#that transition was sick I can’t stop thinking about it

[talkfastcal]

Don’t blame me for WHAT! YOU! MADE! ME! DO!!!!!

#that transition was sick I can’t stop thinking about it #eras tour spoilers #taylor swift

[onconstellationstreetmp3]

#me.txt #i can’t stop thinking about this its honestly making me a little sick #im currently sitting backstage listening to the first runthrough of my school musical ive been running around doing set #transitions today #& curtains which is my specialty lmao #i love the theater so much im sorry i just do its so beautiful here #so im tearing up a little over this #whatevs #parasocializing so hard right now lmao #theater tag #al pacino #words words words

[0venatrix]

I swear to god if I hear another piece of misinformation from my mums phone, I am going to scream.

Actually that’s a lie. I will bite something.

#tag rant incoming #kids can transition #socially #and hormone blockers can be reversed #LIKE YOUR SO MISINFORMED LIKE STOP JUST CONSUMING FACEBOOK BULLSHIT I SWEAR TO GOD. #Im gonna reach a point where I just snap her ducking phone or something #Im genuinely so sick of living with this #like you claim to be free thinking #but can’t realised that that “evidence” that the gov is laying about climate change is actually 2 different maps displaying different #info #How do I fuck with her Facebook algorithm That would be so funny #you can reblog this

[c0kitty]

NOW PLAYING ... NOBODY KNOWS ft. spider-women!ellie x reader

“…BUT NOBODY KNOWS MY LITTLE SECRET.”

(⭑) summary: r/reddit, when’s the best time to tell your girlfriend of three months, (who you are so desperately in love with) you are that "crazy" vigilante on the news, fighting crime in a spider-suit, and that you now shoot fucking webs out of your wrist. (⭑) content: wc 1.2k+ nerd!ellie. confessions. making out. comfort. spider-man!ellie. established relationship. suggestive. insecure!ellie. HEAVILY inspired from the roof-top scene in tasm bcs im obsessed. cursing.

you guys find yourself on the roof-top of dina’s-friend’s apartment, for a random party, celebrating god-knows what. it's slightly chilly, you stand next to ellie with her oversized jacket on you; despite ellie telling you numerous times it was going to be cold, she was not one to refuse you.

ellie wished she had her camera right now; outside’s a pretty scene with the many buildings scattered, the sky, gradually transitioning into yellow and pink hues, night unfolding, and you, looked so pretty by her side. 

the city below though remains bustling with constant movement, and ellie's mind is no different. because today was going to be the day —

ellie’s hazel-green eyes shift towards you, observing your soft expression, her heart ached with uncertainty as she wondered if you would hate her — hate her for lying, hate her for not being normal, hate her for having so much baggage. hate her for being spider-women. 

“you think dina and jesse are shagging?” you ask, randomly, breaking the comfortable silence. your hands moves to the railing, casually pushing yourself backwards on it.

“saw dina sneakin’ out at 1 am, like she was a teenager. so, yeah, definitely.” 

also due to ellie’s super-senses, she had heard so many “private,” conversations with him and dina she wished to unhear.

you nod your head, turning your attention towards ellie. “so, why do you seem so te—”

“i need to say something,” 

you guys both interrupt each other, it elicits a small giggle from you. “okay... is this about before? is that the reason you’ve been so pissy tonight?” 

you were hinting about earlier. when someone had hit on you, even with you being on ellie's lap, her arms even wrapped at your waist. it irritated the hell out of ellie, leaving her to characteristically run her mouth at em'. 

you almost had to drag her away to stop the growing commotion.

ellie sports a slight pout at her pink-lips. “it’s not my fault men can’t get fucking context clues, it’s a wonder they survive. and i haven’t been “pissy” i—” you raise your eyebrows in response, conveying a silent ‘you sure?’ ellie stops talking, only rolling her eyes.

“okay, whatever, maybe i was but, it's not about that,” ellie wasn’t sure how to start this conversation without sounding crazy or scaring you.

“...i was bitten,” ellie says, bushy brows slightly furrowing.

your head tilts, “that’s a little ominous.” ellie rethinks; maybe that wasn’t a good way to start.

“nevermind. you know, when i was sick. that whole two weeks, couple months back.” you nod your head, “yeah, you said you were sick. projectile vomit and shit. couldn’t lift a finger because it was so bad.” damn, ellie forgot she said all that.

