeks. “You think keeping your distance from me is keeping me safe, but you’re tearing me apart. Do you even want me here anymore, Astarion? Should I go?”

“Don’t go,” he whispers, brittle and weak. If your hearing were not so sharp, thanks to your vampirism, you wouldn’t have heard him. There’s another stab in your chest that feels like it rips the muscles right off your bones, and you whimper, clutching at your skin. “Please.”

“I can’t take this anymore,” you plead, taking another step, only to watch him tense. Your arms drop to your sides. Your heartbreak is affecting him. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, and he winces almost imperceptibly at every sob you stifle. “Why are you pushing me away?”

Astarion finally turns, wracking his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if I can be what you need me to be—what you deserve.”

“I know you don’t love me,” you sigh, shrugging. It always comes back to this. “You need to listen to me; let my words sink into your skin and fade into your soul. I missed you with such intensity that it felt like I died every day we were apart. You are my forever, even if I am not yours, and that’s okay.” You shake your head dismially, unsure how to get through to him. “I love you. Goodnight.”

You’re near your room when Astarion appears in front of you out of thin air, and you bump into him. He vaults you off your feet and into his arms before you can register his movement, making you yelp at the surprise of having your feet swept out.

“Shit,” He holds you firmly against him, his lips pressed to your forehead in a lingering kiss. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to leave. Stay with me, little love. I need you.”

“Stop pushing me away.” You tangle your fingers into his hair, with your face nestled into the crook of his neck.

“I will.” His hand comes to the back of your head as he walks back to his room and places you gently on the bed with adoration in his eyes. “You are my forever, Illyria. Aeterna Amantes.”

“Lovers forever,” you finish, sidling up close to him and laying your head on his chest.

The teeth of guilt gnawing inside your chest cavity have finally relinquished your heart as their chew toy, and all that remains is the steady thrum of Astarion’s borrowed heartbeat.

“Until the world falls down, my love,” he purrs, placing a finger under your chin and his lips embracing yours.

The slow rocking rise and fall of his chest is like the sway of gentle waves; the beat of his heart is a lullaby whispering serenity into your soul, and you slip peacefully into your trance.

Upon waking, your hand meanders across the silken surf of the sheets, only to find Astarion’s side of the bed cold and void. Rolling onto your back, your eyes drag open, and you listen for the telltale susurrus of a heartbeat. A frown creases your forehead when you’re met with nothing but the anonymous creaks and groans of the manor.

Astarion doesn’t usually leave without mentioning his absence as a warning to stay indoors and away from the windows. A florid scent catches your attention, prompting you to turn your head.

On Astarion’s pillow, a red rose rests and a folded note with your name penned in his delicate, flowing hand.

“Good morning, beautiful.

I apologize for my absence, but I am not far. I’ve left blood for you in the kitchen.

Eternally yours,

Astarion.”

The promise of awaiting blood stirs you to your feet hastily. Your belly coils with anticipation, and you barely have enough restraint to dress and run a comb through your hair before you’re bounding down the stairs.

A golden goblet, elaborately etched with prismatic dragon scales that mirror yours, sits on the counter. You snatch it greedily and bring it to your lips. The blood is cool, so you allow your palms to heat slowly, warming it as it inspires your taste buds to recite their devotion to the ambrosial elixir. It’s unmistakably Astarion’s blood. It knocks you over in a wave of delirium that makes your knees weak, and you lean into the counter to keep yourself from melting into the floor.

You’re not sure if it’s your imagination or reality, but you veritably hear Astarion chuckling in your head.

The meal is finished too soon, and you groan as you clean the last traces from your lips. When you open your dreamily heavy eyes, another folded note, previously hidden by the flared base of the goblet, catches your attention. You blink rapidly to clear the insensibility glazed across your sight before you can make any sense of the words before you.

“Find me using the clues I have scattered for you, my clever Illyria.

We have much to discuss.

“Reminisce beneath the faded tapestries, where laughter once echoed; seek the embers of our stolen kiss."

Clues? What in the Hells is Astarion up to, and what the fuck do you have to discuss? An icy shock runs from your dead heart into your feet. Is it possible he found out about Mizora and knows you’ve been keeping something from him? Would he play a game of cat and mouse with you?

You would not put it past him.

He’s left the link between you open, and you cannot feel any malice vibrating in the orchestra of emotions. If he’s figured out your secret, he’s hidden it well.

You stare at the hint with a furrowed brow. Embers of your stolen kiss? Faded tapestries? The pad of your finger rubs over the fringe of scales scored into the goblet’s surface while you think, and then you realize the damn chalice itself is another tip.

This does not belong to Astarion, or it didn’t before you and he stole it after breaking into a shop one night during your adventure. Astarion caught you eyeing it while you were buying supplies. You deemed it an impractical purchase. There was a far more dire need for healing potions and other necessities than to waste coin on frivolous trinkets.

He woke you up that night, dressed entirely in black, and dragged you back to the shop for a thrilling night of thievery and resulting debauchery. Where did you two go after to celebrate?

The Blushing Mermaid.

You dress quickly in a red dress with lace sleeves and a glimmering, golden dragon that snakes up your side. The skirt hugs your hips, flares slightly, and flutters around your knees. The golden bands of the matching hairpiece and circlet wreathe your forehead and long hair.

Throwing on your sandals, you stop dead at the door. The sun still shines outside, as evidenced by the tawny luminance glowing between the cracks in the drapery.

Astarion’s voice frisks across the bond: “You needn’t fear, love. You are safe.”

“What are you up to, Ascendant?” You query back, opening the door slowly and sticking your hand in the small ray to validate his claims.

He giggles, “Solve the riddles, and all will be revealed in time.”

The sky sings of sunset in hues of fire hearths gilded with golden inlays. Despite Astarion’s assurance, your skin still flinches over your muscles as if trying to pull itself away from your figure. Your eyes keep steadily on the majesty of the horizon as you trot through the streets to the Blushing Mermaid.

With the recent meal sloshing around in your stomach, your bloodlust is easier to manage. Still, when citizens brush by with their dainty necks on display, you’re tempted to give them a nibble.

The tavern is as busy as it typically is for late afternoon, but most patrons take no notice of you, engrossed in their revelry.

“Ah, the leaking blood bag.” Captain Grisly’s voice drifts from her quarters. “Nice to see you again. I hardly recognized you without your quarterstaff and haggard, blood-soaked robe.”

When you turn and her eyes catch the cracked crimson of yours, she gasps but holds her tongue with a clenched jaw.

You smile reassuringly and taunt, “Don’t worry. I won’t bite unless you ask very nicely.” There is something about people being afraid of you that’s thrilling. You cannot explain why. Perhaps you’re learning to accept this new you instead of feeling ashamed. It’s freeing. “Was my pale companion here earlier?”

The woman eyes you skeptically and nods, “Yes, Lord Ancunin was in earlier, but he warned me not to assist you.”

“Of course he did.” You roll your eyes as Astarion chuckles in your head. “It was nice to see you.”

“Please try not to make a meal out of my patrons,” Captain Grisly smirks. “The cleaning bills are already enough of a menace.”

You chuckle while your eyes dart around, trying to remember what you and Astarion got up to that night. The memory is garbled under the lagoon of ale you must have drunk.

You drank a lot. You danced. Oh Gods. You danced on the stage.

Your eyes swing to the faded tapestries hanging above a small alcove. Astarion had dragged you off the stage when your provocative swaying earned the attention of too many ogling eyes for his comfort.

“You are a godsdamned delinquent, Illyria,” he’d purred in your ear while he ironed his body to you possessively, shielding you from the onlookers with a forearm pressed above your head. “I have half a mind to take you right here, enchantress, to show these fools you belong to me.”

A small table sits in the alcove with a single candle lit. A white rose rests on it, with a dainty silver chain wrapped around the verdant stem. Unwrapping it, you hold a locket in your hand. The edges are adorned with two exquisitely detailed dragons, one light silver and one dark, forming a heart. In the middle, a black diamond is held by the silver dragon, and a normal diamond is held by the dark one, creating a magnificent contrast.

Opening the clasp, your eyes anchor to a sketch you haven’t seen before. It’s not of the mortal woman you don’t remember. It’s of you, as you must appear now. Your eyes are the only thing in vivid colour, and your fangs peek out of your smiling lips. Even though the picture is small, it holds an impossible amount of detail.

The smooth metal of the back is engraved with Astarion’s nickname for you, Amarillis. It’s Elven, your mother tongue, for Flame-Flower.

Putting the locket on, you find another note nestled between the petals of the rose.

“Where the forgotten lay to rest under the celestial canopy, find the crimson-kissed stone where a single star shines alone.”  

If you know Astarion, he’s left another hint somewhere in plain sight, like the goblet. You scan your surroundings for anything that looks out of place, and you find an image hanging on the wall behind the stage that you don’t recall being there.

You recognize the statue, Balduran Looks Out to Sea, located in the Tumbledown district of the outer city. It’s not an area you’ve spent much time in. Astarion and you went to sit on the cliff and watch the sunrise the day before you went to kill or be killed by Cazador.

Now, you just need to get there without eating anyone.

Twilight is a tangible whisper, bruising the stretch of sky in purple and navy when you return to the streets. Alleys and paths are easiest for you to traverse, and sometimes you Misty Step and skate over the roofs when you feel bloodlust evaporating from your control.

At least Tumbledown is far less busy than the Lower City, thanks to the misty veil that never seems to disentangle from the town. The soft percussion of waves from the River Chionthar pulsing upon the cliffside is rhythmic as you walk up the quiet path leading to the statue.

You reread the note, “Where the forgotten lay.”

Cliffside Cemetery.

The large graveyard spreads before you, composed of a bafflingly complex network of headstones, tombs, and old mausoleums. You keep your eye out for anything red, which will appear brazenly against the drab background of the assorted greys and greens of the mossy tombstones.

The moonlight casts eerie shadows that stretch and disfigure the terrain. The stars ignite the velvet wreath of night as you finally come upon a headstone with a red rose draped over it.

The weather over the centuries has worn, stained, and cracked the stone. Crouching, you carefully wipe off the grime that dulls the worn epitaph.

“Astarion Ancunin,” it reads.

Rest Peacefully Beneath a Canopy of Stars.

Your fingers trace the jagged lines unconsciously as tears brim in your eyes, sinking to your knees.

“I have not returned since I punched a hole in my coffin and dug through six feet of dirt nearly 200 years ago.” Astarion’s voice floats from behind you.

Leaping to your feet, you whirl with more agility than you’ve ever possessed and thrust yourself into his arms. Astarion is dressed in clothing reminiscent of his camp clothes, leaving the typical opulence of the Vampire Ascendant behind.

“You are not forgotten, Astarion,” you whisper against his chest.

Astarion’s arms wrap around you. His timbre is angelic and deep, vibrating through your skin and massaging your spirit. “I was. For 200 years, I was a ghost stalking the streets while whoever I was, whoever I could have been, lay dead and buried."

Taking your hand, he walks toward his grave, letting his fingers coast over the roughened stone. “Cazador was waiting for me when I surfaced, hacking up dirt and congealed blood. I was his from that day forward. Even this grave is located on lands once owned by the Szarr family. Yet another nod to his ownership of me, I suppose.”

His finger taps the headstone, but he’s smiling when he turns to look at you—a real, genuine smile that fills your heart with warmth. “Then you fell like an angel from the heavens, quite literally, and waged war on everything I thought I knew about the world. You gave me something I had been without for centuries—hope.”

“I’m no angel,” you whisper.

“You’re my angel, Illyria,” he asserts. With Astarion’s attire and the way he’s speaking, which is so entirely familiar, there’s a shot of recognition that stirs your psyche. For the first time since you relearned it, your name is not an abstract word in your head. Astarion must feel it because he smiles broadly and continues, “No one cared, no one gave me a second look, and no Gods answered my prayers. No one is like you; you’re you. You stood with me through bloodlust, pain, and misery. You trusted me. You were patient. You cared. You were the only one who never gave up on me. You still haven’t given up on me, even though it’s an objectively stupid thing to do.”

“You were being very sweet until you called me stupid.” You giggle as he wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“Sweet and savoury, my dear,” he chuckles. “I’ve been free for over a year. Yet, I am just beginning to figure out who I am and what I truly want out of this newfound life.”

“What do you want, Astarion?” You lean into him. “The world is yours for the taking.”

“Not what,” he says, shaking his head, sliding an arm around your waist, and his fingers grazing over the locket on your neck. He smiles, “But you will have to finish this little quest to find the answers you seek.” He hands you another note and winks, “I’ll see you soon.”

Astarion gives you a small, playful shove and strides away with a smirk. He bows and shifts into an unnaturally large, white bat with crimson eyes you would recognize in a sea of them, soaring around you while you laugh.

“You’re adorable, but are you soft?” You ask.

He answers in your head with a lilting laugh, “Shall we find out?”

He lands, folding his wings and resting on his headstone, and cocks his head. Your fingers tremble, unfoundedly afraid you might hurt him, as they stroke down the alabaster fur.

“Soft and cute.”

“I aim to please,” he snickers, taking off to kiss the stars. “You are wasting time, my treasure.”

You giggle at his jeering and watch him streak through the sky, so beautifully free, before reading the note.

"Seek the shore’s embrace, where stars align, and ascend the steps, bathed in candlelight’s shine. There, seek the terrace above the riverside; a question to decide.” 

Shore’s embrace. Now, this you know well. When Astarion turned you he insisted on renting a villa with this name near the river in the Lower City.

The trek back to the Lower City somehow feels lengthier as nervousness hits you, ticking away in your chest, every beat of Astarion’s heart amplifying your anxiety as if the seconds were grains of sand slipping away, impossible to grasp.

You can’t entirely tell if it’s yours or his. With the bond open and uninhibited, you are entangled, a tapestry of threads entwined so seamlessly that it’s difficult to distinguish where one of you begins and the other ends.

If Astarion has figured out you’re hiding something, he’s given you no indication, but some part of you still wonders if you’re walking into a trap. It’s hard to control your thoughts so they do not transfer to him, which he’s been trying to teach you so that you can keep the bond open, but your private thoughts can remain your own.

It makes you wonder what thoughts he keeps from you.

You smell the aromatic perfume of roses before you round the corner. The villa hangs onto the wall and overlooks the River Chionthar. The silver waves sway and reflect the impending dawn’s early light, cradling the morning’s first blush. Candles light the steps covered in white and red rose petals. It almost feels wrong to step on something so wonderful.

The beat in your chest thrums with anticipation, like your extinct heartbeat has woken and risen from the grave as you ascend the staircase to the grand entrance. Your breath catches in your throat as you enter the foyer. The sparkling crystal chandelier is lit, casting scintillating rainbows across the room. Rosemary incense burns, filling the air with an aroma that reminds you of home—of Astarion.

You follow the scattered rose petals leading to the terrace as the golden crown of the sun crests the horizon. Fear typically follows such a sight, but you’re revelling in grandeur.

The heartbeat behind you is the only thing that alerts you to Astarion’s presence. The man seemingly appears out of thin air, but if you had that ability, you would take advantage of it too, you suppose.

“This is beautiful,” you say, and your words are abruptly cut off.

As your eyes fall on Astarion in his resplendent tailored suit, he descends to one knee. His crimson eyes meet yours, sparkling with a celestial constellation mirroring the infinity of his love. The newborn sun lights up the adoration in his features.

“Illyria, my love,” he begins in a soft whisper before your brain can catch up to what is happening. “You are the fire that lights up my darkness, a melody that soothes my troubled soul. After being with you, there is no doubt that I have touched the heavens.” He hesitates momentarily, and the bond surges with warmth, longing, devotion, and good Gods, love, “I love you, and I fall more in love with you every day. I do not know what tomorrow brings, but right now, with you, the world feels right.”

His hand reaches into his pocket and produces a small, velvet box. Lifting the lid, the quick breaths you didn’t realize you'd been taking catch in your throat as your eyes fall on an exquisite ring, nestled on a bed of crimson silk, intricately crafted with a dragon claw, clutching a heart-shaped diamond to match the locket.

Astarion’s warm caramel baritone holds the sweet promise of eternity: “Will you marry me?”

Your hand shoots to your mouth to stifle the sound that erupts from your throat, somewhere between a whimper and a squeak. Your knees fold, unable to hold your weight any longer, and you drop, folding your arms around his neck and draping yourself over him.

His hand comes to your back, and he kisses your cheek. “Is this happy crying, or have I made a grave miscalculation?”

“Happy crying,” you stutter through shaky breaths.

He chuckles, nuzzling you. “Is this a yes?”

“Yes!” You pull back, nodding in case he cannot understand you through your weeping. “But I need one thing from you."

"Ask, and I shall make it yours,” he purrs.

You cradle his cheek, sweeping your thumb across it. “Say it again.”

He smirks, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I love you.”

“One more time,” you choke out.

“Gods above,” he giggles. “Is this all you will have me say now?”

You smile, the tips of your fangs peeking from your lips. “It sounds very good in your mouth.”

“You know I do not repeat myself for anyone,” he taunts. “Anyone but you, my love.” Astarion takes your hand, slipping the ring onto your finger, looking deeply into your eyes. “I love you, Illyria, my wife, my everything.”

“I love you, too, Astarion, my husband, my shining star.”

He beams, “I do rather like that, you know,” he muses. “When you call me husband.”

His arm wraps around your waist, easing you to your feet. You clutch onto him to keep yourself upright as your knees wobble like a newborn fawn and try to watch the sunrise with your head on his chest, but your eyes keep drifting to the ring adorning your finger, reminding yourself that this did, in fact, just happen.

“Do you like it?” He murmurs, catching your eyes moored to it.

“I love it,” you whisper. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I should hope not,” he chuckles. “I designed it. No one will ever have anything similar.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, you know me,” he shrugs. “I killed the jeweller to make sure he could never replicate it.”

Your head snaps up, wide-eyed, to look at him. He glances at you and bursts into laughter. “A jest, sweetheart.”