“yeah, um sorry. i lied about that.” before you could say anything, lips pulled into a frown, ellie blurts: “i’m spider-man,” finally with a breath. you’re staring at her, but she can’t decipher your expression. unconsciously, ellie bites at her bottom lip.

silence fills the moment, and ellie finds it unbearable; suddenly, in just a second, your face relaxes. “oh, wait. you’re fucking with me. els thought you were serious for a second.”

ellie was regretting playing pranks on you so much, “i’m not fucking with you,” ellie’s arm cross, unconsciously flexing in the process, but you only a grow smile on your lips, like this was some ongoing joke. “jesus, stop smiling — it’s not a joke y/n,”

“i’ve known you all my life ellie — i think i would know if you were fighting crimes with iron-man,” you ignore her, releasing the bar. “wait just w—”

“lets go els, please. it’s getting cold and i’m tired,” you say, making your move toward the door; but in a quick reaction, ellie’s translucent webs shoots out her wrist, spinning you around til’ you're close, her hands, now holding at your waist.

you’re staring at her, eyes widened comically, and your mouth parted, seemingly trying to process what just happened. ellie's attention was drawn to something else though; light in the distance, drunken footsteps heading their way. 

“you just fucking — shot webs out your hands, ellie! you’re sp—” 

ellie didn’t have much time to think it through, because as soon as the drunkards stumble in, ellie's lips, soft and sweet, press into yours.  “..shh,” ellie whispers, faint to your lips — trying to calm you down.

a small gasp leaves your mouth. but after a second, hearing the commotion behind you; you get the message, relaxing yourself into the kiss.

ellie's kisses are usually greedy, but tender, her hands would rummage your body confidently, possessively pulling you in. but this kiss, its … different. it’s tentative, hesitant, like she was afraid to push.

at that, you try to make her feel comfortable with a subtle touch beneath her loose black-shirt. your lips, coated in strawberry gloss, glides seamlessly over hers, giving her a little push; and it works.

ellie tongue pushes in hastily, its smooth tracing from your lips to your tongue. her moppy-brown hair tickling your chin as she eases in the kiss, embracing the subtle buzzing in her chest. 

you hear the people leave, and it’s silent now, besides the busy cars. “ellie… t–” 

“one more second,” she grumbles, you wanted to keep going, but you still had a lot to say — questions cycling. so you pull away, with a gentle smack of the lips.

she lets out a small groan in response; her cheeks dusted in pink and round eyes flutter open, looking at you in a wistful gaze.

“so… you’re spider-man. well, spider-woman,” you finally say, exhaling. ellie’s eyes shift to the floor. her hands drop from you, and instead, runs through her hair anxiously. “yeah. i know it’s fucked up, and weird. i should’ve told you, warned you, but i—”

you interrupt her depressive rambles, “no, ellie i mean it’s cool, you’re cool. it’s just, fuck.” you take a breath, throwing your hands up. “i was just surprised because you’re, like, nerdy and cute, and then … spiderman, you know?”

ellie’s eyes lifted to meet yours, “relieved” couldn’t fully capture how she felt, but all she could managed to say was: “oh, okay. that’s great, yeah.”

a silence falls between you two in response to ellie’s awkwardness, exchanging glances; both of you burst into a fit of giggles.

“i feel like i should feel offended though, ‘nerdy?’” you playfully nudge at her feet, “you know what i mean. passionate about space, introverted, so obsessed with your grades. it’s like a text-book definition,” ellie couldn’t really deny that, so she just playful rolls her eyes instead.

“...but you know what’s crazy, i had a small tiny crush on spider–man, well you, before we officially dated.” 

ellie’s lips curve into a smile, “so now you get the best of both worlds, huh.” ellie comes closer to you, hands finding their place to your body. "i bet you dreamed of both of us fighting over you, hm?”  

in the quietness that follows, your eyes drift away from ellie, intentionally avoiding her gaze. ellie could tell there was more story to your silence, “wait — did you have a wet dream about spider-man and m—” she begins, but you swiftly cover her mouth.

“...shut it,” you say beyond flustered, which only intensifies ellie's curiosity.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x y/n #tlou #ellie x reader #tlou x reader #ellie williams x poc reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams tlou

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 5

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: Bradley Bradshaw x OC!reader, cursing, maybe. Self-doubt and insecurities.

Words: 3165

The One I Want Masterlist

---

You are stirred by a knock at your door and you flip over in bed, eyes widening when you find the sun too high in the sky for the hour you were expected to wake. 

“Shit! I’m gonna be late.” 

Throwing back the covers you hop out of the warmth of your mattress into the chill of the room, and rush toward the bathroom. But there’s another knock. Glancing between the door and the bathroom, you debate which is more important, but you know Jake is on the other side. And you know he won’t stop. So, quickly as you can, you make your way to the opposite side of the room and yank the door open. 

“Hey,” Jake says with a smile. “I was, uh…I–”

Your brow raises in question, but then you realize where the two-second glance of his eyes landed before they returned to your face. The speedy transition from comfy bed to cold air caused your nipples to bud and press through the thin fabric of your tight tank top. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, and ignoring the blush you can’t will away, you say, “What’s up?”

“You weren’t up for work, so I thought you might be sick or something.”

“Nope, not sick,” you reply, stepping back to ease the door closed. You really need to get ready. You’re already calculating how long each of your morning routine tasks will take if you operate at max speed. 