“I hope you at least compelled him to forget it,” you snicker. “Or I may have to drain anyone I see with anything similar.”

“Oh,” he giggles. “I do so adore it when you’re murderous. Speaking of draining someone, I’ve had you running around the city all night. You must be positively famished.”

“You fed me,” you say, arching a brow at him. “Lucky for the citizens of the Lower City. Some of them smell very tasty.”

Astarion’s hands find the back of your thighs, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he lifts you. “Not as tasty as me, I hope.”

“No one could ever be as tasty as you,” you purr. “Your blood is nearly as charming as you are.”

He chuckles, taking you into the villa and setting you on the lofty mattress. “Well, who am I to deny your hunger? I would not be a very good husband if I did not keep my lovely wife satisfied. Would I?”

“What are you saying exactly?” You sweep your fingers through his hair as he undoes the elaborate clasps of his suit jacket. He discards it and loosens the collar of his shirt. You quirk your head at him. “Speak plainly.”

“I want you to bite me,” he purrs, pushing your legs to part for him with his knee and leaning over you. His lips mould to yours in a reverential kiss as his hands wander your body and ignite your desire.

“Bite you?” You breathe. “You said I couldn’t.”

“No.” Astarion removes his shirt, and your palms skim over his chest. “I said you can’t unless I permit you. You are as close to a True Vampire as you can get, my consort. It will not change you.”

“I don’t want to change,” you murmur, your fingers pressing firmly into his sculpted muscles. The offer of blood is tempting your hunger. “You’re giving me permission?”

He smirks, “Go on then. I’ll allow it.”

“Where?” Astarion cranes his neck to the side in an invitation. It takes everything you have not to leap for that magnificently pulsing vein. “Your neck?”

“Is there something wrong with my neck, my dear?”

“No. Of course not,” you giggle. “You have a very lovely neck. This is just new, that’s all. I didn’t think you would want to be, uh, well, bitten.”

“Your bite, my sweet,” he purrs, pressing his chest against yours and pinning you between him and the mattress. “Is divine. Only you will ever get the great honour of biting the Vampire Ascendant.”

“I godsdamned better be!” You huff, “I don’t share, Astarion. Not your body, not your blood, and definitely not your heart. You are mine and only mine. ”

He giggles, “Possessive little thing. Aren’t you? Not to worry, my love. I do not intend to share. I am yours. Wholly, and completely yours.”

You trace your lips down the shell of his ear. Your heart frolics at the ardent shudder that courses through his body and how the breath hitches in his throat. Kissing his neck until you feel the vein pulsing against your lips, you wait until he whispers his shaky, anticipatory approval.

The razor-sharp points of your fangs kiss his skin, and you wait for your body to seize up, but it doesn’t. You bite quick and sure, trying your best to be gentle. You feel the pop of your fangs puncturing his skin. His blood erupts into your mouth, caressing your tongue with heavenly heat that cascades through the channels of your veins and nestles between your thighs. You drink from him slowly but deeply, and your body trembles.

Astarion groans, deep and rich, his hot breath fanning the cool skin of your neck, and you feel the icy pinch of his fangs sink into you. You wash through him, and he passes through you in a paradisiacal torrent. The pleasure that harmonizes over the bond is transcendent. You swear you could come undone for this alone, and you ease your fangs from his neck and moan.

He kisses you with a bruising intensity. His tongue parts your lips so you can taste the essence of each other, and he bucks his hips into your aching sex, sending you spiralling into that frisson of pure delirium.

The clothes on your body feel much too restricting, and you whimper. The barrier of fabric between you feels unbearable. Astarion’s fingers go to his trousers, but his usual adroitness is nowhere to be seen as his fingers fumble with the laces.

He stares at his fingers dumbfounded for a moment and then looks at you with an arched brow and giggles gleefully, “Do you by any chance feel absurdly intoxicated?”

You writhe on the bed, unable to contain your ardent lust, as your brain awkwardly processes his question.

“Entirely,” you laugh. Gods. You thought you were high on him last time, but you are almost senseless in your need. You’re not even sure if you’re walking on the planes of reality or in some delightful hallucination, and you cannot find it within you to care. “Is this not normal?”

Astarion throws his trousers to the side, rucks up your dress clumsily, and tosses it away. “I’m not entirely sure. I may have read something about it, but I cannot quite remember where or when.” He shrugs. “We will have to experiment.”

Precum glistens, dripping from the head of his swollen cock. You are overcome with the absolute need for his salty, heady taste on your tongue. You lunge at him, bowling him over. Your movements are somehow swift and equally ungainly.

You lick up his shaft with a long, broad tongue stroke, feeling the ridges of his distended veins, before you engulf him in the wet heat of your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the blunt head of his cock. He sucks in sharp, shuddering breaths, fingers in your hair as you worship him, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking, taking him deeper and deeper until his cock tickles the back of your throat.

“Illyria,” he moans breathlessly. “Hells. You’ve got to stop before I lose my composure.”

But you’re not entirely sure you could stop, even if you wanted to. No. You want to feel his cock twitching on your tongue and his seed shooting into your throat. You want to drink his essence like a fine wine.

“Illyria,” he warns, trembling fingers curling into your hair. You feel the telltale pulse, hear the way his breath becomes ragged and uneven, and you take him over the edge in a few bobs of your head. He cries out, your name a sweet litany in his voice.

His seed bursts into your mouth, and you moan at the salt of him, swallowing every drop he gives you like a thirsty traveller. He is candied like heaven, wicked like hell, and, oh, so fucking delicious.

He pulls your head back by your hair and stares at you like he has found an oasis in an arid desert. You lick your swollen, red lips, determined to get every last drop of him that you can.

“Bad girl,” he purrs, shoving you flat on your back and pressing his lips to yours. He explores your mouth. “I taste exultant on your tongue.”

His fingers run through the seam of your dripping folds, coating them in the sleek of your arousal and easing into your fluttering channel. Astarion presses the pads firmly into that sweet spot inside that blinds you with pleasure, the heel of his palm caressing your clit with mind-numbing friction.

It does not take him long to settle into a rhythm that throws you somersaulting over the cusp of your own release with a lewd, wild cry, and he does not stop until he’s lured every possible shockwave from your body.

Astarion grabs your waist, tugging you down the bed as he settles between your thighs, sliding his length through your folds, his head teasing your overstimulated pearl. He guides himself into you, working your sex open inch by inch as you stretch to accommodate his girth.

Where everything before this was wild, almost savage, and borderline uncivilized, this is slow, passionate, and unhurried. He rocks his hips in languid pumps, coming to his forearm with his forehead pressed against yours. He is not fucking you. He is making love to you.

“You are mine,” he rasps through shaky gasps. It is not a proclamation of his ownership of you. It is not a command. It’s more of a plea for reassurance. “Yes?”

“Yours,” you confirm breathlessly, your eyes squeezed closed in pure rapture as he massages every one of your ridges poetically. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, and you cling to him as if you might float away on this cloud. “I’ve always been yours.”

“Gods. I love you,” he shudders between uneven breaths.

You will never tire of hearing those words, tasting them as they hinge off his tongue, and feeling them as they dally over the bond.

You clench around him, expelling a sighing groan from his mouth that you catch on your lips, determined to taste his ecstasy. His arm folds around your waist, forcing you to arch into him with his other hand at the back of your head. Astarion changes the angle of his thrusts but keeps the easy tempo. The blunt head of his cock waves over the sensitive pad of nerves inside you with every roll of his hips, and his groin grinds against your needy clit.

Astarion purposefully brings you close to your climax and then eases you away from it until you’re a whimpering mess beneath him.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to take this withholding any longer. From his taut muscles and the way Astarion shakes, you know he cannot either. “Gods.”

“Open your eyes and come with me, my love.” Astarion increases the sensual pace rhythmically. The building pleasure pools in your abdomen, coiling tighter and tighter with every snap of his hips.

You open your eyes, blinking away the daze of passion, and cradle his cheek as he gazes at you affectionately. You’ve never seen his eyes so vividly crimson, as if his love for you itself was shining through the scarlet depths.

He knows the moment you begin to tread the fine edge of euphoria, gripping his girth and begging him to flood you with his pleasure. You shatter, spasms and white-hot pleasure ripping through you so intensely that the candles in the room go out and reignite with every contraction of your walls.

“F-fuck,” he moans loudly, a roll of purring thunder echoing in his chest. With one last pump, Astarion tremors, cock pulsing, and spilling into you. His hips stutter, pulsing deeply within you with every twitch of his cock.

He pushes the sweaty strands of hair from your face as you both struggle to catch your breath. You may never get used to his new speedy movements because, before you even realize you’re moving, he’s rolled you so that your limp body blankets his.

His fingers caress up and down the valley of your spine as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, heaving a sigh of pure happiness while you are once again captivated by the ring wreathing your finger.

Astarion kisses your palm, placing it on his chest, and plays with the ring on your finger. “Will you tell your friends?”

“Our friends,” you correct, even though many don’t fancy him. “Of course. I am not ashamed.”

Astarion nods with a lopsided grin. “Even Gale?”

“Especially Gale,” you giggle.

“I simply must be there when you do,” he snickers. “The look on his face is sure to be exquisite.”

“I am positive he will have choice words for me,” you laugh.

Astarion bristles, “He best watch his words when I am near. I will not tolerate him speaking down to you.”

“Easy, Ascendant,” you tut, clicking your tongue at him. “I am capable of dealing with Gale and his words. I am not a maiden in need of saving.”

Astarion relaxes, chuckling, “A maiden you most certainly are not. I am going to have to field noise complaints.”

You pat his chest, smirking, “All in a day’s work, husband. Our neighbours are going to hate us.”

“We will simply purchase all the houses in the neighbourhood if they become too bothersome,” Astarion chimes, jostling you. “Think of all the places I could make you scream for me.”

You both break into laughter together, still immersed in the intoxication of each other’s blood.

But your bliss doesn’t last long as reality grips its claws into your rapture and bleeds it dry.

You cannot possibly continue to keep what you know for him. How can you expect your love to thrive where secrets sleep? He has to know he can trust you to be honest with him, even when that honesty frightens you. You would want him to tell you if the roles were reversed.

Guilt and fear tangle together and ball in your throat. Astarion jolts at the sudden change in your mood as it resonates over the union, sinking into him as if it were his own. His brows furrow and his eyes dart around aimlessly as he tries to understand the trouble he feels.

“What is wrong, little love?” He coos, taking your hand in his. You can feel his anxiety and the quickened pace of his heart in his palm. “You are frightened. You needn’t be afraid. I am getting better at controlling it. You can tell me anything.”

You steel yourself against the panic. His. Yours. Your combined dread.

You swallow and force the words out of your mouth. “I know what ails you.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going, and I appreciate each of you!

As always, please enjoy.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

-We finally got Astarion to say he loves her, multiple times, and a lot more than that. ❤️💍

How is he going to react when she finally comes clean? 🫣

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #ascendant astarion #soft ascended astarion #named tav #bg3 fic #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #fangs and fractured hearts

[bigenderpolls]

Bisexuals who are not biromantic or vice versa are also Fully Bi. Aphobe, Biphobe.

Thank you for that. The wording was bad on that poll and I hadn't realized it until I had posted it. The wording should have been "bi across all forms of attraction."

However, this is not how to be an ally or how to call out behaviors in your own community. You cannot assume everything is in bad faith, especially from your own peers. You don't need to talk to me the same way you'd talk to some queerphobic bigot.

Poll got fucked up. I fucked up. I was more than willing to redo the poll with no problem. And, in fact, I will. I forgot the "no" option anyway, which was another really stupid idea on my part.

(I am also aspec in some ways but much less likely to talk about it now. So there's that.)

#stormy.ask #anon #bigender #biphobia #aphobia #People think I'm a pushover because I'm the YB3 guy. #It's a persona. #That blog is me behind a persona. #I don't take shit outside of what I do for YB3. #Talk to your fellow queers like they're actually people #and know when to call out real biphobia and aphobia #that is being perpetuated with the intent to harm.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

This post used to hold a poem inspired by the Rev. Munther Isaac's declaration that "God is under the rubble in Gaza."

After a few anons and a conversation with a Jewish friend, I've decided to take the poem down because, regardless of my own intentions with it, it risks feeding the long and extremely harmful history of blood libel, because I included imagery of the infant Jesus and his parents being killed by an Israeli soldier, as many Palestinians are being killed now.

Before talking with that friend, I wrote in this response to an anon about my intentions with the poem — but while I do believe that intentions do matter, they don't matter nearly as much as impact does.

My friend helped me come to the conclusion that while the poem I wrote could be interpreted as I intended by people who already have all the context I wrote it in (see below), it could also all too easily be interpreted much more harmfully by those who lack that context — or worse, who are looking for more fuel for their antisemitism. The poem is not worth that risk, not at all.

___

Ultimately, I hold two things I believe to be true in tension:

that Christians throughout the ages have found deep comfort and encouragement in understanding Jesus as suffering in and with them. I support all Christian Palestinians who, like Rev. Isaac, experience God-with-them in this way — in this horrific time, they deserve any ounce of comfort they can derive. And them personally seeking and finding the Divine presence with them is not antisemitic.

that for Christians like myself in the USA, who live in the beating heart of Empire and Christian Supremacy, it is vital to take care in how we talk about this theology in this current situation, where the oppressors are Jewish. Providing more fuel for Christian antisemitism is inexcusable, and I deeply apologize for writing and sharing a piece that can be used in that way.

Because modern-day Israel is a Jewish state, exploring that Divine solidarity in this context comes with a great risk of perpetuating the long, harmful history of antisemitic blood libel and accusations of deicide. How do we affirm God’s presence with those suffering in Palestine without (implicitly or explicitly) adding to the poisonous lie that “the Jews killed Jesus”?

In wrestling with this complexity, I tried to write this poem to uplift both Jesus’s Jewishness and his solidarity with Palestinians. Jesus was born into a Jewish family, his entire worldview was shaped by his Jewishness, and he shared in his people’s suffering under the Roman Empire. His solidarity with Palestinians of various faiths suffering today does not erase that Jewishness. Nor does it mean that Jewish persons don’t “belong” in the region — only that modern Israel’s occupation of Palestine is in no way necessary for Jews to live and thrive there, or anywhere else in the world.

I also aimed to point out that Israel is by no means acting alone in this attack on Gaza or their decades-long occupation of Palestine. There is a much larger Empire at work, with my own country, the United States, at the helm. Israel is entangled in that imperial mess, and directly backed and funded by those forces — not because of what politicians claim, that we have to back Israel or else we’re antisemitic, but because Israel is our strategic foothold in the so-called Middle East. How do we name our complicity as our tax dollars are funneled into violence across the world, and act to end that violence?

___

I'm sorry this post isn't as articulate as I want it to be. All of this to say: I deeply apologize for any hurt my poem caused. I understand how horrific Christianity's history of — and ongoing present — antisemitism is, and how it poisons and warps so much that could have been beautiful. I'll keep educating myself; I'll keep having hard conversations; I'll keep working to uproot antisemitism in myself and my communities.

___

I'll close with a list of resources for learning about Palestine's history and getting involved.

#deeply grateful E that you were willing to have that conversation with me! #you didn't have to and i appreciate the time and energy you spent doing so. solidarity forever <3

[kaynothanks]

On His Collar | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wilson!Reader

Warnings: bucky’s one jealous boi, lil bit of violence, no smut which (for me) really is surprising, smooching, being caught

Summary: Bucky can't keep his hands off you and your brother notices

Word-Count: 12.3K

With a nervous gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you were only half-aware of your leg's relentless fidgeting. Your eyes remained affixed to the world beyond the car window, the landscape blurring as the vehicle, courtesy of Zemo's orchestration, sped on. Vague details of the city drawing closer had filtered through to you via documents and whispers; the scant knowledge of its shadowy dealings enough to stir an unsettling churn within your chest. From a distance, Madripoor was breathtaking, its myriad lights flickering through the rain's swift descent, captured momentarily on the glass before you.

This fleeting illumination conjured memories of a night several months prior, when a call in the deep, silent hours had pierced your tranquility. Urged by his voice, laced with an unspoken desperation, you hadn't hesitated. Your car had cut through the sleeping city of New York, a beacon in the dark, drawn to alleviate his turmoil. The lights of that night, though bearing a resemblance to the ones now stretched before you, held a beauty tinged with a personal touch, perhaps making them appear even more enchanting.

You released a breath tinged with anxiety, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the scant dress that, for reasons unknown, Zemo had at his disposal. The material, with its thinness and the overlay of silver glitter, chafed against your skin, a constant reminder of its presence. However, the knowledge of Zemo's opulent wealth lent you the perspective that this barely-there garment might indeed possess a value surpassing the collective worth of your entire wardrobe.

"You good?" came your brother's voice, close enough to stir the air by your ear, pulling your attention sharply towards him.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself studying him, ensnared in your own whirlpool of anxiety. The furrow of worry etching deep between his brows sent a sharp pang through your heart. Witnessing this, a desperate plea bubbled within you, a silent yearning for him to cease his endless vigil over you—to halt his attempts at shielding you from every conceivable harm, to stop viewing you through the lens of perpetual childhood, to simply cease the worry that seemed to etch itself into his very being. The thought of being the source of such profound distress, such tangible sorrow for him, was more than you could bear. Heaven knows, the troubles you'd landed yourself in, the predicaments from which he'd extricated you time and again, were countless, far beyond what your fingers could tally.

Sam was the epitome of the brother everyone should be blessed with. From the tender years of your childhood, he had been the figure you looked up to, the beacon that guided many of the choices that had shaped your life. And in the wake of your father's passing, his protective instincts didn't just increase; they surged, enveloping you in a steadfast, unwavering care. He was your rock, your constant, in a world that seemed all too ready to shift beneath your feet. Always there, without fail.

Your decisions often found themselves at odds with his views, sparking debates that seemed as endless as they were passionate. A vivid memory that stood out was when you announced your intention to follow in his footsteps and join the Marines. What ensued was a marathon two-hour discourse, laden with reasons he believed painted a vivid picture of why the military was a mismatch for someone like you. You had absorbed every word, every concern, yet your resolve had remained unshaken. In hindsight, the wisdom woven into his admonitions might have merited deeper consideration, a realization that dawned on you with greater clarity once you found yourself deployed to the turbulent south.

It was there, amidst the chaos and the distance from home, that you began to truly comprehend the depth of Sam's anxiety for your well-being—a sentiment that became reciprocal as concern for your family gnawed at you. Sarah, battling to keep the family business afloat while nurturing two young boys in Sam's absence, became a focal point of your worries. Meanwhile, Sam's life, veiled in the secrecy of countless missions, left a chasm between your shared experiences. Often, he returned with stories he couldn't share, silences that spoke louder than words, deepening your understanding of the burdens he carried and the protective shield he tried to extend over you from miles away.

Had you heeded his words, the tapestry of your life might have been woven with different threads, perhaps even brighter hues. Imagine a reality where you had chosen to stand by Sarah's side, absorbing the tranquility of domestic life rather than the chaos of battle. In that alternate existence, your path would never have intersected with the harrowing battlefield against Thanos. Your presence in the thick of that fight was nothing short of serendipitous, a stark coincidence born from a casual visit to him just as the alarm bells of invasion clanged their ominous toll.

The details of your unexpected journey to Wakanda are shrouded in the mists of adrenaline-fueled urgency, a memory blurred at the edges by the sheer intensity of facing an extraterrestrial threat for the first time. It was an initiation by fire into a reality far removed from anything you had ever known or imagined.

Yet, amidst the whirlwind of chaos and the blur of combat, one memory stands etched with crystal clarity—the visceral sensation of teetering on the brink of oblivion. The cold brush with death is an experience that lingers, a stark reminder of mortality that paints every moment with a sharper contrast, a memory that forever shapes your understanding of life, resilience, and the fragility of existence.

You had weathered the storms of human conflict, battles steeped in the folly and hubris of mankind, but never before had you faced a legion from beyond the stars, intent on culling half of all life in the universe. In the shadow of such an unfathomable threat, your own mortality had seemed inconsequential, dwarfed by the incalculable lives teetering on the edge of annihilation. Driven by a newfound recklessness, a fiery resolve to make a difference, you had abandoned the post Sam had painstakingly chosen for you. You had forsaken safety, charging headlong towards Thanos, the architect of doom.

To him, you were but a speck, a mere human too insignificant to warrant attention, and he had dismissed you with the ease of one swatting away an irritating fly. Yet, with your firearm spent, desperation had lent you audacity. You had launched yourself onto his colossal frame, a knife clutched in your fist, the last vestige of your defiance. You were acutely aware of the invincibility that his skin professed, an armor no earthly might had pierced with lasting effect. But ambition—or perhaps the raw edge of survival—drove you to attempt the impossible: to excise one of the gleaming Infinity Stones from its gauntlet perch.

And in that breathless moment, as your blade kissed the surface of the gauntlet, Thanos's fingers curled into a fateful snap.

The universe hung in the balance, suspended on the cusp of his action and your audacious defiance. Time itself seemed to stand still, awaiting the outcome of a confrontation that had spiraled far beyond the realms of imagination.

When consciousness reclaimed you, five years had vanished into the ether, and you awoke to a world that had moved on without you. The sight that greeted you was your own veins, pulsating with an uncanny luminescence, casting a ghostly glow over the skin they webbed. Your body, once a familiar vessel, now refused the basic command to rise, leaving you sprawled and powerless on the ground. If only you had heeded Sam's directive, you mused bitterly, you might have remained untouched by this curse, spared the constant, gnawing anxiety that now made a den in your heart. Fear had become your unwelcome shadow, looming over you with endless "what ifs." The thought of unintentionally unleashing harm, of your very essence becoming a cataclysmic force capable of leveling cities, was a nightmare that played on an endless loop in your mind.

Through it all, Sam had been your anchor in the tempest, steadfast even as you spiraled into a mire of self-distrust. For three agonizing months, he had nursed you through the turmoil of accepting this altered existence, an existence marked by an estrangement from your own being. Comfort in your own skin had become a foreign concept, an elusive state that you feared might elude you indefinitely. Nowadays, every flicker of your fingers was accompanied by a torrent of anxiety, a silent battle waged between mind and heart. With each throb of your pulse, a cacophony of fears whispered the possibility of harming the one constant in your life—your brother. This new reality was a labyrinth with no visible exit, a path you tread with trepidation, haunted by the potential havoc you could wreak with a mere gesture, a thought, a slip of control.

You took a deep breath, your fingers nervously adjusting the sleek black leather gloves that now served as a barrier between your touch and the world, a precaution against the inadvertent destruction your mere contact could cause. For a fleeting moment, your gaze drifted to him, taking in the precise way his ebony locks were coifed, a style so meticulously arranged atop his head. The shortness of his hair, a detail so starkly different from before, still felt alien to your eyes. Catching his gaze already fixed on you, a silent exchange that spoke volumes, you redirected your attention back to your brother, mustering a smile tinged with awkwardness. "Of course. Stop worrying," you whispered, attempting to lace your voice with reassurance, even as your heart wrestled with its own tempest of concerns.

"I'm your big brother," he reminded you, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness as if introducing a fact that might have somehow slipped your mind. "That's my job," he added, a declaration of his unwavering role in your life.

Gotta be a real thankless job, you mused silently, the thought echoing wryly within the confines of your mind. "How haven't I fired you yet?" you quipped back, a teasing lilt in your voice as you nudged him gently with your elbow, inviting a moment of light-hearted banter between the gravity of your shared experiences.

His response was an exaggerated gasp, a playful act that drew a slight, amused smile across your face. Without missing a beat, he turned to the conspicuously silent super-soldier beside him. "Ey, Bucky," he called out, seemingly plucking his next words from thin air with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Did I tell you about that one time, when Y/n was seven and she peed—"

"Oh my god, Sam, stop!" The words flew from your lips as you reached out to silence him, your hand slapping his shoulder before trying to cover his mouth, a futile attempt to stem the flow of embarrassing tales. Your cheeks flushed with a warmth that radiated from the deep-seated embarrassment of the memory, vivid as if it had happened just yesterday, rather than years ago.

"I apologize for interrupting your camaraderie," Zemo's voice, laced with a hint of formality, cut through the air from the front seat. His eyes found yours in the rearview mirror, carrying a mix of apology and inevitability. "Unfortunately, my driver can proceed no further."

Zemo was the first to emerge from the vehicle, setting the tone for a swift exit. Sam was quick on his heels, nearly leaping from the car at the sight of Bucky preparing to disembark. The super-soldier merely rolled his eyes at the urgency, a silent testament to his annoyance, before he too followed suit, stepping into the open air.

Left alone for a brief moment, you lingered in the cocoon of the car's interior, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. The unease knotted in your stomach, a familiar harbinger of doom, seemed to grip tighter with each passing second. Yet, as you prepared to step out into the uncertain world beyond the car's confines, a flicker of hope dared to whisper through your thoughts. Perhaps, just this once, the ominous premonition that twisted your insides would prove false. Maybe, after a stretch of relentless storms, a moment of calm awaited you. With that fragile hope cradled in your chest, you ventured forth, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Navigating the bustling streets of the city, your senses were on high alert, eyes darting left and right in a mix of wariness and awe. Every sound, every blur of movement was cataloged, an overwhelming flood of stimuli as you endeavored to absorb the essence of the place. Ahead of you, the three men moved with a purposeful stride, seemingly indifferent to the sensory overload that ensnared you. Or so it appeared, until a momentary glance to the side caught Bucky mid-observation, his head subtly angled in your direction. The instant he realized he'd been noticed, his gaze snapped forward, a silent admission of his watchfulness.

A small, knowing smile played on your lips as you continued your exploration, your attention now on the eclectic mix of individuals that populated the streets. Their attire was a vivid tapestry of the city's culture and complexity, each person a unique thread woven into the larger fabric. In this context, Zemo's insistence on changing your clothing became crystal clear. Clad in your usual cargo pants and top, you would have stood out starkly, a beacon of foreignness in this richly diverse crowd. It would have been akin to parading around with a neon sign branded "idiot," announcing your outsider status to every discerning eye. His foresight, though begrudgingly acknowledged, spared you that unwitting declaration of naivety.

In the mosaic of your life, Bucky Barnes occupied a space that was both vivid and complex, interwoven with threads of intimacy and shared secrets, away from the prying eyes of your overprotective brother, Sam. Your connection with Bucky had evolved, nurtured by the clandestine moments and deep conversations that unfolded in the quiet corners of New York's bustling cityscape.

It began with chance encounters, two souls adrift in the vastness of the city, finding solace in the understanding gaze of the other. These meetings grew in frequency and depth, transitioning from fleeting to intentional, as you both sought the comfort and understanding that seemed to elude you elsewhere. The shared experience of navigating a world that often felt too constricting, too demanding, became the foundation of your bond.

Your relationship with Bucky was a tapestry of silent understandings and whispered confidences. There were evenings spent in his modest apartment, where the glow of the city lights barely filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a soft luminescence. Here, amidst the shadows, you shared parts of yourselves that had been carefully guarded from the rest of the world. Bucky, with his guarded heart and weary eyes, found in you a kindred spirit, someone who could see beyond the Winter Soldier to the man who was still standing beneath.

These moments of vulnerability were your secret, a world built for two, where words were often unnecessary. You had memorized the layout of his apartment, the contents of each cupboard and drawer, not through any explicit intention but through the natural intimacy that comes from shared spaces and shared silences. It was in the way you could wordlessly hand him a glass of water from his kitchen without having to ask where he kept his glasses, or how the two of you could sit in comfortable silence, each lost in your own thoughts yet together.

Yet, this closeness was kept hidden, a chapter of your life unread by Sam. Not out of deceit but from a desire to protect this fragile connection from external judgments or expectations. With Sam's protective instincts, your relationship with Bucky was a delicate balance, a treasure trove of moments and memories that you both guarded fiercely.

The complexity of your relationship with Bucky was not defined by labels or expectations but by the depth of connection and mutual understanding. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most profound relationships are those that exist in the spaces between words, in the comfort of silence, and in the shared experiences of two souls navigating the world side by side.

The inexplicable flutter in your heart whenever Bucky was near often left you questioning your own sanity, yet there was something undeniably captivating about the way he made you feel. The warmth that crept into your cheeks as you reminisced about a lazy afternoon spent in the park was a testament to this. It was a simple moment, really—Bucky's admission of his aversion to text messaging because he preferred the sound of your voice had somehow managed to send your heart into a delightful somersault. In that instant, you understood the unspoken pact between you two: to keep the depth of your connection hidden from your brother.

This secret camaraderie you shared with Bucky was treasured quietly, a series of moments and feelings kept just between the two of you. Bucky, too, found solace in your presence. The way you looked at him, with eyes filled with genuine affection and understanding, offered him a tranquility he had long thought was beyond his grasp. Your smile was like a beacon to him, urging him to open up about his past, his fears, and his dreams, despite the darkness that shadowed much of his history. Yet, of all the things that drew him closer, it was your laughter that he cherished most.

Your laughter wasn't restrained or demure; it was the kind that bubbled up from deep within, unfiltered and infectious. Those moments when you would laugh so heartily, throwing your head back without a care in the world, were the ones that Bucky held dear. It was in these bursts of genuine joy that he saw the lightness of being, a stark contrast to the battles and burdens he carried. Your laughter, free and unabashed, symbolized a purity of happiness that Bucky admired. It reminded him that amidst the complexities of life, there existed simple, unguarded moments of joy worth cherishing.

In the twilight of Bucky's life, where happiness seemed more a memory than a possibility, the moments he shared with you illuminated his world with an unexpected joy. Time and again, he teetered on the brink of asking you to intertwine your lives officially, to step beyond the unspoken boundaries of your secret affinity and declare it openly. Yet, each time the words perched on the edge of his tongue, ready to leap into the abyss of possibilities, the thought of Sam cast a long shadow over his resolve.

Sam, the steadfast pillar of your family, was a friend to Bucky in every sense except in name, for their camaraderie was too complex and layered for simple labels. Bucky was acutely aware of the fierce love Sam harbored for you, a protective and encompassing love that was both admirable and intimidating. He knew of the cherished photograph Sam carried in his wallet—a tangible reminder of the bond shared between you, your sister, and his beloved nephews, a snapshot of the life Sam fought so valiantly to protect.

And it was the thought of Sam, with his unwavering loyalty and brotherly love, that stayed Bucky's confession. He was painfully aware of the turmoil that would ensue should Sam discover the depth of his feelings for you. Bucky could almost feel the weight of Sam's betrayal and anger, for in his heart, he knew that his affection for you crossed lines that Sam might never forgive. This tension, this fear of fracturing the fragile truce they had built, kept Bucky silent, trapped in a limbo of longing and loyalty, where his desire to claim your heart battled with his respect for the brother who would view such a confession as the ultimate treachery.

As Zemo led the way, weaving through a throng of onlookers whose eyes darted with a mix of curiosity and caution, the air buzzed with hushed whispers that all seemed to echo the same question: "Is that the Winter Soldier?" Yet, if only they could see beyond the infamy and the scars of war, they'd find Bucky. This was the same Bucky who had once called you in a panic, deep into the night, baffled by the modern conundrum of ordering a television online. The same Bucky who shared with you his playlist of favorite songs, tunes you never expected to enjoy, yet found yourself playing on repeat. And this was the Bucky who, in an earnest attempt to teach you to dance, ended up with you standing on his feet, both of you moving in a clumsy but heartwarming harmony across the floor.

Arriving at the bar, you edged closer to Zemo and Bucky, the latter noticing your approach and subtly shifting to grant you more space. "Good evening," greeted the bartender with a nod towards Sam, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger."

The effort to suppress a grin was Herculean as the nickname filled the air. Your brother, Sam, for all his bravery and skill, was many things, but a master thespian he was not. Tonight, he was to embody Conrad Mack, or "Smiling Tiger," a persona draped in notoriety and whispered about in the darkest corners of the criminal underworld. Knowing Sam's theatrical limits, the anticipation of watching him navigate the guise of an African gangster tinged your apprehension with a thread of amusement, painting the night ahead with the promise of unforgettable moments.

"Plans have shifted," Zemo interjected smoothly, answering on behalf of Sam, who tightened his lips in an attempt at solemnity. The sight was almost comical; Sam's expression ventured into the realms of absurdity. "We have business with Selby tonight."

A cloak of skepticism draped over the bartender's demeanor, his eyes—a mix of inquiry and caution—peered from behind the substantial frames of his glasses. His visage, half-obscured by a beard, seemed out of place in this den of shadows and whispered secrets. One could easily mistake him for a tech wizard from the polished corridors of Stark Industries rather than a keeper of this clandestine establishment.

"The usual, then?" the bartender queried. Sam, lips still tightly sealed, offered a single, determined nod, his posture shifting slightly with unease. With practiced ease, the bartender turned to retrieve a jar housing a deceased equatorial spitting cobra, laying it out with a certain reverence on the cutting board before you. He wielded a knife, expertly slicing the serpent open to extract its heart. This he placed in a shot glass, to which he added a dash of Triple sec, a measure of gin, and a squeeze of finger lime, concocting a drink that teetered on the edge of the exotic and the macabre. Sliding the glass towards Sam, the air was momentarily thick with anticipation.

"Ahh," Zemo exhaled, a chuckle threatening to breach his composure. "The Smiling Tiger, your favorite." The room hung in a momentary suspense, the bizarre ritual highlighting the lengths to which one might go to blend into the shadows of this underworld.

As you reluctantly redirected your attention away from the unsavory scene, your eyes found solace in Bucky's gaze. The moment of eye contact with the super-soldier was like a silent pact, conveying volumes in the briefest exchange. “I think the next part’s worth watching.” His suggestion was delivered in a hush, his voice a soft, enticing caress against the delicate skin of your neck, sparking a cascade of warmth that pooled in the pit of your stomach. You darted a quick look around, half-expecting the assembled throng to notice this intimate exchange. Yet, their attention remained steadfastly on the notorious figure of the Winter Soldier, allowing you a sliver of privacy in the crowded space.

Turning back towards your brother, you endeavored to steady your racing heart, to cloak the fluttering butterflies that Bucky's nearness had unfurled within you. But it was akin to trying to calm a storm with whispered words; Bucky's heat enveloped you, a comforting yet unnerving presence. Then, almost imperceptibly, he edged closer, a mere shift that breached the scant distance between you. His chest hovered just shy of touching your back, a whisper of contact that electrified your senses.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up, muscles tensing, heart thundering against your ribcage as if seeking escape. The air seemed to thicken, each breath a labor through the heightened tension that his proximity wrought. The warmth from his body seeped through the fabric of your clothes, branding your skin with a heat that was both foreign and intoxicating. A shiver coursed through you, unbidden, as you fought the urge to lean back into him, to seek solace in the strength of his embrace. His presence, so close and yet so restrained, left you teetering on the edge of something profound, a precipice overlooking a maelstrom of uncharted emotions and desires.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit, cramped space was charged with an uneasy anticipation as Sam steeled himself to down the concoction before him – the alcohol mingling with the snake's heart in a display of grit and resolve. Standing beside him, you could almost taste the bile rising in your own throat at the thought, empathy for Sam's predicament tangling with your own visceral reaction. It was in this moment of vicarious revulsion that you felt it—a touch so light, so fleeting on your arm that it could have been mistaken for a trick of the air, save for the deep, intrinsic knowledge that it was Bucky. His touch, though minimal, carried with it a warmth and a reassurance that seemed to cut through the tension of the moment, grounding you.