“Wait,” Jake says, his palm flattening against the door. It’s not forceful, you could slam it closed if you really wanted to, but the look on Jake’s face makes you pause for him. “When I pick you up, any chance you want to go to a bonfire? Just friends from work and a couple of locals. It’s not going to be anything crazy.”

“Yea, sure,” you rush out, not soaking in his words. You’re going to be late, he’s going to be late, and you need to get rid of him. 

Jake smiles again as he says, “Really?” and you nod, not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to. But it works to move him along. 

He wishes you a good day and begins to head for the front door when, suddenly, he pauses halfway on his path. You think he’s about to ask you something else that you won’t comprehend with the anxiety of being late to work consuming your thoughts, but he simply stands there with his back to you, blows out a breath, and rests one hand on his hip while the other runs through his hair.

“Calm the fuck down,” you hear him mutter before he collects himself and resumes his move toward the door and out of the apartment. 

Thankful that he’s finally gone, you shower as fast as humanly possible, dress, and run into the kitchen to grab a water bottle to shove into your bag and the first piece of food you can find, a banana, to devour before you leave. At this rate, you’ll only be fifteen minutes late, but considering you’ve not once been tardy in the week and a half you’ve worked at the shop, you hope the owner will go easy on you. No one buys souvenirs at nine a.m. on a Friday, anyway. Hopefully. 

But fifteen minutes late turns into twenty. 

With the last bite of banana chewed, you toss the peel into the garbage can, but before the automatic lid fully closes, you catch a glimpse of an all too familiar item with all too familiar writing. Your foot presses on the pedal to shoot the lid back open. Reaching inside, you smack the banana peel out of the way and wrap your hand around the mug. 

My Girlfriend F*cks a Naval Aviator. You know those words. You know this mug. You sold this mug, to a busty blonde with an attitude problem. 

Though Jake’s been gone for more than ten minutes, your line of vision meets the front door to the apartment as if he had shut it behind him only moments ago. 

—

Jake’s hand casually rests on top of the steering wheel, guiding his truck steadily with the heel of his palm, and you wonder if he’s handled everything in his life with such ease; if he’s faced a single hardship or if a beautiful fate shined down upon him from the very beginning. 

From the moment you met Jake, you could tell he’d grown up well. He walks with the confidence of a man who has years of praise straightening his spine and holding his shoulders back. He speaks without the fear of being scolded, though being in the military, you’re positive he’s been barked at enough for a lifetime. He’s smart and clean and put together as if there was never the possibility for him to be anything else. And here you are, not remembering the last time you weren’t tense walking out your front door. 

“I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” Jake says. 

It jolts you out of your thoughts. 

Jake hadn’t given you much of an explanation for how the night would unfold, and you were too embarrassed to ask, having not really listened to him that morning when he was asking you to join him. In fact, you’d forgotten your commitment to any activity after your shift until he showed up at the gift shop to pick you up with your sweater draped over the passenger seat claiming it gets a little chilly at night.

“It’s no problem,” you say in response, knowing that this event could absolutely be a problem. 

You don’t know these people well. You don’t know this location. You don’t know how to handle being around Jake for an entire night after finding that mug in the trash and feeling the tiniest of pangs in your chest. You don’t want to think about the woman who bought it, what she meant, or possibly still means, to him. 

Jake puts the truck in park and turns to you with a grin that brightens his eyes even in the dim light of the nearby street lamp. “Ready?”

“Sure,” you answer, a wobble in your voice. 

He hops out of the car and hurries to your side, opening the door and reaching out to you. You stare at his hand for a beat before you decide to slip yours into his grasp so he can help you make the short leap from your seat to the sand. 

“Thanks.”

He gives you a nod, but he doesn’t release your hand as he guides you to the glowing light in the distance and the many silhouettes surrounding it. 

It feels odd when the small group smiles at you as you close the distance to the bonfire—an immediate acceptance from Jake’s friends and team. A few from the team you’d only met once, briefly, but you wouldn’t have assumed you made enough of an impression for them to be so welcoming now. 

Javy rises from one of the unfoldable chairs and rushes to you with his arms spread wide. He greets you with a “Hello Sweetness” and what you’re sure would’ve been a lung-crushing squeeze if Jake hadn’t put his free hand against his friend's chest to stop him before he could get to you. 

“Hands to yourself,” Jake warns. 

Javy’s arms slap down to his sides with the same dramaticism of his lips falling into a pout. He glances down. “You don’t keep your hands to yourself,” he whines, but there’s a subtle tease to it, a little quirk of his mouth that has your eyes going wide and your hand jerking free from Jake’s.

His eyes dart to the loss of weight between his fingers, then over to you, and you can detect the disappointment on his face despite not looking his way to confirm it. He turns back to Javy, who becomes the line leader toward the rest of the group. 

“She’s here!” Javy announces to your embarrassment, then in a dull tone says, “Jake’s here, too, but that’s less important.”