This gentle caress, lost to anyone else's perception, was like a beacon to your heightened senses, which seemed to come alive with a fervor that only Bucky's presence could ignite. It was a silent communication, a shared moment amidst the chaos, confirming that his attention was riveted not on the grotesque spectacle unfolding with your brother but on you. And then, without need for visual confirmation, you sensed the subtle shift in his posture, the lean of his body just close enough for you to catch the light inhale as he discreetly breathed in the scent of your hair. The intimacy of the action, hidden in plain sight, had your eyelids fluttering close, teetering on the edge of surrender to the sensation.

But the moment was shattered by the intrusion of a new, deep voice, unfamiliar and brusque, pulling Bucky's gaze away from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The voice belonged to a tattooed biker who had sidled up beside Zemo, breaking the spell that had cocooned you and Bucky in your private world. Yet, even as Bucky's eyes momentarily flicked to the newcomer, assessing and then dismissing him as a threat, his hand lingered on your arm, a silent vow of protection and an unwillingness to completely sever the thread of connection between you.

When the biker had disappeared back into the throng of the bar's patrons, Bucky's voice, low and resonant, brushed your cheek, "A Power Broker, really?" His breath was a warm caress, a contrast to the cool air of the bar and the cold reality of their mission.

Zemo's response was a shrug, nonchalant yet laden with the weight of their precarious position within this den of intrigue and danger. "Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar." The words were a stark reminder of the peril that shadowed their every step, yet, for a fleeting moment, the only truth that seemed to matter was the connection between you and Bucky, a silent acknowledgment of a bond that thrived even in the heart of danger.

As your brother subtly leaned in, distancing himself from the ears of the surrounding strangers, his voice carried a note of quiet inquiry, "Do you know him?" His gaze was sharp, the weight of leadership and concern pressing upon his features, a look you knew all too well.

Zemo, ever the enigmatic figure, glanced briefly over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping across the teeming masses of Madripoor's underworld. "Only by reputation," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of wariness. He continued, his tone lowering to match the gravity of his words, "He is judge, jury, and executioner in Madripoor." The way Zemo articulated the roles imbued them with a sense of dread, painting a picture of a figure wielding absolute power over life and death in this lawless land.

As Sam prepared to step back, blending once more into the crowded backdrop of the bar, his gaze inadvertently fell upon Bucky's hand, a subtle yet intimate gesture resting gently on your arm. The silent question was evident in the arch of his brow, a wordless probe into the nature of the connection he had just witnessed. Despite the many shared battles and secrets between you, this particular nuance of your relationship with Bucky remained veiled from Sam's knowledge. He knew of the camaraderie, the shared jokes, and the mutual respect; what he had yet to grasp was the depth that lay beneath those surface interactions.

Caught under the weight of your brother's scrutiny, you felt a compelling urge to divert, to shield the budding complexity of your relationship with Bucky from any further inquiry. With a practiced nonchalance, you reached for the glass that had mysteriously found its way before you—its contents unknown but suddenly invaluable as a means of distraction. The glass felt cool against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your chest, fueled by Bucky's proximity and the intensity of your brother's gaze.

Without granting Sam the acknowledgment he sought, you lifted the glass, the liquid inside catching the dim light of the bar in a fleeting dance of shadows. With a resolve born of necessity, you downed the contents in one swift motion, the liquid tracing a burning path down your throat, a physical manifestation of the turmoil swirling within. In that moment, the intricacies of your heart's desires, the silent yearnings, and the whispered dreams shared in the quiet with Bucky were drowned in the sharp bite of the drink. There was no love life to dissect, you reasoned, at least not one that could be neatly explained or openly acknowledged under the watchful eyes of your brother. This was a complexity you were not yet ready to unravel, preferring instead the sanctity of ambiguity and the solace found in the unspoken.

From the periphery of your vision, the subtle yet unmistakable shift of the crowd's focus toward your group sent a ripple of tension through the air. Zemo, breaking the mounting silence, uttered something in Russian, his voice a sharp command that instantly put Bucky, who loomed protectively behind you, on high alert. Your grasp of Russian might have been rudimentary at best, but the gravity carried by the word "attack" pierced through any language barrier, sending a shiver down your spine. Your gaze darted anxiously between Bucky and Zemo, then to the increasingly hostile encirclement of men.

In a moment driven by instinct more than thought, your hand found Bucky's arm, a silent plea for restraint, an acknowledgment of the heavy burdens he bore and the battles you wished he wouldn't have to fight again. Yet, as the hand of an adversary reached for Zemo, intent on aggression, Bucky's protective instincts overrode any hesitations. The mission's success, the preservation of your collective guise, demanded action.

With a fluidity born of countless battles, Bucky intercepted the stranger's hand, wrenching it into a grim contortion of pain before hoisting him by the collar. The air was punctuated by the thud of the man's body crashing to the ground, a clear signal to the onlookers who, rather than stepping in, recoiled to the safety of the crowd's edges. Their initial shock quickly gave way to the modern reflex of capturing chaos on their smartphones, eager to document the return of the Winter Soldier.

Another assailant lunged forward, driven either by bravado or foolishness, only to meet Bucky's calculated fury. A swift strike to the chest paired with a debilitating kick to the shin sent the man staggering, a prelude to the crushing force of Bucky's elbow against his back. But Bucky was far from done; he delivered a final, forceful kick to the assailant's stomach with such power that the man was propelled backward, colliding with another would-be attacker and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

In those tense moments, Bucky transformed the immediate vicinity into a no-man's land, a clear warning to any who still harbored thoughts of joining the fray. The message was unambiguous: the Winter Soldier, though cloaked in the guise of Bucky Barnes, remained a formidable force, his actions a blend of precision and power that left no room for doubt or defiance.

The melee unfolded with relentless ferocity, each blow landing with a chilling finality. Amidst the chaos, Zemo's unexpected touch on your waist snapped your attention sharply to him, an unwelcome distraction amidst the turmoil. His fingers were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the skirmish that raged a mere breath away. Holding a shot glass, with another stationed invitingly before him on the bar's counter, Zemo seemed almost nonchalant, as if the violent ballet unfolding around you two was mere background noise.

You could only hope that Sam's gaze was entirely consumed by the spectacle of the fight, lest Zemo's audacity earn him a swift and severe reprimand—the kind that involved a painful reconfiguration of his hand's anatomy. And, should Sam's protective instincts flare up, your carefully maintained cover would be shattered in an instant.

"So," Zemo initiated casually, offering you the glass while securing his own. His demeanor was eerily calm, a man unfazed by the chaos, his curiosity piqued by personal intrigues rather than the potential dangers that lurked in your immediate vicinity. "How long have you and James been seeing each other?"

His question caught you off guard, a blunt intrusion that left you momentarily flustered. "Excuse you?" you retorted, the sharpness in your voice mirroring your surprise.

He downed his shot in one fluid motion, a satisfied exhale following the liquid's descent. "Oh," he dismissed with a nonchalant wave of his hand, a gesture that belied the keen observation behind his words. "Your brother might be wearing blinders, but I certainly do not. It's been quite evident that Barnes has scarcely glanced away from you all evening."

You found yourself grappling for a response, the unexpected scrutiny leaving you unsettled. "Well, uh," you stumbled over your words, grappling for composure. "It's just what he does—staring." Your gaze dropped to the shot glass cradled in your palm, its contents suddenly more appealing than the conversation. With a swift tilt of your hand, you emptied the glass, the liquid courage coursing through you. Instinctively, you braced yourself for whatever probing questions Zemo might pose next, bolstered now by a fleeting rush of boldness from the alcohol.

Zemo's attention subtly shifted behind you, a prelude to his hand sneaking once more to your waist. A wry smirk played at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against your ear with a whispered directive, "Get ready." Immobilized by a sudden rush of surprise, you found yourself momentarily unable to react, your mind racing to process the unwelcome proximity.

As you regained your composure, indignation fueling your resolve, your hands began to rise, intent on removing his intrusion. Yet, before you could act, a familiar and comforting warmth enveloped your back. A sharp intake of breath caught in your throat as a low, protective growl resonated from behind you, a primal sound that spoke volumes of the tension filling the air.

In the blink of an eye, Zemo's hand was forcibly removed from you, Bucky's intervention swift and silent. The warning in Bucky's eyes was unmistakable, a clear message that brooked no argument. His grip on Zemo's hand tightened, a silent demonstration of his protective instincts. The strain was evident as Zemo's face flushed, a crimson wave ascending his neck in stark contrast to his paling face, a vivid testament to the discomfort and possibly fear induced by Bucky's ironclad hold.

Observing the intensity of the moment, you placed your hand gently atop Bucky's, seeking to diffuse the tension. "It's okay," you whispered soothingly, a plea for peace. "Let him go." Your voice, though soft, carried the weight of your concern, hoping to coax Bucky back from the brink of further conflict.

With a grudging release of pressure, Bucky acquiesced to your request, albeit with a distasteful grunt. He allowed Zemo the mercy of an unbroken hand, a testament to his respect for your wishes. The moment, charged with silent confrontations and unspoken bonds, highlighted the deep connection between you and Bucky, a bond that transcended mere words, resonating with loyalty, protection, and an unyielding sense of unity.

The tension in the air was palpable, a heavy cloud that seemed to weigh down every breath, until the bartender's voice sliced through the silence with the precision of a well-honed blade. "Selby will see you now," he announced, effectively diffusing the charged atmosphere. As you were ushered down the dimly lit corridor by a group of stern-faced men, the arrangement was strategic: Zemo leading, followed by Sam, with you nestled securely in the middle, and Bucky bringing up the rear, his vigilant gaze ensuring no threat would find its way to you unnoticed.

In a fluid motion born of protective instinct, Bucky's fingers found your wrist, gently but firmly pulling you aside into the seclusion of the shadowed alcove. The dim light played across his features, casting deep shadows that sculpted his face with an intensity that was almost breathtaking. His rugged attractiveness, framed in the half-light, struck you with a force that made your heart flutter. "Are you okay?" you found yourself asking, drawn into the complexity of emotions that danced within his eyes. It was clear he was wrestling with his own turmoil, yet his proximity to you, so near that the soft flutter of your eyelashes could have brushed against his cheek, seemed to both unsettle and anchor him.

“Next time he grabs you like that—” He cut himself of, jaw clenching.

As you laid your hand against the solid warmth of his chest in a comforting gesture, a ripple of tension eased from his frame. "It's okay," your whisper broke the intimate silence between you, your gaze lifting to meet his. "I'm okay, promise. He was just trying to get under your skin."

His eyes, a mirror to his soul, roamed over your features with an intensity that felt as though he was memorizing every detail, every curve, and contour, before finally settling back into your gaze. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" His voice, soft yet filled with an emotion that resonated deep within your chest, enveloped you in a warmth that went beyond the physical closeness. In that moment, amidst the shadows and whispers of danger, a connection forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding deepened, transcending the chaos of the world outside.

Your smile, blossoming in response to Bucky's unexpected compliment, was abruptly cut short by Zemo's call for the Winter Soldier, reverberating ominously off the walls. A mutual sigh of resignation passed between you and Bucky. With a bite to your lip, signaling the gravity of the interruption, you took a hesitant step back, murmuring, "We should go."

Bucky's response was a tight nod, the muscles along his jawline tensing visibly as he too made the difficult choice to distance himself. The atmosphere shifted palpably as you entered Selby's domain. She was ensconced regally in an armchair, her fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against its worn fabric, embodying the calm before the storm. "You should know, Baron," she began, her voice cool and measured, "people don’t just come into my bar and make demands."

Zemo, unfazed, countered with equal calmness, "Not a demand, an offer."

Selby's demeanor hinted at a mix of curiosity and caution as she observed the changes in her domain and the players within it. "A lot has changed since you were here last," she remarked, her gaze sliding over Bucky with undisguised interest. "By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

Zemo, settling himself before Selby with a nonchalance born of confidence, merely shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "People like us always find a way, don’t we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I am here for."

Selby, her attention never straying from Zemo, extended a languid finger toward your brother, her voice taking on a teasing, almost flirtatious tone. "You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger," she purred, her grin sharp as a knife's edge, before shifting her focus back to Zemo. "What's the offer?"

"Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum." Zemo's command hung in the air, heavy with implication. He rose, his movements deliberate, as he made his way to where Bucky and you stood in a silent vigil. The audacity of his next offer sliced through the tension like a cold blade. "And I give you him," Zemo gestured towards Bucky with a chilling casualness, "along with the code words that control him, of course." His fingers dared to trace a path along Bucky's jawline, a presumptuous gesture that hinted at possession. "He will do anything you want." You moved your hand to brush against his, blocking the view with your body, not wanting your cover to blow, also not wanting Bucky to blow up because of the over-the-top trade Zemo was talking about, which he hadn’t disclosed with you "Now, that’s the Zemo I remember," Selby's voice curled with a mix of admiration and threat, her lips twisting into a grin that was as dangerous as it was pleased. "I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately." She mused aloud, nodding to herself as if affirming her own wisdom. "Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right." Zemo, with a nod acknowledging the compliment veiled as a critique, moved back to his chair, rejoining the precarious dance of conversation.

"The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor," Selby continued, her revelation hanging in the smoky air like a veiled threat. "Doctor Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank, or…" Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head, her gaze sharp, "Or condemn, depending on what side you're on."

"Is Nagel still in Madripoor?" Zemo's question cut through the tension, his inquiry pointed and loaded with unspoken implications.

Selby stood, her movement fluid as a shadow, drifting behind Zemo. She was about to divulge the answer, a secret that could tip the scales, when the moment was shattered by the unexpected vibration of a cell phone. Sam's cell phone, ingeniously hidden within the confines of your bra, the only place deemed secure given the impracticality of the suit's tiny pockets. The room froze, a tableau of anticipation and dread, as all eyes darted towards you. The vibration continued, a silent herald of impending chaos, until, with a steadiness you hardly felt, you retrieved the phone. The caller ID flashed "Mom jr." — a code name for your older sister, Sarah, that now felt like a harbinger of disaster.

"Go on," Selby's voice was a command laced with curiosity and a hint of menace, her henchman already looming ominously behind her. "Answer it. On speaker."

With a nod, terse and devoid of any option but compliance, you swiped the screen, the green circle heralding a connection fraught with risk. Clearing your throat, an attempt to mask the torrent of nerves, you answered with a voice feigning confidence, "Smiling Tiger."

"...Okay." The brief silence that followed was thick with confusion, Sarah's voice betraying her bewilderment. "Why do you have his phone? Is he there?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, he is."

"Could I speak to him? It's urgent."

"Sure." You navigated the tense atmosphere with caution, aware of the danger that lurked in every corner. Approaching Sam, you offered the phone with a discreet, "Sir."

Sam accepted the phone, his throat clearing a precursor to the conversation. "Hello?"

"Hey, uhm, we need to talk about this situation. It's been driving me nuts."

"What situation are you talking about exactly?"

"Are you high? You know the situation. It’s the only situation me and you have."

"What situation, Sarah? Say it."

"The damn boat. And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank."

Sam's scoff was almost audible, a mixture of disbelief and humor. "The bank, yeah. Laundered so much money," he chuckled. "Yeah, they'll come around."

"If that’s the case, then why'd they dog you out, Big Time?"

"Yeah, you damn right I'm Big Time. You'll see when I have that banker killed." Your gaze flickered to Bucky, dreading the potential fallout from this precarious bluff.

"Cass! What did I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this!" Sarah's exasperated outburst was unexpected, yet somehow, it underscored the normalcy of life's chaos — even when worlds apart, Cheerios could cause turmoil. "Sam, I'm sorry, let me call you back."

"Sam?" Selby's voice, sharp with suspicion, cut through the room. "Who's Sam?" Her eyes scanned the room, landing on one of her men as she gave the lethal order, "Kill them!" No sooner had the command left her lips than a bullet from an unseen sniper found its mark, sailing through the window to claim Selby's life with unerring precision.

As Selby's men, jolted by the sudden turn of events, scrambled to retaliate, the trio leapt into action, their movements a blend of desperation and determination, ready to confront the chaos unleashed by a single, ill-timed phone call.

Sam's movements were swift and precise, his elbow connecting with the gut of the assailant beside him with a force that spoke of urgency and desperation. In a fluid motion, he seized the man's weapon, leveraging his strength to send his adversary crumbling to the floor. Nearby, Bucky confronted another threat, an opponent armed with an automatic firearm. The bullets, however, were no match for Bucky's metallic arm. With an almost serene calmness, he raised his arm, the bullets ricocheting off the vibranium and falling harmlessly to the ground, their lethal intent nullified. With a swift, decisive movement, Bucky disarmed the gunman, the heavy thud of the weapon striking the assailant's head a grim punctuation to the confrontation.

Zemo, meanwhile, exhibited a different kind of strategy. He glided to the side, a ballet of avoidance, demonstrating a preference to remain on the fringes of the physical altercation. His demeanor suggested disinterest, a calculated decision to avoid the fray, yet you knew the truth. Zemo possessed skills honed by experience, a dangerous combatant by any measure, choosing discretion over engagement.

As for yourself, standing on the precipice of engagement, you too could have dismantled any adversary with ease, mirroring Zemo's restraint. Yet, it wasn't the fear of the fight that stilled your hand, nor the dread of physical harm. It was a deeper, more insidious kind of fear that gnawed at your resolve — the fear of responsibility. Sam had seen the toll it took on you, the anxiety that came with wielding your powers. He reassured you, time and again, that it was okay to hold back, understanding the weight that came with such immense power.

You had mastered control over your abilities, a feat that was as much for those around you as it was for your peace of mind. But control was a fragile thing, a constant battle against the possibility of a catastrophic slip. The echoes of the past haunted you, a stark reminder of the chaos unleashed during the battle against Thanos. The risk you had posed to your brother's life was a memory etched in the recesses of your mind, a harrowing reminder of the potential consequences of your powers. The burden of that day weighed heavily on your shoulders, a silent vow to never relive that helplessness, that guilt, again. Control could temper the power, but it could never erase the memories, the fears, or the haunting possibility of what could happen should it ever falter.

The moment unfolded before you with a surreal clarity, as if time itself had bent to accommodate the gravity of what was about to transpire. There stood Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, his figure exuding an aura of solemnity. With a hand stretched towards you, his voice cut through the chaos of your thoughts, delivering the harrowing message that Thanos was on the precipice of ushering in another war.

The ground beneath you felt unsteady, as if it too, shared in your tumult of emotions. Your body was a tempest of sensations, akin to being engulfed in invisible flames, an internal inferno that threatened to consume your very essence. Your hands, held out in front of you, became the focal point of your bewildered gaze. They glowed with an ethereal green luminescence, transforming your eyes into beacons of an otherworldly force. In that moment, you were a stranger even to yourself, your identity obscured by the overwhelming power that surged within you. You feared that even your brother, upon witnessing this transformation, would find himself staring at an unfamiliar figure, your familiar visage masked by an alien force.

It was during this maelstrom of confusion and fear that Stephen Strange recognized the tumultuous energy you were channeling. With a wisdom borne of his experiences with the mystic arts, he extended not just his hand but an offer of guidance and mastery over the forces that now threatened to unravel you.

Amidst this turmoil, a familiar voice pierced the veil of your disorientation. Bucky's voice, imbued with urgency and concern, reached out to you, grounding you back to reality. "We gotta go." His words, simple yet laden with an unspoken promise of safety, beckoned you. As your gaze snapped towards him, you were met with the sight of his outstretched hand, a lifeline in the chaos.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you placed your palm against his, the warmth of his grip a stark contrast to the cold uncertainty that had gripped your heart. Led by Bucky, you began to make your way out of the building, each step away from the epicenter of your crisis a step towards reclaiming the self that had been momentarily lost in the eye of the storm.

As Zemo's directive to abandon their firearms behind echoed in your mind, a profound vulnerability washed over you, intensifying the uncertainty that already clouded your heart. The decision to venture into the unknown without the familiar weight of a weapon at your side left you feeling starkly exposed, each step on the pavement echoing your apprehension.

Amidst the chaos, the glow of countless phone screens caught your attention, their omnipresence a stark reminder of the digital eyes that followed your every move. Your grip on Bucky's hand tightened, a help in centering you amidst the swirling uncertainty, your fingers intertwined with his in a silent plea for reassurance. Bucky, feeling the tremor of your grasp, was confronted with an overwhelming pressure in his chest—a sensation so intense, it seemed as though his heart might shatter through his ribcage. The logical part of his mind suggested that releasing your trembling hand might alleviate some of his distress, disconnecting him from the tangible evidence of your fear. Yet, the thought of pulling you even closer overpowered him, a testament to the protective instinct that surged within him, despite the presence of his partner in crime at his side, equally eager to escape the impending peril and shield you from harm.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure detached from the crowd caught your attention—a woman, standing apart with her hands mimicking the shape of a gun, playfully ‘shooting’ at your group. This macabre pantomime, juxtaposed against the sea of illuminated screens, shed light on the grim realization that you and your companions had been reduced to mere targets in a deadly game, surrounded by a multitude of unseen adversaries, each one thirsting for blood and the lure of a reward.

In the fraction of a second before you could advance another step, the air was pierced by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. An instinctive fear gripped you, catalyzing a reaction that tore you away from Bucky's grasp. You spun around, just as a barrage of bullets threatened to engulf your group in a lethal storm. Driven by a deep-seated impulse to protect, you extended your hands, your eyes instinctively closing as you tapped into a wellspring of power that had lain dormant within you for far too long. The air around you charged with anticipation, as if the very essence of your being had awakened to confront the danger head-on.

Upon daring to open your eyes, fearing the aftermath of your instinctual reaction, you were confronted with a surreal tableau: bullets suspended mid-air, frozen in time and space, an arm's length away, creating an eerie stillness in the midst of chaos. The sheer number of projectiles, hovering ominously close, sent a shiver down your spine, yet it was the sight of your own fingers, aglow with a radiant green luminance, that truly captivated you. It was a strange juxtaposition—how could something so ethereally beautiful harbor the potential for immense destruction?

Your fascination gave way to action as you turned your palm, the bullets beginning to dissolve into nothingness, disintegrating into a fine mist just before reaching your skin. The urgency to locate your assailant led your eyes to a figure, scant meters away, wielding a machine gun braced against a makeshift stand in the bustling market. With a focused gesture, you manipulated the now-liquefied metal, directing it with lethal precision towards the gunman. He recoiled, anticipating pain or perhaps even death, but instead, you targeted his weapon. The metal swarm enveloped the gun, rendering it inoperable, parts of its mechanism dissolving into oblivion.

The surrounding crowd, momentarily taken aback by the display of power, quickly regrouped, their initial shock transforming into twisted smiles as they once again raised their weapons. It was then that your brother intervened, his hand clasping yours with determined strength, pulling you back into the frenetic escape. The concept of a leisurely retreat was a luxury far removed from reality as you both dashed through the dense throngs of Madripoor, a city now teeming with adversaries drawn by the allure of a bounty. The streets, alive with danger, became a labyrinth as you navigated through the relentless pursuit, the weight of potential violence pressing against you from all sides.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam's grumble about his unsuitable footwear for their frenzied escape almost halted you in your tracks, the urge to chastise him for his complaint bubbling up fiercely.

"I'm wearing six-inch heels, you idiot!" you retorted, your voice slicing through the tension as you were half-dragged, half-ran, your form almost seeming to bounce off the pavement with each step.

Just then, the distinct growl of motorbikes escalated behind you, a clear sign that your pursuers were closing in with alarming speed. Instinctively, you twisted around, freeing one arm from your brother's firm grasp. A brilliant emerald glow enveloped your hand as you unleashed a force resembling a sonic boom towards your chasers. Glancing back, you witnessed the bikers caught in a surreal slow-motion, ensnared within the temporal anomaly you'd unwittingly summoned.

The urgency of your flight tapered off as your brother gradually decelerated, releasing your hand to take in the quietude that had enveloped the scene. Zemo, ever the observer, couldn't hide his admiration, stepping closer with a sly grin. "Quite impressive, if I may say so myself."

“You may not.” His commendation was met with a mutter from Bucky, barely audible yet brimming with protectiveness. Bucky positioned himself squarely between you and Zemo, effectively shielding you from the latter's view. Sam, meanwhile, appeared utterly bemused, hands perched on his hips as he oscillated his gaze between you and Bucky, bewildered by the sudden shift in dynamics.

"Okay, what—?" Sam began, only to be cut off as the moment teetered on the brink of unraveling.

"Well, isn’t this just perfect," a voice chimed from the enveloping shadows, laced with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Emerging into the dim light, a blonde woman approached with her gun poised, her stance radiating confidence and danger. Recognition flickered through your mind, delayed by the surreal context. Sharon Carter, the name finally clicked, associated with tales of Steve Rogers and his erstwhile entanglements. Sam's anecdotes, usually shared with a mix of reverence and jest, painted her in the light of a past fraught with complex allegiances, especially during the so-called Civil War—a term you found overly dramatic for what essentially amounted to a highly publicized skirmish among comrades at an airport.

"Sharon?" Bucky's voice cut through your thoughts, tinged with a blend of surprise and uncertainty. The Sharon Carter you'd heard of through scattered stories seemed far removed from the woman who now stood before you, gun in hand, in the underbelly of Madripoor. It was a reflection, perhaps, of how life's unpredictable currents could sweep anyone into unforeseen harbors.

Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Zemo, the intensity of her scorn palpable. "You cost me everything," she accused, the words heavy with resentment. Sam attempted to interject, offering explanations that seemed to dissipate before they could reach her, lost in the void of her grievance. "I stole Steve's shield, remember?" she reminded, her resolve steel-hard, the weapon unwavering in her grasp. "I also took the wings for your ass," she directed at Sam, causing a ripple of tension to pass through you. The mention of sacrifices made—her actions for their benefit—underscored the gravity of her fall from grace. Her focus shifted momentarily to Bucky, implicating him in the web of consequences, before returning to Zemo with a disdainful flick. Finally, her eyes found you, registering your presence with a flicker of surprise. "No idea who you are," she stated, an admission that underscored the complexity of alliances and identities in this shadowy world.

With a determined stride, Bucky advanced towards Sharon, his every step a testament to his intent to defuse the tension that crackled in the air. He engaged her with words, his tone both pleading and firm, navigating through the storm of her fury. Eventually, her grip on the gun loosened, the weapon tucked away after an exasperated sigh, a silent concession to his efforts. Sharon then proposed an unexpected truce, inviting you all back to her sanctuary. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on you; moments before, the cold metal of her gun had promised anything but hospitality.

Crossing the threshold into Sharon's abode, you were immediately struck by an array of art that adorned every wall and surface. The collection was staggering, a visual feast of masterpieces that seemed too authentic, too valuable to be merely decorative. You half-joked to yourself about the possibility of the Mona Lisa being tucked away in a corner, marveling at the fortune that surrounded you, captured in oil and canvas.

The offer of a change of attire came next, with Sharon presenting an array of elegant garments that seemed to glide into the room on a valet rod. The promise of shedding your current attire, particularly the torturous heels that had been your nemesis throughout the evening, was a relief. Barefoot, you approached the selection with eagerness, only to have your enthusiasm dimmed by the realization that the options available were far removed from your comfort zone. Accustomed to the simple reliability of sneakers and boots, the sight of such finery felt daunting, alien.

Facing Sharon, a hint of disappointment lacing your expression, you ventured a request, hoping for something more aligned with your sense of style. "Don't you have anything less... that?" The words hung between you, a polite plea for normalcy amidst the opulence that defined her world.

"Like what?" Sharon's question cut through the tension in the room, her gaze drifting momentarily over Bucky and his shirtless state alongside Zemo. The moment made your skin crawl slightly, an unwelcome distraction in the midst of the unfolding scenario.

"Jeans?" you ventured hopefully, trying to steer the conversation back to a more comfortable topic, despite the circumstances.

"We are going to a club in Madripoor," Sharon pointed out, as if the venue demanded a specific dress code that was far from your preference.

"Yes?" you responded, not fully grasping why your suggested attire wouldn't be suitable, your tone a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance.

After a brief pause, during which Sharon seemed to consider her response, she chose to bypass your suggestion entirely, moving past you as if you had become part of the room's extravagant background. Your frustration evident, you rolled your eyes at her dismissive attitude and turned back to the daunting task of selecting an outfit from the array provided. Among the lavish options, you managed to find flared leather leggings and a high-neck crop top with a singular sleeve—a rebellious choice that echoed your own style while avoiding the discomfort of another glitter-infested dress. As you began the awkward dance of changing into the leather pants without first removing your current dress, a subtle commotion caught your attention.

Bucky, ever the protector, had taken it upon himself to ensure your privacy. His large hand found Zemo's neck, not harshly but with enough insistence to pivot the man's attention away from you. However, it wasn't just Zemo's attention he was diverting; his own gaze, filled with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, kept flickering back to you. Each look seemed to linger a moment too long, filled with an emotion he seemed to struggle to define, let alone express. With a visible effort, Bucky tore his gaze away, a stern resolve setting in as he forced himself to focus on anything but you.

Your brother went to lift his whiskey glass off the table when he spotted what was inside of it. A shiver ran down his as he fished out the little snake part and stood to throw it out the window. The expression on his face made you throw your head back laughing. He raised his brow at you in question. You lifted your hands. "I didn’t do it."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because whoever did, is a genius." You were about to pull the top over your head when Sam pinched you in the side. "Ow, what the hell, Sam!" With furrowed brows, and the tight top stuck on your shoulders, you tried to kick him in the shin, though he moved back just in time; a broad grin rested on his face. "Too slow, sista," Sam teased, his playful nudge against your head causing your already precarious balance to falter further. With a grunt of mock indignation, you surged forward, aiming a determined chest-bump at your brother, eager to see him mirror your momentary imbalance. Your efforts were rewarded with a triumphant laugh as Sam was forced to step back, the shared moment of childish glee lighting up your features with a wide grin. This brief interlude of sibling rivalry whisked you back to those carefree days of your youth, where even the simplest acts of brotherly teasing felt like the grandest adventures. Back then, Sam could do no wrong in your eyes, the epitome of an older brother in the most magnificent form.

In the midst of your playful scuffle, you were secretly relieved that Sharon had exited the room. Her presence might have added a layer of self-consciousness to the innocent chaos. Although the antics might seem juvenile to an outsider, to you, they were a rare slice of normalcy—a cherished reminder of a life untouched by cosmic wars or Thanos' dread shadow.

As Sam busied himself with selecting an outfit, your struggle with the unyielding fabric of your top grew increasingly frustrating. The material, devoid of any give, clung stubbornly in all the wrong places. With your back to Bucky, a soft sigh of exasperation escaped you. "Buck?" The quiet call for assistance was barely above a whisper, yet it summoned his attention instantly.

"Need a hand?" His voice was close, filled with a gentle concern that made your heart flutter slightly.

"Yes, please," came your subdued reply, the momentary vulnerability feeling strangely intimate. Then, you felt it—his touch. The slight graze of Bucky's skin against yours as his fingers traced a path up your side, his touch delicate yet assured. He navigated the fabric with a tender precision, his fingers briefly pausing at the edge of your top before guiding it smoothly into place. The fleeting caress that followed lingered just long enough to ignite a shiver of anticipation, a warmth blossoming within you that craved the closeness of his embrace. His breath, a warm whisper against the nape of your neck, sent a thrilling chill down your spine.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, the compliment hanging in the air between you, charged with an unspoken emotion that seemed to draw you even closer, tethering your heart to his with an invisible thread of affection and longing.

"I absolutely agree," Zemo's voice cut through the tension, drawing an involuntary growl of annoyance from Bucky. With a gesture of mock surrender, Zemo backed away, his steps carrying him to the bar where three glasses of whiskey awaited their silent call to be savored. Bucky, feeling the palpable shift in the room's dynamics, reluctantly distanced himself from you, his departure leaving a subtle chill in the wake of his warmth. He reclaimed his seat on the sofa, a move you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment over.

Sharon chose that moment to grace the room with her presence, her arrival marked by the lively bounce of her blonde waves. She exuded a casual confidence, her tone light, yet probing. "So," she hummed, curiosity lacing her words, "How's the new Cap doing?"

Before Sam had the chance to form a response, Bucky's voice, laced with a mixture of disdain and resignation, filled the room. "Don’t get me started." His hands found each other, intertwining in an awkward dance as his gaze inadvertently met yours. Even in the simplicity of his all-black ensemble, accentuated by a blazer that lent an air of sophistication, Bucky looked effortlessly handsome, commanding the space around him with an understated elegance.

Sharon, undeterred by the tense atmosphere, pressed on, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Oh, please. You buy into all that stars and striped bullshit." Her pointed gaze shifted to Zemo. "Before you were his pet psychopath, you were Mr. America! Cap's best friend." With a fluid motion, she sank into the space beside Bucky, a deliberate bite of her lip following her words.

The action did not go unnoticed, drawing a frown from you, a silent testament to the unfolding dynamics. Bucky, catching Sam's eye, shared a moment of mutual understanding, tinged with a hint of disbelief. "Wow," he uttered, the word heavy with implication. "She's kind of awful now." His observation, though softly spoken, resonated with a mix of humor and a poignant undercurrent of nostalgia for times and alliances past.

As you momentarily extracted yourself from the animated discussion unfurling within the living room, your attention was ensnared by the relentless buzzing of your phone, a beacon of unchecked notifications. A myriad of messages from your sister painted your screen, a digital mosaic of concern and updates. "I'll be right back," you announced, your voice threading through the dense air of conversation that was currently monopolized by debates over the Flag Smashers. The name itself, a moniker you found both laughably juvenile and misleadingly innocuous, echoed in your thoughts as you distanced yourself from the discourse, finding solace in the quietude of the hallway.

Leaning against the cool, indifferent wall, you began the arduous task of sifting through the digital deluge, your fingers scrolling with practiced ease. It was then, amidst the solitude of your temporary retreat, that the ambiance subtly shifted, heralding the approach of another. The door opened with a hushed creak, and there he was—Bucky, his presence alone commanding your undivided attention.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice a gentle intrusion, as he navigated the space around you to claim his own against the wall opposite. His casual demeanor belied the concern etched into the furrows of his brow.

"Hey," you echoed, a mirror of his own greeting, yet laden with an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight he carried in his gaze.

"You alright?" His inquiry was simple, yet laden with layers of unvoiced thoughts and concerns. There was a palpable hesitation in his words, a reluctance to tread upon the terrain of your powers—a subject he knew stirred a tempest of emotions within you. “You used your powers.”

"I did," came your affirmation, your response punctuated with a grin that sought to mask the undercurrent of apprehension that had long shadowed your relationship with your own abilities. "I'm alright, though, really." Your attempt to reassure him—and perhaps yourself—was sincere. "It felt weirdly freeing to use them. To see how well I can actually keep control. They are still kind of scary, though."

As the words tumbled from your lips, Bucky bridged the gap between you, each step he took charged with an unspoken intensity. Suddenly, the world seemed to narrow down to the space that separated you, every detail of his approach etched into your memory—the way the light danced in his eyes, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw, the silent communication of his body language that spoke volumes of his concern and his undeniable pull towards you.

The proximity between you dwindled to a mere breath, a distance so trivial yet laden with a myriad of unspoken possibilities. The air around you thickened, charged with a palpable tension that sent your heart racing, your breaths shallow. The notion of closing the distance, of yielding to the gravitational pull that seemed to draw you inexorably towards him, flickered through your mind like a tantalizing promise. It was an effort to maintain your composure, to anchor yourself to the moment without succumbing to the overwhelming urge to bridge the final vestiges of space with a kiss that threatened to unravel both of you.

Pressed against the cool, unyielding surface of the wall, the intensity of the moment had magnified as Bucky's hands found their way to your waist, his grip tightening with a hunger that sent waves of anticipation coursing through your veins. His large, calloused hands, battle-hardened yet gentle, conveyed a sense of urgency as they dug into your flesh, pulling you impossibly closer into his embrace. The strength in his touch was paradoxically comforting, each finger imprinting a promise of protection and desire onto your skin.