One by one, each of Jake’s friends greet you with nods and more smiles and questions of “How are you?” and “How was your day?” and you do your best to answer. You meet four others. The Bob you’ve heard plenty about who instantly gives up his seat for you; Rooster’s girlfriend, Millie—a petite red-head with a southern twang to her voice and a laugh that echoes across the waves of the ocean; and Mav and Penny, a couple that seems to operate as the parental figures of their younger friends. 

For the most part, you keep quiet as the night goes on, and from that decision, learn plenty. After two hours of experiencing them all in one place, your previous belief that these people solely operate as friends and teammates is quickly tossed away. They are family, held together by far more powerful sources than blood. Their lives are interwoven. They’re protectors of one another on land as much as they are at sea and in the sky. But it’s the teasing and story-telling, genuine pride, and support of each other that stings your nose and blurs the edges of your vision from springing tears. 

You’ve never seen people exist like this. People damage, people rip apart, and then people leave. No one sticks around to aid in healing others’ wounds—you thought. But you could pick any one of those in front of you now—electively sitting around a pit of fire with bottles of beer in their hands as they enjoy one another's company—and know that they have healed someone to their left or right. In their living, breathing unit, each person is vital for continuing on, and for whatever reason, for the time being, you’ve been invited into them.

Jake, in the midst of retelling a crowd-pleasing story, doesn’t sense you slip away to nestle in the sand. His voice fades to the waves that slide over the damp and heavy grains to touch your toes, retreat, and reliably reach for you again. One of few things that comes back, you think. The waves, and Jake you suppose. Both of which you’re finding are masters of the rebound. There is no pushing away either without preparing yourself for their return. The waves aren’t going anywhere, and with how your fingertips still tingle from Jake’s hand in yours, you’re starting to believe neither is he. 

You can’t say how much time has passed when you’re joined by another.

“He noticed, ya know,” you hear just as the little redhead plops down beside you. “That you’re not next to him.”

With knees bent, you wrap your arms around your thighs and hum, daring yourself not to glance over your shoulder. You can’t figure out what you want. For his eyes to search in the hope of meeting yours, or not. Instead, you focus on the newcomer. 

Millie is tiny, that’s for sure. She makes you feel like a city-destroying giant in this proximity, but unlike with most other women, your insecurity from being around her stops at the height difference. While there are probably a hundred differences between you, many of which can be spotted with a single look, you find comfort in one confirmed similarity: her shape. 

Her chest is heavy. She’s full in the hips and thick in the thighs, and when she’s perched on Rooster’s lap, a couple of rolls form where her tummy is. Rolls that she doesn’t care are obvious through her snug shirt. Rolls that don’t stop Rooster from running his hands over her body, fingers occasionally drifting to dangerous areas when he thinks no one else is watching. Most people aren’t watching. You are. 

Whenever a couple like them is shoved in your face, you picture loads of things that you probably shouldn’t be picturing considering this couple in particular could be in your life for a while. But you can’t help it. You picture them together, wrapped around one another, Rooster holding Millie close, sucking on her full breasts, kissing her stretch-marked skin, burying his head between thighs he would gladly permit to suffocate him. There are smiles and giggles and genuine moans of pleasure. You picture love meeting sex.

To your defense, it isn’t about Rooster or Millie. When you picture these scenarios, the people themselves lose their meaning to you, if they ever had meaning at all. They become Perfect Man and Imperfect Woman. Perfect Man who falls on his knees for Imperfect Woman. Perfect Man who worships Imperfect Woman despite her imperfections. Every duo like Rooster and Millie you’ve come across in your stopping points around the country worms their way into your daydreams. You’ve never quite had the Perfect/Imperfect couple so close, though, and as much as you try to ignore it, it plants a seed of hope.  

“He didn’t want to bother you if you wanted a second to be alone,” Millie says to your shock, because since when doesn’t Jake Seresin squeeze himself into your space uninvited? That’s shown to be one of his top ten skills. 

“Were you sent over?”

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘P’. “I just happen to enjoy your company. You, me, and Penny gotta stick together. We’re the only gals in this crew who don’t get to fly without a chaperone.” Her head quirks to the side. “Well, there’s Payback’s girl as well. They’re overseas for a few more months—Fanboy, too.”

Jake mentioned them. Another set of best friends whose seats at this family table could not be occupied by outsiders. 

Millie leans back on her palms, tucking her toes into the sand. “I know they can be overwhelmin’,” she says. “They’re loud—well, with the exception of Bobby—and they’re all annoyingly attractive, right?”

Especially annoying is one particular pilot. 

“I never thought in a million years a guy like Bradley would develop a thing for me.”

“How’d you meet him?” you ask Millie, who instantly grins at the memory.

“I've got an uncle in the Navy,” she says, and if you closed your eyes, her southern accent would take you right to Alabama. You didn’t do well in Alabama. But Millie is far from a representation of the population you’d found yourself within. “Came to visit for the summer, met Bradley, and that was that.”

“You never went back home?”

She lets out a laugh that almost has her rolling onto her side. “Oh no, Honey, I did,” she finally gets out. “But I gave that dope my phone number. He kept callin’ and textin’. Wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to come back.” 