The world around you had faded into a distant murmur, his presence engulfing you, drowning out everything else. Bucky's body molded against yours, his chest to your chest, his hips locked with yours in a dance as old as time. The pressure of his hands on your waist was both a claim and a caress, a testament to the depth of his longing. It was as if he was trying to merge two separate existences into one, to erase any space that still lingered between you.

As his lips moved with a tender ferocity against yours, you could feel the raw power of his emotions, restrained yet palpable. The sensation of being wholly desired, of being pulled into someone's orbit with such intensity, was both exhilarating and terrifying. His touch spoke volumes, whispered of need and want that had been simmering beneath the surface, now unleashed in the privacy of this shared moment.

The hunger in his grasp was matched only by the passion of your response, your own hands exploring the expanse of his back, tracing the lines of muscle and scars that told the story of his past. Together, you were adrift in a sea of heightened sensations, every caress, every kiss, every breath amplifying the connection that had been quietly growing between you. In that moment, with Bucky's hands anchoring you to him, you weren't just touching; you were speaking a language of longing, of mutual understanding and unspoken promises made in the quietude of hearts beating in unison.

A voice unexpectedly cut through the thick haze of the moment shared between you and Bucky. The abrupt sound of Sam’s voice, laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief, acted like a cold splash of reality.

“Someone care to explain what’s going on here?” he demanded, his tone piercing the bubble that had enveloped you and Bucky. The shock of being discovered, especially by your brother, sent a jolt through you, compelling you to break the kiss.

Oh, no.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes series #bucky x you #winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier

[calebwittebane]

alright can i just say something.

can I just voice my opinion can I be heard. this post Bovvers Me. now i know this is a joke post. but in reality, in practice, as it has been released into the world, its a half-joke-post. it gained so much traction because people really do think like this and not for entirely self-deprecating ways--though that would be bad too. listen, when it comes to LESBIAN GAY BISEXUAL TRANSGENDER sex, being submissive is more readily accepted in the culture that is afraid of sexuality, because to a certain degree it appears to remove involvement and intent (which of course in reality it really doesnt, and the idea that it does has been used by predators to obscure abusive dynamics, but i digress). being dominant, being horny without guilt, initiating and "leading" the scene, it involves a level of earnesty that many people are scared of. it is Cringe to them even tough they crave it, but what they want is an oscar worthy performance that hits all the unspoken levels of subtleties and post-post-irony, done by someone without feelings or boundaries or different levels of comfort, who is just here to act out someone elses fantasy and leave. it is a dreary picture of gaysexhavers SO afraid of being earnest, so intent on needlessly judging and policing others all because they do it to themselves first and foremost. a pursuit of joy and understanding gets trampled over by the need to appease The Shame and The Voyeur and The Peer Judgment and to conform to norms even in privacy. the notion that its shameful to be horny, that wanting things is predatory, that youre making a mistake and committing a sin to even be doing this in the first place. the need to have someone to project anxieties and shame onto, the need to look at someones "right" to have a sexuality, unspoken social currency, self-policing. moreover, when a person is designated inherently less deserving of normal things like safely expressing desire, kept perpetually afraid of unknowingly becoming a predator due to some intrinsic quality of theirs, their boundaries are more easily trampled over and their safety is not as readily taken into consideration. not to mention that such pathologizing of agency and expression mirrors the same old dehumanizing patterns found in wider society, as it ends up harming those most marginalized within lgbt spaces--POC, especially Black people, trans women, very gnc people, disabled people, and so on.

TL;DR - people will think and talk like this and then be like "where are all the doms..." this and "no one wants to top..." that

[admirxation]

The Perpetual Chase | Chapter One | Leon Kennedy x reader series

links to other parts: part two | part three [this series has moved to ao3, link in pinned post]

𓆩♡𓆪┆pairing: las plagas!yandere leon s. kennedy x fem!reader (afab) & Chris Redfield x fem!reader (afab)

𓆩♡𓆪┆summary: the reader is finally free from the physical prison Leon held her in, but she remains in a mental trap that makes her constantly think about the incident. with an effort to move on, she is living with Chris, Jill, and her son, trying to continue life without leon.

𓆩♡𓆪┆word count: 2.8k

𓆩♡𓆪┆disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! i do not condone everything i write. this is for 18+ readers, so MDNI. you’re responsible for the content you consume so if any of the follow warnings trigger you, click off now.

𓆩♡𓆪┆warnings: NSFW 18+. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. female anatomy and she/her pronouns used for the reader. this series will mention things that happened in ‘broken locks’, please read before you read this to understand and know what you’re getting into. specific chapter warnings: healing trauma, reader suffers with remnants of Stockholm syndrome, & mention of of death.

𓆩♡𓆪┆a/n: heyyy! sorry this took forever, life has been hectic, but i hope you enjoy, please like and reblog if you did. just wanted to mention one thing though, i did name the son in the story, i didn’t want to keep putting “insert sons name”. i know its an x reader but there is only so much customising i can do without it being exhausting, so please do not hate on that. anyways thank you for all ur support, love y’all.

Chapter one: a broken beginning

The warm lamp on the bedside table filled the cosy room with an orange tinge around the four walls; the sleepy five-year-old was nestled in his mother's arms, clutching his favourite stuffed bear as he eagerly awaited his nightly fairytale from you — his beloved mother.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway land,” you began with a soft and melodic voice, “there was a beautiful queen named Seraphina.” You brushed Mason’s dark blond hair away from his forehead, his eyes sparkling warmly as you delved further into the story.

“Queen Seraphina had the most radiant smile that lit up the kingdom, and her kindness was known to all. She had a little prince called… Mason,” you saw him smile; you always liked to change the name to involve him and to hear that little giggle, “and Mason was her pride and joy.”

You continued with the tale; your words weaved a story of love, bravery, threat and danger, getting to the part that always scared Mason — the mentioning of the wicked sorcerer who became obsessed with the queen's beauty and vowed to take her away from everything she knew for his own selfish desires.

“Queen Seraphina was smart and strong,” your voice tinged with a hint of caution, “she had a magic charm, a special kind of protection that kept her safe from harm.”

Mason listened intently, his innocent eyes fixed on your face, soaking in every word that was uttered.

“However,” you continued, lowering your voice slightly, “the sorcerer’s obsession grew stronger by the day. He plotted and schemed, waiting for the perfect moment to take Queen Seraphine away from everything she loved.”

This was Mason’s favourite part, where the narrative took an unexpected turn as Queen Seraphina's castle was suddenly surrounded by darkness and then…

There was a knock on the door. Jill came in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your storytelling, but it's time for bed; Mason has a big day tomorrow,” Jill said as she waited for Mason to walk with her.

“You heard Jill, off you go.”

“But Mom, I want to hear what happens to Queen Seraphina,” he whined.

“You’ve listened to the story millions of times,” he pouted, making your heart melt “Tomorrow I’ll tell the story earlier, and I promise we will finish it… Now go with your Aunty Jill,” he hugged you as he went off, leaving you to put away the book.

You walked outside your room, watching Mason get all pouty as Jill tried to get him into bed, noticing Chris walk by and jokingly tell him to behave — Mason always listened to Chris; he almost looked up to him and tried his best to copy his mannerisms. You four were all living together in an unknown area, even though you couldn’t tell the actual location for safety reasons due to your “turbulent mental health” and your contact with Las Plagas, as the doctors put it, but you liked living with Chris, Jill and your son, as well as the ones who created a protective sphere and kept on guard. You were healing over your trauma after what happened five years ago, but there were still doctors who would check up on you and, most importantly, Mason; they were 99% certain you weren’t a carrier, but they continued to be sceptical of the child you bore from an infected man, Las Plagas had to be coursing through his veins — but every test showed he never carried the disease, but this didn’t satisfy or stop the frequent checks.

You understood the measures that had to be taken, but every time you had a check-up, that incident played in your head; it didn’t help that you had other factors like Mason’s favourite fairytale being about kidnapping; it all just made you remember Leon and what he had done to you — how he violated and manipulated you. The first year was hard; you woke up every night and only slept periodically, your eyebrows darkening. Jill and Chris made things easier; they were patient and understanding, reassuring you that Leon was dead and wasn’t coming back — but that didn’t silence your mind completely. You never admitted it to them, not those who checked up on you, but you still had nightmares, picturing Leon’s face with those dark veins and that perverted, dark smile he would always have when you were vulnerable. But you also thought about how you loved him towards the end; you remember putting your finger on the trigger and telling him, “I love you”. You felt guilty for having those bittersweet memories; the psychiatrists kept telling you it wasn’t healthy and that love doesn’t begin like that, and you knew that, but another part of your brain thought about the moment he took care of you. You remembered when he hugged and cared for you and helped you in the bath; all those memories had a dark tone, but you missed him.

The nights where those mixed feelings kept you awake, you wished you could get over it all and just think it was in the past, but it was hard, and despite Jill insisting on you needing to “heal”, you thought that was never going to happen; you thought that you were forever broken no matter the new life you were living. Five years on, it was a little easier to handle, with an emphasis on “little”, but there were still improvements. You had your friend Jill with you, and you were starting to get to know Chris, finally getting over the fact he wanted to kill you when he first met you, but that was something to joke about now — an extremely dark joke, but a joke nonetheless. Even though you loved Jill, the most understanding person was Chris; your developing friendship helped you along the journey, whereas Jill’s constant talking about a “healing journey” was coming from a good place but put pressure on you on how you should feel and where you should be in that “healing journey”. You felt like she didn’t truly understand the trauma you were going through; of course, no one really did, but Chris managed to make you feel comfortable and like he was actually feeling your emotions.

You had talked to Chris about how Jill’s words affected you and made you continually think about your broken mental health. He offered a shoulder to cry on, and you felt a connection with him. These feelings were confusing; you longed for Chris to stay longer when you had your late-night chats when he went off guarding duty, but it felt wrong to have these feelings when you were still thinking of Leon and what could have been if he remained that sweet neighbour you would make meals for. You didn’t know if this was the beginning of what they call “moving on”, but all you knew was that you liked it when Chris sneaked past Jill’s room when she watched over Mason sleeping and how you giggled together and sometimes had a little nap in each other's arms.

Tonight was another night you would have those late nights with Chris; you two had gotten into that routine of waiting for Jill to put Mason and then drift off before Chris would get off guard duty — you two weren’t doing anything physically intimate, but you knew Jill wouldn’t be comfortable with you having a flirtatious moment with another man, especially Chris. You felt guilty — at times — knowing you were keeping something from your best friend, but you also knew that this secret wouldn’t last forever; this secret would last for a while but would come out of hiding if anything actually sparked between you two, but you know when you would admit it you would get a lecture and experience her overprotectiveness. You did understand why she was acting like this, but you also wanted some freedom now to take it at your own pace and not be constantly monitored.

You waited in your bedroom; your door opened a crack to let Chris know you wanted him to come in; the anticipation bubbled inside you as you waited for him; you loved feeling that excitement; you hadn’t felt that innocent thrill since when you used to give meals to Leon, you remembered the excuse of your awful portion sizes and the smile he would always give when tasting your cooking… You missed that. You often thought about what could have been if Leon had never gotten infected. Would you two have gotten together naturally if he was still the boy next door? Would it have been a beautiful romance? Well, it doesn’t matter how much you thought because it would never be a true reality.

As you were getting lost in your thoughts, you subtly jumped out of your mind to be taken back into reality when you saw the door open, then met with Chris’ smile when he saw your face.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he closed the door behind him.

“No, no… I wouldn’t have had the door like that if I didn’t want you here,” you lifted yourself from the foot of your bed, putting your arms around him and nuzzling your face into his chest as he brought you in his arms, “I’ve missed you.”

“Wow, I didn’t know I had the effect on you,” he laughed. You just rolled your eyes.

Inside the dimly lit bedroom, you two sat on the floor on the comfortable fluffy carpet that was by your bed — you would often start your conversations here. You felt like you were wrapped in the warm comfort of Chris’ presence; the soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a gentle hue that invited closeness.

“I don’t think Jill will be waking up any time soon… I heard slight snoring coming from Mason’s room,” you both laughed.

“Means she’s out like a light,” he moved close to you, and you caught the sense of his natural scent that drew you closer and brought that excitement back; it felt like a true romance was blooming, but those previous thoughts kept making you think otherwise.

“How do you think she would react to… all of this?” you asked to break some silence.

“To be honest, I don’t know, but… I don’t want to talk about that now,” you raised an eyebrow out of interest, “Y/N, I want to talk to you about something, and it’s fine if you don’t want to engage, but please hear me out.”

“Wow, just a few minutes, and we’re already getting serious.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it all day, but shut up for a bit and let me speak,” you both laughed, “For the past five years, we’ve gotten closer. I got to know you, and I’m glad you got over our first awful first impressions, but… I didn’t expect to have what we have now. We don’t do what usual friends do, fair enough, we’ve never done anything, but I feel something. I suppose I’m trying to say I feel something for you, I care about you, and I want to see if you feel the same, and maybe we could build on that.”

You looked down at your hands before saying anything, watching his anticipation: “Chris… I do like you, but… I don’t want to lead you on. I feel like we have something, but I think everyone knows I’m not totally over what you know who did with me; I mean, I don’t think I can do things like sex for a long time.”

“We don’t have to have sex for us to be something real,” he softly grabbed your hand, “I understand if you don’t want anything with me, but if you did, I wouldn’t rush you into things like that, I would wait… Sex doesn't always make something real; we could have our own terms.”

Thinking about your memories of Leon, watching Chris, and the warm energy you felt from him. When you looked at the picture of Leon in your mind, you had bittersweet memories, romantic at times but truly traumatic and what he did ruined your life; you were ready to admit that. But when you looked at Chris, you saw a new beginning, a broken beginning, but something that could blossom into something beautiful if you let it and let go of Leon's hold on you even in the grave.

“Kiss me,” he widened his eyes with shock, watching you to make sure, “Kiss me, and I’ll truly know if I’m ready to say yes to this.”

He leaned in slowly, his soft lips brushing against yours until the skin of your lips fully collided into a passionate kiss; you had to adjust to this intimacy you hadn’t had in years, but you melted into the rhythm and let it take over, your eyes were shut, and your hands reached for his shoulders, inviting you to roam your hands around. Chris moved himself closer, lost in the interlocking of passion that was taking hold of you two… Until it had to stop.

“...I do want something real with you, Chris… But please be patient with me.”

“Of course, everything that will happen, I will make sure you’re 100% okay with it… I won’t hurt you.”

You smiled softly, thankful for his understanding and how much he wanted to be with you. The night drifted with you two conversing, hugging, and finding the moment to kiss again, giggling about how much you missed that sensation with another, glad to share it with Chris.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Hours had drawn on, finally hitting where you two had to depart before Jill was up. Chris still couldn’t wipe that smile off his face, knowing you two were finally moving into something, not being ambiguous about anything. You two looked at the time, not mentioning it, to see if Chris would stay with you a little longer.

“I think I need to go before Jill finds out I’m here,” you wrapped your arms around him even more tightly.

“Will I see you again soon?”

“I’ll be here again before you go to bed, and I’ll see you throughout the day.”

You gave him a final kiss before parting with him, watching as he closed the door fully, letting you close your eyes and relieve the whole night for a few moments before Mason came rushing back into your room.

As you turned over, oblivious of the outside, Chris was met with the one person you didn’t want to see — Jill. Every morning, after the countless nights together, Chris would sneakily close the door without a sound, rushing back to his spot before Jill even woke up, only today she happened to wake up earlier. She stood there with her arms folded, head tilted as she waited for Chris to speak. He just looked at her, defeated.

“Speak of the devil,” Chris said to himself, “Jill, just say what you want,” he turned to face her.

She moved one step closer: “You can never help yourself, can you?”

This ignited subtle anger in Chirs; all those nights you two had, how you confided in him about Jill’s overprotectiveness, Chris thought about how he would tell you; you were probably overthinking, but now he could witness the overprotectiveness that made you feel like you were constantly behind in your process with trauma.

“Y/N can make her own decisions; I never forced myself or made her be with me; we just… kinda hit it off.”

“You know she isn’t in the right state of mind to make a decision; she’s traumatised, she needs to heal, and all you’re doing is… being a safe replacement for Leon.”

“I’m not a fucking replacement!” he raised his voice, “If it was a few months after, fair enough, but it’s been five goodman years; in those years, we’ve made something that is finally happening, don’t you dare call me a replacement.”

“Do you like her, or is it just the easy option with the lack of missions recently? I don’t trust that you’re being sensitive to her situation.”

“Jill… That’s low, and you know it is… Ask her yourself if you don’t trust me,” he looked away, returning to his spot.

“Oh, before you go, Chris,” he rolled his eyes, “Leon woke up, he’s downstairs in the quarantine zone being monitored… He wants to speak to someone; it might as well be the man moving in on the woman he has a child with.”

Right there and then, time had stopped. You weren’t aware of this, but Chris, Jill and everyone who walked the building knew Leon wasn’t dead as you believed. When you pulled the trigger, you didn’t damage any vital organs and allowed him to live. And now he had woken up… Striking fear in everyone and making everyone watch him like a hawk to protect you.

©︎ admirxation. please do not copy or steal my works.

my links: masterlist | ao3 | kofi

taglist: @vlntinethinker @justasweatydogman @moolvn @cryptcutiee @ginswife @syynnaaah (if your name isn’t on here it’s because it wouldn’t register, please comment if you want to be tagged in future posts).

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x you #fanfiction #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x female reader #leon kennedy x fem!reader #yandere! leon kennedy #yandere!leon kennedy #yandere!leon #resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #smut #resident evil smut #leon kennedy x y/n #chris redfield #jill valentine #admirxation #admirxation brocken locks #admirxation the perpetual chase

[mingus-archives]

Saviors, Suffering, and Isolation in Across the Spiderverse

Something that really stuck with me from Spider-Man Across the Spiderverse was the theme of suffering inherent in the hero narrative (and specifically the spiderman narrative) and how we can perpetuate suffering in our justification of it.