Giving her an amused look at the image of that burly pilot a few yards away being so desperate, Millie giggles and pats your knee. 

“I know, what a creep. But he won me over before I left, so I was lenient,” she says. “We spent more time together, and when he asked me to be his girl and move in with him, I said yes. Actually, I got here not long before you arrived.”

You take a moment to think over what she’s shared over the course of the night. Millie is young, at least a decade separating her and her boyfriend, and, from what you understand after her earlier telling of her story for you, she had a whole life on the other side of the country. A mother, a grandmother, a brother, a father who is less than thrilled his baby girl lives with a man much older than herself. A job lined up at her family’s small business. A good country boy everyone expected her to start dating soon. Yet, it appears with no reservations, she picked up, left her family, her business, and that country boy to settle in with Rooster. 

You can’t help but question what it would take for you to pick a place and stay in it. Neither can you remember the last town you lived in for more than four months. 

“Do you like it here?” you ask.

“Oh, it's lovely. Different, absolutely. But it’s not about here,” she shakes her head. “It’s about him. I’ll go where he goes.” Turning her head, she looks back to the group and smiles. A blush spreads across her cheeks from whatever charming, flirty gesture you guarantee Rooster just directed her way. “Datin’ a pilot,” she continues, her gaze back on the ocean, “is certainly…somethin’. It’s got its challenges, for sure, but Bradley is worth it.”

You nod because, on a level, you understand. Rooster is as kind as he is good-looking, and it takes about three breaths in their presence to see that he’s head over heels in love with his girlfriend. He’s gentle with her in a way you’ve never known—sweet—and when he looks at her, you see in his eyes that he is looking at his future. His wife. The mother of his children. Whether she knows of his plans or not, it makes sense that she stays by his side. No one with their head on straight would let that go if they could get away with it. 

“Jake’s a good guy, ya know,” Millie suddenly states, her honey-toned eyes meeting the plane of your profile. “He’d be worth it, too.”

Eyes widening, your head snaps to her so fast you feel a muscle tweak in your neck. 

She smiles softly, almost motherly though she’s younger than you, then she stands and dusts the sand off the back of her cutoffs. “Just somethin’ to think about, Honey,” she says. “I’ll let him know you’re alright.”

With Millie gone, you take extra minutes to collect yourself; take your deep breaths and try to wrap your head around her words. You’re not so sure you can. They’re as hard to push aside as the words and names directed at you in the past—the reasons you abandoned the places you’ve been to end up here. But for the first time, you don’t taste that sourness on your tongue or feel the swell and ache of nausea in your gut. There’s a wiggliness to your nerves from anxiety, but they accompany an intense pounding of your heart you’ve not experienced in so long you’d almost forgotten what it’s like. 

Standing, you brush away the sand that had snuck its way into the folds of your clothes and you turn. At some point, Jake switched seats with Bradley for the one that faces the ocean, faces you, and your stare instantly meets his. 

His knee is bouncing. He gives you a smile laced with concern, but it has enough power behind it to encourage you closer. So you step forward, one foot before the other until you see the movement of a bobbing head in your peripherals. Breaking your connected stare, your eyes flick to the right of Jake’s head and onto a figure in the distance.

And much like that mug from this morning, you think you know this figure. 

---

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[azurexxstrawberries]

Hi again! I would like to place an order if you don't mind. I don't know if you do oneshots, but if you do, could I ask for oneshots of Hanako and Tsukasa being jealous? And do we also have their point of view? What do they think about it and everything? If you want, it can just be headcanons, it's up to you! You can discard my request if you feel uncomfortable with it. Or if you thought it was strange, lol, after all, it's my first request on Tumblr. Like, THE FIRST! but OK. Feel free to discard this idea of mine.

aaaaaaaaaaaaa thank you thank you! of course ill write it for you :3 im free to write oneshots (like my dazai x reader)! this is a bit different for me since i dont usually switch perspectives and i had a hard time trying to transition it smoothly. i hope you enjoy this! and I'm so so so so so s os os so s o sorry about how long this took :sob: yall it’s ok- i’ll write almost anything so dw about getting rejected- if i do though i’ll make sure to tell you. you can also request stuff in my discord or if you just want to chat ig <;3

Jealousies | Tsukasa x Reader x Hanako

Hanako

It was just a regular day. Yasuhiro walked into the bathroom just as usual. And her dear friend, Y/N accompanied her, just as usual. Except, Y/N was a little more dressed up than usual. Maybe not just a bit more dressed up. Her hair, tied up neatly into a tight bun was adorned with ribbons, and her face was covered in a thin layer of makeup. And just as I was staring at awe at her, she quickly noticed my gaze and ran over.

"Hanako-Kun, how are you?" She smiled, her pearly eyes looking up at me.

"What's the occasion? How come you're all dressed up? Are you..." And with a fake gasp, I uttered the next words. "...going on a date???"