In the intro to the movie, Gwen gives background into how she became Spiderwoman. She explains the traumatic experience of inadvertently causing her friend Peter’s death and says that because of this she can’t have friends. We see how this has caused her to further suffer, forcing a wedge between her and her band, her and her father, and her and Miles. She is obsessed with not letting a loved one suffer at her hands in the same way again. Furthermore, she is okay letting herself suffer through isolation as long as her loved ones are safe.

Then, we meet Miguel, Spider Man 2099, who fervently defends his and his organization’s behavior as making sure some suffering occurs in order to prevent larger suffering. Miguel took over a different dimension’s Miguel, allowing him to have a daughter and live a happy life. However, this dimension fell apart because he was an anomaly and caused that dimension’s timeline to not flow as it should. After this, he forms the Spider-society, which is intent on making sure that anomalies are taken care of and, more importantly, that canon events happen.

This is where the main conflict of the plot arises, as a canon event in the timeline is the death of the police captain, who in Miles’s universe happens to be his father. Miguel insists that Miles has to let his father die, and rages that Miles has already helped another Spiderman (Pavitr) avoid that fate. This is not a surprise to Miguel’s character; he is tormented by his attempts to lead a happy life and therefore believes that suffering is necessary. 

However, what is striking is that all the spider-people seemingly stand by Miguel except Miles. The characters we know, namely Peter B Parker, Jessica Drew (Spiderwoman), and Gwen all support Miguel’s perspective. This seems wildly out of character for these individuals who we’ve seen be insistent on saving people if it is in their power to do so. But it is important to note that, besides Gwen, they’ve already suffered that canon event of the police captain dying. For them, that was a necessary trauma in their lives that allowed them to be who they are today. It is in a sense a passive justification. They did all they could, but the captain had to die. But for Miles (and Gwen), the death of the captain is something they’re being forced to allow or even facilitate. They have to make the active choice to let their captains, both their fathers, die. Miles is insistent that this is wrong, and that there is another way to live.

As a story centered on characters of colors (and minority characters given Gwen is implied to be trans in the movie), this can be seen as a message about how some communities or people of color treat suffering. That is, the belief in many minority communities like mine (Hmong) is that suffering is a necessary evil to endure for the good of everyone. They suffered, so their children must suffer as well. However, this mindset moves from a coping mechanism to harm when, upon finding no or a lack of suffering, we fabricate suffering onto others like us because we believe this is necessary for success. Instead of finding help, lifting one another up, leaning on each other, we lean into the suffering, the pain, and the isolation. We are unduly harsh to our children, or we don’t try to disrupt the unjust systems that harmed us, or we just let bad situations be.

The Spider Society may be a group of spider-people, but there is surprisingly little care being given to one another’s wellbeing. Instead, they all look at each other and empathize rather than offer real care. I understand rather than let’s understand together. The coldness of this community is made clear with how  harshly Jessica treats Gwen when she screws up, with how cruelly Miguel treats Peter (”I’ve had enough of you”), and most humorously with the therapy scene where the therapist spiderman rudely remarks, “Let me guess your Uncle Ben died?” The spider-people are all heavily traumatized individuals, and instead of healing they’ve worked themselves into a web of control and fatalism. By accepting that suffering as inevitable, they create the suffering of Miles.

As a daughter of a refugee, I grew up hearing the message that suffering made us strong, that it allowed them to be successful. Children who didn’t suffer were spoiled and grew up to be ungrateful wastes to society. I heard stories in my LGBTQ+ community about how young queers take things for granted and don’t understand how hard it once was. And when I suffered myself, I felt a similar urge to say that this suffering made me a better person. And this is so hard to fight because if you acknowledge the suffering wasn’t needed, that means you shouldn’t have had to go through it, that it was unjustified, that it was a random cruelty of the universe. And that is a tough truth to accept, because that means it didn’t have to be that way. Uncle Ben didn’t have to die for Spiderman to live.

In order to let our stories continue, instead of repeating the past, as well as help our communities Across the Spiderverse asks us to let go of the suffering and the belief we needed it. It is not what makes us heroes. It is not what makes us good. Instead, like Miles and Gwen (by the end of the movie), our heroism is in our love and our loved ones, and in the belief that there is a better way.

#across the spiderverse #Spiderman #spiderman across the spiderverse #miles morales #peter parker #peter b parker #spoilers #across the spiderverse spoilers #whoo this is long #miguel o'hara #jessica drew #gwen stacy #spiderpeople #spiderwoman #spiderman meta #spiderverse #across the spiderverse analysis

[yepthatsacowalright]

I just really love how, despite having premises that are confining and controlling, Midnight Mass and The Fall of the House of Usher both give their characters so much agency over their lives. Monsignor Pruitt brings the Angel to Crockett and Roderick & Madeline make the deal with Verna, thus dooming their respective narratives pretty early on, yet everyone is still capable, in their own ways, to make choices that profoundly affect what happens. Becoming a vampire doesn't automatically turn you into a guiltless, blood-thristy killer. Being an Usher doesn't automatically turn you into a greedy, selfish asshole. You are not forever bound to be the younger version of yourself who fucked up. You are not exempt from fucking up just because you have "good" or "right" intentions for making the choices you did. Making a terrible, thoughtless mistake does not automatically render you unlovable, or incapable of making better choices in the future. You are forgivable, and no one is obligated to forgive you. There is no choice that will magically fix it all, but does that mean the individual choices made don't matter? Is dying full of resentment, hatred, and fear not different from dying knowing that you loved and were loved in return? Everyone has a choice. Even when you feel doomed by the narrative you did not chose to be in. Harm, or heal. Change your mind, or double down. Perpetuate the cycle, or reject it. And even if a choice you make only manages to bring a fleeting moment of peace, or help one person go on to live a life you couldn't, as Riley said, it's enough. It won't be forever, but for tonight it is. For tonight, it is everything.

#you are consequence #and tonight you are consequential #back in my text post essay era i guess #tfothou shook the snow globe of Thoughts and Feelings and i am compelled to document how the flakes fall #midnight mass #the fall of the house of usher #the fall of the house of usher spoilers #tfothou #tfothou spoilers

[mlmxreader]

I'm not gonna be in the Call Of Duty fandom anymore, well, the MW fandom. at least not fully, and I will explain, but first and foremost I want to clarify: I'm NOT leaving tumblr entirely & I'm NOT gonna back down either from my previous statements. So, allow me to begin as to why I'm making this decision.

The rape, incest, pedo and animal abuse pornography

Quite frankly, as someone who has been through rape and child sexual abuse, I find it ABHORRENT that anyone would ever look at such abuses and decide to fetishise, romanticise and glorify these things. I do not care nor want to know your "justifications" because frankly there aren't any. As a survivor, I am aware that the fandom is malicious and nasty towards people like me; I am aware that you people willingly and HAPPILY engage with such harmful, disgusting material. Quite honestly, I could not name a space more dedicated to the harassment, malicious treatment and utterly disgusting behaviour towards these topics and the people who openly disagree with them.

The racism

Before you tell me "Call Of Duty fans have always been racist", I am aware of that. But I'm talking specifically about the niche fandom (because it is niche). The fandom treats Black and Brown characters utterly abhorrently; from turning Gaz into a stereotype through to fetishising Farah and everything in between, the fandom's racism is progressively getting WORSE - and then x reader writers (who are predominantly white) only add to that by purposefully and willfully excluding Black and Brown people from fandom altogether. The racism within this space makes it clear that anybody who is NOT white is NOT welcome, and frankly, I do not wish to be associated with such disgusting people. To treat Black people as tokens, to purposefully KICK people of colour out of fandom - it's disgraceful and I hope that everybody is ashamed of themselves.

The ableism and saneism

The Call Of Duty fandom is NOT a safe place for anyone who has a psychotic, schizospec, dissociative or personality disorder. Plain and simple. From the colloquial usage of mental health terms such as "delusional", through to the "jokes" which are made to trigger people with such disorders (e.g. "in your walls"), and to the casual usage of anti-psychotic slurs like "psycho" and "schizo", it's obvious to anyone with just one quick look that this fandom sees people with such disorders as either their punching bags, their "memes" or worse: not human at all. And this also translates to fanworks, as quite honestly, I'm tired of seeing the same treatment directed towards characters like Nikto, because it shows that you people do not care about us at all. We aren't human to you, and we never will be. We are not even worth CONSIDERING when it comes to offensive language - it's degrading, it's dehumanising and it's exhausting to have to constantly walk away from fanworks that are so obviously made with malicious intent.

The homophobia

I am a bisexual/pansexual/omnisexual/queer/whatever you wanna call it man, and the amount of homophobia in the Call Of Duty fandom is disgusting. No, bisexual men AREN'T your "uwu bby boy so soft such a bottom bitch!!". You perpetuating homophobic stereotypes for the sake of a ship is utterly and completely and truly vile. How dare you claim to support LGBTQIA+/queer people when you KNOWINGLY perpetuate these stereotypes? When you KNOWINGLY engage in homophobic behaviour. You are scum.

The antisemitism and islamophobia

This is a touchy subject for non-religious folk, but I really wish you lot would all leave religious people alone. It takes you two seconds to look up what Muslims and Jews believe in and act accordingly. It takes you two seconds to NOT open your mouth when Muslims and Jews talk about their headcanons of characters being religious - because what gives you the right? Why do you feel so comfortable to shut down religious people's headcanons of characters? "Oh, he can't be Jewish because he's English", English Jews exist. "Oh, he can't be Muslim because he's Scottish", Scottish Muslims exist. These people exist in real life, and you saying that a character CANNOT be a Muslim or a Jew because of where they come from is little more than antisemitism and Islamophobia. Do better.

The apathy

When I say "the apathy", I mean exactly that. It is exhausting having to call out these horrid things time and time again and then see people WILLINGLY ignoring blatant bigotry by brushing it off and saying "I don't want to get involved in drama", as if somebody being a bigot is akin to a quarrel between two friends, or a disagreement between two people. If you aren't willing to address genuine harm ONLINE, then I'm sorry, but I doubt you would do anything OFFLINE either. If you're boiling things that actually harm people down to "drama", then I'm sorry, but you can't expect to be considered a safe person for people to be open with and to be honest with when it comes to their mental health or to their triggers. It's that simple. Your apathy towards your fellow man is blatant, and I cannot in good conscience continue to rub shoulders with such people.

Going forward

I'm not going to be engaging with MOST of the content within the Call Of Duty fandom - whether that's edits, fanfic, fanart, etc. I'm not. I've got a few mutuals who I've decided I WILL continue reading from or looking at their art or whatever, but for the most part, I'm not going to be active within the Call Of Duty fandom. I will continue writing for SOME of the characters, but my list of who I write for will be drastically reduced to just a few select characters. If somebody asks me "hey, is X thing saneist?" then of course I'll answer. If somebody points out to me that I took a request from someone who follows a rape pornographer, then I will delete that request and that fanfic entirely. I will still be happy to talk about the characters & games, but it will only be WHEN ASKED, and I will continue to use my DNI (although I'm going to change it a little so that the rape porn viewers/readers know I don't want them near me).

Of course, if anyone requires further clarification on anything I said, I'll be happy to answer and explain as best as I can! And if anyone feels emboldened by this post to come forward and share their own experiences with such things, then I will happily read through that, too! This post is 100% okay to reblog, and if anyone wishes to reblog it and go "This is also why I left the fandom", then I will happily hear you out. What I will NOT hear out, however, is any justification or defence of any of the harmful behaviours I have mentioned - I do not wish to hear it. Pack it in, and take it to 4Chan where you belong.

#ok to reblog #ok to rb #call of duty #cod #call of duty mw2 #call of duty modern warfare 2

[cyphyree]

Revolutionary Girl Utena spoilers.

I think what guts me the most is how Utena tries to rise above the mistakes of others, tries to do good, tries to be kind in the name of becoming like the prince she was inspired by...... only to fall short just like everyone else.

She's hypocritical, willfully ignorant, insufferable, malicious even.

When confronted by others who reflect her worst qualities, she tries to defeat them, tries to tell herself that she's not like them at all, when in fact she is all of them to some degree.

The fact that she's "trying to do good" doesn't even make her special or morally better. Lots of well-intentioned characters try to do good in the show, and try to break the rose-tinted windows of their cages. They still end up hurting others, willfully or not. So does Utena.

Utena also tries to drive change, but so does everyone else. All everyone manages to do is reinforce the status quo.

Is Utena a bad person? No.

Is Utena a good person? She's trying, but again that doesn't make her any less malicious than anyone else.

I think what ultimately sets Utena apart is her pursuit for honesty.

Honesty isn't something that's talked about in the show in the most explicit way, and why would anyone talk about it? To be honest is to make yourself vulnerable and open to abuse. To seek honesty is to shatter the lies that offer comfort and confidence, and expose the ugly, dirty little truths underneath. It's to break the rose-tinted windows of their cage: it's painful and sharp and cold and the cuts will be deep and will they even heal?

Utena is honest to a fault, making her susceptible to manipulation and mind games. She's also DIShonest to a fault, therefore perpetuating the illusion that continues to harm Anthy (but it's hard, isn't it, when that illusion is the reason you're still alive?). Utena being naive also has trouble perceiving truths that others more experienced can see.

However--while everyone else resorts to deflecting blame, mind games, or neglecting the inconvenient truth--in the end, Utena continues to pursue truth and be truthful. Not out of naivety like in the beginning, but knowing full well that it's a hell-ridden road worth walking.

She doesn't want illusions and deceit to lull her into false grandeur anymore. She doesn't want to see herself or anyone else through rose-tinted lenses, because to live a pretty lie is to die without being born. She eventually becomes honest with herself, sees the ugly truth of her flaws, and confronts them. She refuses the final illusion Akio offers her because it's dishonest to who she is and what's really important to her. She becomes honest with Anthy, and when Anthy is finally honest with her, Utena receives it in full however much it hurt.

In the end, she didn't save Anthy, because the truth is that Anthy was never hers to save. But by shattering the lies between them, and baring her truth, Utena became the vehicle for Anthy to save herself.

And that is revolutionary.

#i have words about this for the movie too but this post is long enough #utena thoughts #revolutionary girl utena #anthy himemiya #utena x anthy #shoujo kakumei utena #utena tenjou #utenanthy #rgu #sku #akio #analysis

[vasito-de-leche]

Hi! I read about your super cool Self Aware R1999 AU and it got me thinking about what Sonetto would be like, since I have a 100% bond with her in the suitcase.

Would she try to keep normalcy? Have a brand new idle line? Perhaps pull a Monika DDLC and start writing poetry where she tries to grapple with the fact that there’s an eldritch being puppeteering her best friend?

;R1999 SONETTO - Self-Aware AU

Headcanons about how Sonetto would act upon becoming self-aware. Related to this Self-Aware AU post.

glad you like the AU! this was a nice chance to explore Sonetto's character more <3

To organize my thoughts better, I gotta talk about Sonetto first for a bit.

I definitely talked about this with a few friends, but Sonetto is a wonderful character to me because I both dislike and feel for her a lot - especially in the new 1.4 Main Story update. The emphasis the game puts into her role as a military dog (raised to follow orders and die for a cause she doesn't truly understand) and a lost puppy (a curious and dependant child believing her caretakers have the best of intentions) really lives up to the way she portrays these same traits. Yes, it's awful to see her continue to perpetuate the harmful ideas the Foundation taught her, but it makes sense. Yes, it's lovely to see her slowly break away from everything she's ever known, and yet revert back to her habits because change is difficult. The way she works perfectly as a foil to Vertin, it's so good!

To me, Sonetto is a character that resists change, while yearning for it at the same time. That's why her Medium is curiosity, after all. It's so lovely and ironic to see THE perfect example of a Foundation martyr being set up for failure in something that they couldn't have even foreseen, her own Medium, her own innate curiosity.

So with this in mind, I think that within the Self-Aware AU ... I think she would be able to deal with this sudden awareness of everything being fake, because her first reaction would be to assume there's something wrong with herself for thinking something so outlandish, so beyond what she was taught. Sonetto would still resist this change - if this is a game, then she's not meant to be aware of it, therefore she's the one at fault and perhaps, broken in a way.

Maybe "broken" is too heavy of a word, I imagine it's more like she believes she broke the rules by gaining this level of sentience. That it' wasn't supposed to happen in the first place.

How would she act overall?

I feel like Sonetto would be relatively fine upon becoming sentient because of this, she'd be shaken but would continue to do as expected and follow the script like a proper little chess piece, one of the many cogs needed in the machine - her reasoning is simple: if everyone who is self-aware began to act out, there wouldn't be a game to play. And what would happen to her friends, then? If this stability that the plot and script brings is suddenly gone?

There would be times where she might slip up, but they'd be very subtle changes in the her dialogue - perhaps the inflection of her voice, rather than the words - she might pause for longer to think, to consider whether to do anything outside of what she's expected to. But that's about it.

The problem begins when she finds out (or is told) that the Foundation had known this truth about the world they live in for longer than she's been alive. Sonetto remains docile entirely to keep that order and harmony she's been raised to maintain, but to find out that the very people who taught her that have known and done nothing but lie to everyone - that would be the catalyst for her.

Personally, I like to think that this is something she figures out on her own, rather than being told. A truth she must face on her own instead of just accepting someone else's words.

Her behaviour would still largely remain the same whenever she knows she has a part to play, but in those moments when she knows there's no "camera" looking at her, Sonetto would... sit there. WIth the way I've interpreted Sonetto, she's a character that struggles to actually have an identity outside of the Foundation's training, so now that this is something she can't rely on, she's at a loss as to what to do with this newfound freedom.

I imagine this is when other arcanists who were self-aware before her would start reaching out to Sonetto and slowly give her that stability she needs.

On the subject of Sonetto's relationship with Vertin.

The way I interpreted Sonetto and Vertin's dynamic, I don't see them as best friends!

From reading back some scenes and transcribing most of CH 03 of the Main Story, it feels like both Sonetto and Vertin have always found themselves in a one-sided relationship: when they were kids, Sonetto rejected Vertin's attempts at becoming friends because of their differences, even if they were both curious about each other. They never striked me as close. Now that years have passed, Vertin treats Sonetto similar to how she treats everyone else, while Sonetto explicitly wants to be closer to Vertin due to what happened when they were kids.

To me, Vertin has shown more emotion to Schneider and Madam Z than to Sonetto. There's this one-sided dynamic again.

In the context of the AU, I think Sonetto finding out about what Vertin goes through with this entity and this role that the game forced upon her, she would double down on her feelings to protect Vertin. There's a lot of guilt involved, since - once again - that's what the Foundation teaches to all orphan arcanists, to repent for their unruly and destructive existence.

I think Sonetto would feel guilty for not gaining sentience sooner, while Vertin has been struggling with this heavy weight for God knows how long. She would recontextualize everything about Vertin, her actions and the differences that constantly got her into trouble as a child, her desire to escape - attributing all of it to this entity that follows her. Because I do think that Sonetto idolizes Vertin to a degree that fuels this one-sided dynamic between them, not out of malice of course, just like a puppy.

So in the end, Sonetto would resent the Player and worry even more for Vertin, now using this as a justification for acting out of line and out of script, as Vertin's self-imposed protector.

It would take Sonetto a looooooong time to do anything with her sentience and freedom, beyond continuing to support Vertin. Her poems and her art would reflect this progress slowly, but yeah, not a lot of noticeable changes.

Reaching 100% Bond with Sonetto.

This is a very conflicting event for Sonetto, I'd say.

The more attention you pay to her, the more aware she becomes of your influence - and now she has to come to terms with the fact that there is no way of separating you from Vertin. She can't free Vertin from this fate, and it doesn't look like she wants that to happen either, but it eats Sonetto from inside out. Because she doesn't understand, and she wants to know why this is the way things are meant to be.

When it comes to reaching 100% Bond with her, or levelling her up and so on, I don't think she'd pay much attention to the mechanical aspect of it all. She's a skilled arcanist, she's the first important character the game gives to you during the tutorial stages, she knows just how important her Disarm ability can be to win a battle - of course you would want her on your team.

But as she slowly spends more time with Vertin and the Player, I think Sonetto would start to wonder about the outside world. They're small, little and impulsive thoughts in the back of her mind, like wondering if you too have someone in this fictional little world that you care about enough to see the story through the end. Are you capable of loving someone that can't reach out to you nor acknowledge your presence? Isn't it cruel, for those who remain blind to the truth, to be so loved and cherished by you?

Do you read the newspaper the same way Vertin does? Do you care about her? About her goals and dreams and thoughts?

This is the only way Sonetto can reconcile this resentment she has for you: through Vertin. I think Vertin would eventually notice all these subtle changes, the way Sonetto never looks truly happy whenever she looks at Vertin, looking above as if she could catch a glimpse of the Player. And Vertin would help through the whole process, easing up to sentience as a whole, to accepting the Player's existence as just something that is there, neither good or bad.

While she's one of the very few who has no trouble differentiating your actions and influence from Vertin's own free will, she would eventually come to respect your choices. Doing her best and beyond whenever you choose her to battle, because now the stakes are higher - now, she's choosing to fight for something she fully understands and cares about.

I like to think that Sonetto can't hear you, but she might be able to see you. Little glimpses here and there, when she happens to look up at the sky, and she sees you cheering after beating that one level that's been giving you a headache. I like to think that she would share these details about you with Vertin, if only to ease her own mind about the complex dynamic you have with THE Timekeeper.

But at the end of the day, this is progress and these are many changes that happen out of your field of vision. Perhaps, one day, Sonetto will gather the courage to thank you for taking care of Vertin when no one else would.

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #self aware au #reverse 1999 sonetto #sonetto

[starberrywander]

If men aren't the ones holding up the patriarchy then pray tell, who is? Oppression isn't some non corporeal force, it is created and regularly enforced by the oppressive class. It is the culmination of what a class of individuals think and do that create oppression. I think you should read even just the wikipedia article for Feminism and Patriarchy.

The answer is everyone who isn't actively fighting it. Not just men. Have you really never encountered women who enforce patriarchal gender roles on their families? What about all these female GOP politicians who regularly fight against women's rights?

You are correct, oppression isn't some non-corporeal force. But its not just the actions of individuals either. It is a system and a culture. It is maintained not just by those who actively defend it but also by those who act within it complacently. It's not some cult where people have to be forced to take action to maintain it, the patriarchy is a culture that we are all raised in. It implants itself in the minds of all people who exist within it through social rules and people, all people, will act on and pass on that culture if they do not actively fight to identify and remove it from themselves.

The patriarchy is often passive; meaning it doesn't have to be actively enforced by the conscious will of individuals to have effects on us. It is woven into our environments so deeply that everyone is conditioned to act on it and pass it on, even if we are not consciously aware that is what we're doing. Just like any other cultural element, the people who live within it tend to take it for granted as facts of reality. Ever heard of implicit bias? That is how systems like these maintain themselves.

There is not some active conspiracy among men to uphold and wield the patriarchy. Its not something they, or anyone else who hasn't challenged it in themselves, are consciously thinking about and controlling. It's just a culture that people are raised to think is the natural order of things. Yes, the oppressive class (in this case men) enforce oppression, but a very significant portion of that is done without any intention to oppress. It is, again, what people have been taught by the patriarchy is the natural order. Acting like all men, by virtue of being men, are in on some scheme to oppress women is disingenuous. Some may be (Andrew Tate, for example) but your average garden variety dude is not on some mission to maintain superiority.

Think what you want about me, but I can observe the world with my own two eyes and ears and see that most men are not out to get women. More often than not their harmful behaviors are done without any knowledge or understanding of the damage they can have (Obviously I'm not referring to things like abuse and rape, before you jump to extreme conclusions.). And they are never going to gain that understanding and start pulling the weeds of patriarchy from their minds if we do not allow them to process and discuss the way patriarchy plays out in their own lives.

So yeah, you're right. Men do uphold the patriarchy. It's not just men, but they do have the largest impact. But what I feel you get wrong is this framing that they always do so consciously, that it is an active thing that they are choosing and therefore must answer for. Most of the time it is implicit bias. And the only places those biases are challenged are feminist ones. Or at least ones with feminist influence. If we keep excluding them that fact will never change and they will never stop upholding the patriarchy. They do not hold it up because they're male, they hold it up because that's all they've been taught to do. They have been raised by a culture designed to perpetuate these ideas and pass them from generation to generation.

Idk why it's not obvious to more people, but maleness is not the cause of patriarchy. The ideology of patriarchy is. And ideology can be passed on by anyone, to anyone. If we just ignore this crucial source, nothing is going to change. We are going to fight a constant uphill battle if we just assume that men are changeably in favor of this ideology and give up on rooting it out. We need to root it out. That is probably the most important step we can take toward dismantling the patriarchy right now. And the most effective way to do that is to actually discuss the patriarchy with men and allow them to express and process their perspective and experience without being driven away for their thoughts. No, this doesn't mean just tolerate prejudice silently. What it does mean is to listen, consider, empathize, and start pulling the weeds of prejudice out by challenging biased statements in a way that doesn't make them go on the defensive.

Seriously, how do you propose we end the patriarchy? What's the plan here? Because to me the most obvious course of action is to free men and women alike from the captivity of this harmful ideology until there is no one left to uphold it. And we do that by assessing all effects of the patriarchy and discussing them, including the ways they effect men. In what way would it ever be bad to better understand the patriarchy? Because that's what happens when you allow men's experiences to be discussed.

Maybe you don't see it this way, but when I think of Feminism the goal is to free all of humanity from the grips of patriarchy, not to free women from men. The problem is the culture and ideology of patriarchy, not men for wielding it. Or at very least, that's the problem we should be focusing on if we want to make any progress. I don't see how we could ever stop men from perpetuating the patriarchy if we don't make them stop believing its lies and assumptions.

#feminism #intersectional feminism #ask

[whitedemon-ladydeath]

CoN + the Eternal Perpetuation of Abuse and Toxicity

ok see here's the thing. people aren't born evil. people aren't Born awful and despicable and monsters. there's always a mix of genetics and environmental factors that end up bringing out the worst in people

ok now think about the Court of Nightmares

you will NEVER get me to believe they're all just evil monsters who all delight in harming each other for... just because. you will NEVER get me to believe that Morrigan is the one (1) person in the entirety of them all who is just ✨️pure and good✨️. actually dare I be controversal: her pick-me nastiness is a byproduct of living there. OK NOW MOVING ON

consider them all being trapped in that place together. They are trapped under that mountain with each other. there is severe power imbalances put in place, which means people are trapped with their abusers under there

sometimes, when people are trapped in a corner with bullies, or they're being raised by bullies, that is all they know. they build the same nastiness, the same callousness and pointy and sharp and mean words and actions as a means to defend themselves. it is pure survival. it is not "lol they're all awful and delight in hurting people". if people are being awful and enjoy it, that means there are victims of that hurt and wickedness. are we saying they enjoy being victims of that torment....?????

if basic needs aren't being met, often times contention and cruelty is born out of necessity. When you're around hate, you become hate to protect yourself. often it's not even intentional or conscious, its a defense to protect yourself from that hurt. you bite before you get bitten. toxic environments breed toxicity

until there is a new option brought in, until there is hope and resources and a way out, nothing changes. it all festers. it all gets worse

Rhys being like "lol they all delight in hurting each other. i just leave them be" about the CoN is perpetuating all of that abuse. he is letting it fester and grow. victims are being made every single day and he is choosing to let that happen

Keir wants out. he wants his PEOPLE out. maybe they don't want out so they can just delight in cruel merriment everywhere under the sun. maybe, just maybe they're trapped in hell and working with what they have

Feyre is complicit in keeping those people there. When Keir says his people want to be FREE from the mountain she's like ok but all ur comfort tho. is that not enough for u

Feyre died UtM. She saw victims being brutalized UtM. UtM was designed and inspired by the CoN. is she REALLY going to subject the same women and children and men of that kind of torment???

@kateprincessofbluewhales @ae-neon @achaotichuman @bookishfeylin

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #sjm critical #anti rhysand #anti feyre archeron #anti mor #anti inner circle

[fairuzfan]

it's quite a dishonest framing that you say hussein was "regarding you with suspicion" baselessly even though you've publicly state on your blog how you believe zionism is an "intracommunity" discussion.

they at no point even mention that they blame you for "israel's actions". they assumed you were talking about zionism because of previous pointed statements you endorsed where you say zionism should be only discussed by jews. its not imagined, you straight up said this? and you claim that hussein is antisemitic for assuming you're saying the same thing again just with more inclusive language? And it coincided a few days after me posting that tributary post about "defining yourself as zionist or antizionist"? So he assumed that it was in relation to it? sure you might not have meant it about zionism this time, but with previous statements you've made/endorsed you don't exactly have the right to act like you have no idea why they would assume that and misconstrue this as an antisemitic attack where he's conflating zionism with judiasm when you literally agree that zionism should only be discussed by jews, which means you yourself are conflating zionism and judiasm.

but ok, i guess, they were just taking your words out of context because they're "antisemitic". I even saw this ask last month and assumed you were talking about zionism in your recent post because of this statement you published and told him privately thats what i assumed you were talking about. Not because of you being jewish. But because i remembered this statement you agreed with because i was so offended reading it. And yeah it's a really bad statement that I'll remember because of how antipalestinian it is so sorry I don't think you get to claim the moral highground???? You didn't exactly disagree with any part of this person's statements?????

And like I would have left this alone but hussein often gets called antisemitic by people you associate with and reblog from, and it really shows how little compassion you all have for Palestinians (which btw as I say over and over, we have a right to point out harmful rhetoric that impacts us) who have a "knee-jerk reaction" to these things when we quite literally see our communities call for the deaths of our friends and family by starvarion and bombing in the name of zionism and when we call it out irl we get called antisemitic. You could have like sent an ask or publicly clarified your intentions but you just jumped straight to calling him antisemitic. Which the onus of responsibility is on YOU because of your previous statements. Why would we assume you mean something different based on past experiences???

Rhetoric like "zionism is an intracommunity issue" is stuff that has literally led to death of our loved ones so of course we have "kneejerk reactions" when there is literal proof of you saying these things before. We are not doing this because you're Jewish, we are doing this because we see and experience first hand this rhetoric and youre perpetuating it blatantly and you have people who follow you who look to you for perspective on "israel/palestine". It's so disingenuous to claim he's an antisemite when he's literally finding common talking points zionists perpetuate against us and call it out. And saying "I don't support the likud government or Westbank settlers" means nothing to us because our families were expelled from palestine before likud and settlers happened. Trying to separate modern day zionism from its colonial roots from the 1800s is at its core anti-palestinian, no matter what other conversations you want to have.

Again like the only reason this matters is because people follow you and look to you for perspective AND you reblog/interact with people we have pointed out as harmful. I literally would not care enough to make this post if i didnt see your posts spread enough times around here. So it's not because you're jewish and framing it like that is really dishonest when the person pointing this out was a palestinian who lost family due to zionism throughout multiple generations of their lives.

#not making this rebloggable because i dont want this to be a big thing but like #the way this circle of people refuse to interact with ideas about palestine outside of like. standing together or #“israeli/palestinian peace groups” #just shows you guys are more concerned for your own circumstances than any actual liberation of palestine #like come on. you say zionism is an intracommunity issue and then get mad at people who “misinterpret” you #based on past statements. #like be for real #why would we care about you if none of us have seen your posts around #youre perpetuating zionist ideology and WE are the antisemites. ok.

[writingwithcolor]

Hello! I am currently developing a villain oc for a universe where superpowers are a normal part of human history and happen regular citizens, written primarily from the perspective of the villains. However, after doing some research, I worry that I may have accidentally made the main villain as an antisemetic character, specifically which dealing with blood libel.

The main villain is an older woman who’s main goal is to stay young in an attempt to live forever, as well as grow extremely rich. Her power allows her to drain the life force of others which kills them and also in turn makes her stronger and younger. She also mainly commits large-scale heists and has gathered herself quite the pool of wealth. To aid her in her plan to become as rich as possible, she had begun to target very young children with powerful abilities and trained them to become near-perfect killing machines.

Now, I feel like it is important to note that:

- She does not harm the children, especially not with her power

- She does not consume blood

- None of her physical features are Jewish-Coded

But even so, I worry that, with the combination of her targeting children, having a near-obsession with wealth, and her power being the ability to drain people of their life energy, that it may come across as antisemetic, which is in no way my intention. Do you have any advice on what I can do to fix this, or is it okay as it is?

Is my villain protagonist playing into blood libel tropes?

Thank you for catching this! You are spot on, all three of those characteristics (stealing children, hoarding wealth and draining others of life) are antisemitic tropes, especially when used together. I’m also getting strong Mother Gothel vibes from this, so you might want to research what Jewish people have said about that character for more insight. 

An easy fix is to deliberately and explicitly distance this character from Judaism, probably by having her be part of another religion (though not a real-life marginalised religion or one that could be read as similar to Judaism, please!). 

It would also help to have some actually Jewish characters who play positive roles. As a villain, she could even be hostile to these characters to create even more distance.

Good luck and thanks again for spotting this in time!

Shoshi

Agreeing with Shoshi here--in the past, when a villainous character has been in danger of reinforcing antisemitic tropes, I’ve also advised having that character specifically and overtly practice Christianity albeit perhaps in a warped way; specifically Christianity because Christianity originated and perpetuates the blood libel trope in the first place. If you’re writing in a world without real-world religions, avoiding associating this character with an in-universe marginalized religion or ethnic group (or more to the point, specifying her membership in a dominant religious or ethnic group) may serve the same purpose. 

Likewise, if you’re writing in a world with real-world religions, having heroic Jewish characters directly opposing her and citing Jewish values as their motivation does a lot to negate any assumption that you intended your villain to be a statement in support of antisemitism. If you’re writing in a world without real-world religions, I’m going to link you to this ask as a caveat:

Jewish characters in a universe with author-created fictional pantheons 

But if there is a marginalized religion or ethnic group in your story that does echo Jewish ideas or is overtly Jewish-coded, having heroes with a strong connection with this culture may serve.

Meir

#antisemitism #Jewish #Blood libel #Villains #Jewish tropes #Jewish stereotypes #asks

[antiendovents]

as a schizophrenic osdd system i think it’s really really ableist, uninformed, and just plain rude when fellow antis call endos “delusional.”

like yeah, thanks so much for perpetuating the harmful stereotypes about my disorder that are literally outside of my conrtrol!

also telling anyone to kill themselves, endo or not, is not a good look and is pretty toxic imo :(

nod, we were going to make a comment on that but anger is anger. They aren't telling people directly to kill themselves (I should hope) and I did mention in the tags I dont agree with telling people to kill themselves. Thought crimes are not a thing though and this is infact a vent blog, we will allow people to vent their anger here since that's what this is intended for.

We do agree that calling them delusional is a little odd, but I do not believe they meant it in an offensive way,, do I agree with it? No. But I will let them be angry for now, people make mistakes when they are angry and I'm sure that person had no intentions of perpetuating sterotypes or being ableist. Not trying to excuse it, but trying to give an explanation for why I allowed it to post. I did try add trigger warnings too, but if I am missing any feel free to let me know

It's important to know the difference between uniformed and ableist, there is also a chance they simply do not realise that calling others delusional may be offensive

#anti endo #did #did system #endos dni #plural #actually did #alters #system #endos fuck off #did osdd #Sorry anon but also please read the tags of the post #I literally said I don't condone telling people to kill themselves and that thought crimes are not a thing #tw kys mention