With a shy blush, Y/N turned away from me and a small smile appeared on her face.

"...mhm."

"...With who?"

"This guy I met a few days ago. He's been so lovely so far. And… he recently asked me out. We’re going to meet a-“

I shoved my hand onto her mouth, a faint red appearing on my face.

And we just stood there for a few seconds, in silence.

…

“…why can’t you just pay attention to me?”

She blinked at me, as I slumped down onto her shoulder.

“What do you mean by that?”

I looked up at her, a confused expression clearly plastered on her face.

“It’s just… I could treat you way better than anyone else could.” A small pout began showing up on my lips. “‘Cause I really like you.”

Her expression turned into one of absolute shock and fluster as she quickly tried to hide her blush.

“Y-you-“ She quickly turned her head away. “Hanako! I-it’s fine… ok? I won’t go today…”

I quickly darted my head to look up at her with a red tint on her cheeks. But clearly quite annoyed.

“Yayyy! Y/N-Chan is picking me over her boyfriend~”

“Stop that…!”

…

Tsukasa Chapter will come out in… 2 Days!

sorry guys… i got sick again :( part two might come out within a month or so… until then, i’m gonna be on hiatus :(

@marihdtbhk

#tbhk #tbhk x reader #toilet bound hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun x reader #hanako kun #hanako x reader #jibaku shounen hanako kun x reader #jibaku shounen hanako kun #tsukasa yugi x reader #tsukasa yugi #tsukasa x reader #yugi amane x reader #yugi amane #oneshot #fluff #jshk

[nerdishpursuits]

Can you elaborate on your tags about reading jk Rowlings original post?

Just that I admit that at first, when the JKR discourse started back in the day, I didn’t actually go and read the essay she published on her blog, which is the one that started the entire thing. I did go and read it, eventually, because I tend to like forming my own opinions on things. Personally, I didn’t see any evidence of transphobia. Same with her tweets. Sure, she’s a sarcastic troll some days because she’s, probably, tired of this topic. She was arguing there is such a thing as biological sex and people transition from one to the other in order to embrace living authentically. And that kids should be kids as they have no way to consent. They need to be left alone, or helped to make informed decisions they’ll not regret later in life. Perfectly fine and I’m very much supportive of that.

Everyone should love and live as they please, and no one has the right to ostracize them for it. What she called problematic was the complete denial that biological sex exists, hormone blockers in kids who can’t really consent, self IDing as a woman without actually transitioning and some trans activists saying a biological woman’s experience doesn’t matter. I don’t see that as being transphobic. Just logic and concern.

Over the past few days my partner and I went on a deep dive on this topic and found there’s plenty trans people agreeing with JKR. We’ve seen videos of trans women competing in women’s sports and winning, then commenting they don’t care at all about the medals and winning, but simply enjoy having a good time with their friends at the gym. Why compete in the women’s weight lifting category if you don’t care about winning then? Aussie surfer Bethany Hamilton was dropped by her lifelong sponsor in favor of a trans woman who previously competed, and won, in the men’s division. Swimming, wrestling, roller skating even etc. There’s trans women out there claiming they’re the ones who know what a woman is because they’re forced to think about it, whereas a biological woman is simply born and therefore, inferior. Others who claim they experience period cramps or that their genitalia is superior to a biological woman’s etc. As far as I’ve seen. JKR and other trans people have spoken out against these kind of situations, comments and claims. That’s why I think that cancel culture is so toxic. We need to look at the whole picture and stop claiming things are black or white or the damaging adage of if you’re not with me you’re against me.

I think a very loud minority, who doesn’t represent the entirety of the trans community, might actually be doing more harm than good. Not just to the trans community, who deserves nothing but acceptance and support and love, but the rest of the LGBTQ+ community as well. Pushing a narrative too fast, and forcefully, isn’t helping. It’s actually turning people against us and it’s frustrating and depressing. Denying actual biology and elbowing your way into biological women’s spaces won’t win you their love. Calling them birthing people won’t win them over. Calling them lesser won’t open doors either.

There’s a ton of material to be found on YouTube, there’s podcasts, articles etc. Personally, I think people need to sit down and talk and debate and be diplomatic. I’m not saying JKR isn’t without her faults but I do think she’s been demonized for speaking her mind and voicing her concerns about women’s spaces and kids. It’s as if people can’t have a healthy debate anymore. We need to cancel those who don’t agree with us. It’s the all or nothing mob mentality and, personally, I’m sick of it. This is a nuanced topic and should be treated as such. But now you can’t even be a centrist anymore. You have to be for or against and nothing in between. How about we look at what’s right or wrong, for both sides, and decide accordingly. Why this inane ideological war that radicalizes people who should be having a productive conversation instead.

#don’t come at me with your pitchforks or call me names #I won’t reply to that kind of message #be civilized and willing to engage in a healthy debate? #by all means

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Tumblr has removed the edit option for asks, so... we're doing it this way until they fix their shit:

The emotional eater Bucky thing got me thinking…would you ever consider writing a gif where Stucky has been together for a while and Steve is called away on a mission for an undetermined length of time. Poor Bucky is worried sick and just keeps stuffing himself at every chance he gets and piles on the weight. When Steve gets home, Bucky’s embarrassed and instead of Steve getting upset, confesses he’s into it and they live happily ever after. With the occasional light teasing thrown in. Bonus points for burpy and hiccuppy Bucky. 🥺

emotional eater Bucky, original ask

Ooooh, this gives room for lots of different scenarios in my mind, so, sure! I can do some writing where we explore a few:

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink, warnings for stuffing, weight gain, insecurity, hurt/comfort, kink discovery, etc.

Bucky gets on the phone with Steve whenever possible. He’s on an undercover mission, so it really isn’t that often, he has to be somewhere completely secure where no one can see the mask of the character he’s playing slip off. It’s not often and it’s not for long but, still, Bucky will take what he can get. Even if what he gets is listening to the way Steve tries to talk to him normally, but… he can’t hide from Bucky. He hears the undertone of stress and exhaustion in his voice, and without realizing it, Bucky transitions from mindlessly pacing their apartment to mindlessly eating.

He stops in front of their fridge/freezer and listens as Steve rambles to him, pretending he’s fine, cracking open a new gallon of ice cream. When Steve yawns - speaking to the dark circles that must be shadowing his eyes, running himself ragged without anyone to look after him - Bucky shoves a heaving spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

Without realizing it, Bucky eats faster and faster, making quick work of the whole gallon as Steve tells him everything he can. Some mission details, but mostly how much he misses being home, how much he misses him, and how much he misses everything else.

Listen. Swallow. Listen. Swallow. Listen. Swallow. It’s the only two things Bucky is doing. So, by the time his spoon hits the bottom of the gallon, Bucky isn’t trying to repress his stress or his worry for Steve anymore. No, he’s trying to repress the hiccups and burps that want to come up. His lips are cold, and so is his packed stomach. He shivers and barely doesn’t groan out loud, using the hand not cradling his phone to massage his stretched abs apologetically. Every hiccup shakes his tight belly (which is getting less and less solid the longer the once-frozen cream sits in his body, he’s beginning to slosh noisily. He just hopes Steve’s super hearing can’t pick it up over the phone). Every burp is gas that doesn’t get released, staying trapped in him instead, and he’s starting to bloat up like a balloon. His abs feel hot with how stretched they’re getting. It feels kind of nice - warm and tight - sort of like cuddling. It’s distracting.

He’s lured back into the conversation, though, when Steve catches onto his heavier breathing and asks what’s wrong.

Bucky fumbles to tell him that he’s pacing too much, ignoring the fact that he’s a damn super soldier, he wouldn’t start panting the way he is right now if he went for a jog and talked to Steve the whole time.

Steve doesn’t think that hard about it. Instead, he apologizes for oversharing.

No. No, Bucky shakes his head. He’s fine. He tells Steve that. And, privately, he thinks he overdid it. Oversharing but… actually under-sharing because no human should eat so much fucking ice cream in under 30 minutes. He’s had way, way too much ice cream. It’s all sloshing and churning in his guts.

Then, the phone call ends with soft goodbyes.

Alone again, Bucky decides that he feels like a swollen tick, engorged with so much blood that he’s expanded. Doubled or tripled in size. How can his stomach get so big? Is this normal? Being able to swell so much? Is this a super soldier ability?

No longer smothering his sounds out of embarrassment and wanting to not worry his partner, Bucky slowly, gingerly bends over to grab a can of soda out of the bottom shelf of the fridge door - hoping to clear out some burps - and groans loudly, grabbing his heavy belly with both hands. He hiccups. He nearly falls back onto his ass, bending over and jolting like that. But he doesn’t. Barely.

He decides to ride out his mistake on the couch, leaning back, sipping his soda, and burping loudly, unashamedly. After a while, he feels his stomach deflate a little. It’s not as hard, at least. He still sounds like a washing machine, sloshing and gurgling, hiccupping and burping, groaning and moaning. But, one good thing can be said about the entire experience, he’s not thinking, for a second, about anything. No anxiety. No stress. No worry. Abstractly, he wishes Steve was here to nag him and rub his belly, but his mind is as clear as it’s been since Steve left.

❤️

Not too long later, after that first nearly instinctual belly-filling distraction/coping mechanism, Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night sweating. He’s so, so worried about Steve that it’s appearing in his dreams. It’s not even a normal dream with images and some semblance of real life, walking around, and seeing and experiencing. It’s just the feeling of being worried. Stress. Anxiety. Teeth-chattering.

Bucky has to get up. He thinks about showering off the sweat, but instead, he tugs off his shirt and sleep shorts, wandering only in his underwear to wherever his feet want to take him.

They want to go to the kitchen. His mismatched hands are on board as well, immediately finding the fridge and opening it, going straight for the pan of left-over lasagna that he had for dinner. It’s an entire family-sized dish. He stopped himself at 3 servings during the evening, but now, shaken awake and needing some kind - any kind of comfort, he can’t quit. It should be gross, he’s eating it cold and only using a fork to carve large chunks of cheese and meat and noodles and sauce out that smear the corners of his mouth, but it isn’t. He’s not thinking. He’s eating. He can’t think when he’s shoving food into his mouth. He can’t think when his stomach is struggling to stretch bigger and bigger. He can’t think when his belly aches with fullness. All that occupies his mind is the slow, intense fullness that grows and grows inside him. He likes the way it feels - being full.

Bucky doesn’t know when he woke up, he didn’t look at their alarm clock in their room, nor did he bother to open his phone, so he has no idea how long he spends ravenously shoving food into his mouth. But he’s there for long enough that he finishes the rest of the dish. The entire family-sized lasagna. Thick, greasy, and rich, sitting in his gut like a brick. A couple of bricks, actually.

“Oh, God,” he moans to himself when his fork hits the empty container with a clang.

His poor belly!

Oh, it’s so heavy. And round.

Jesus.

He’s never seen himself like this! Not even after he scarfed down a whole gallon of ice cream and bloated up like a balloon from the excessive dairy, sugar, and fat. He’s even more round and tight. His body sounds like a drum when he taps his hand against his belly, whining.

So, it’s all Bucky can do to shut the fridge and flop back down onto the tile floor, his belly sticking up like a mountain from the rest of his body. Pale and exposed. When he stuffed himself with ice cream, he was wearing a shirt - clothes - this time he isn’t. He’s basically naked. If he bothered to lift his head, he can almost see the way his belly shivers and ripples, his stomach and intestines struggling to contain, let alone digest all of that food. It’s so much more intense, seeing all this weight attached to him, under his skin. He’s all belly!

Bucky burps so loud he wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors woke up and heard the commotion. Maybe worst of all, though, he can’t stop puffing, “oh, oh… oh,” the sounds are all breathy and soft. He’s overwhelmed with the weight of himself. His belly. It’s so tight. Hot, too. Bucky feels like a bug pinned to a board under a heat lamp, ready for examination. God, he can’t even roll around and get onto his hands and knees. He’s stuck. He’s, actually, Jesus, he’s wiped out, yawning after hissing out another burp... tired because it’s the middle of the night and tired because he’s so ready to collapse into a food coma.

He might as well sleep right here, right? Catch some shut-eye while he can with his head quiet, and his body is weighed down?

❤️

In the same week as the lasagna night (which wasn’t a dream, by the way. Bucky really woke up on the floor, and despite still being full in the morning, he made the poor decision to have breakfast. He should’ve regretted it with how his gut throbbed after devouring two whole boxes of cereal, one brand-new gallon of whole milk, and two cream cheese-slathered bagels, but… he didn’t. It made him feel better to keep up the overwhelming tight, heavy, hot fullness, barely able to drag himself to the couch to sleep it all off) Bucky watches Clint and Natasha come home from a two-week mission. They’re both scraped up and bruised, eyes dull from their exhaustion. Neither of them has any serious, terrible injuries but…

Bucky can’t help but think about Steve. Steve can heal minor injuries (and more than minor injuries) easily, but he’s taken advantage of because of that ability. Often. Bucky has seen it, again and again, Steve will go on new missions while still healing injuries from the last mission. Bruises fading. Broken bones still mending. Cuts hardly scarring over before disappearing entirely. Dislocated joints still tender.

He’s thinking about Steve.

Only Steve.

And, suddenly, his body on autopilot, Bucky is outside the Tower, away from his teammates and other reminders of Steve. Before he catches up, his fingers call an Uber using his phone. Then, his mouth has the driver take him to one of his favorite spots, a rundown, old-school diner that serves classic Americana food. The actual classic shit that Bucky remembers eating.

By the time he arrives, all of Bucky is on board with this plan. Except for his stomach. He tries to promise it that he won’t go overboard but…

He’s so hungry.

Easily, Bucky pops his most charming smile, showing off his dimples, and asks the waitress seating him for the booth in the very back corner where he won’t be easily seen. She lets him have it even though he’s alone, and normally corner booths are reserved for bigger groups. Good.

Then, as soon as he’s handed his menu, he goes down the thing, ordering what feels like the entire fucking menu. Not to mention how he double orders some of what he’s had before and knows is good. Still, the waitress dutifully writes down the entire order and brings it to him in manageable waves. If we were thinking properly, he would swear that she does it on purpose, eyeing him with… maybe disbelief? Maybe challenge? Maybe even interest? Either way, she keeps him pliant with lots of refills of creamy, sugared coffee and bubbly, non-diet soda. Then, without even being asked, she brings him a flight of all the different shakes they make.

Bucky is deep in his waking food coma by that point and he’s pretty sure, at first, that he’s hearing things when she claims that they’re the house.

Oh, God.

He has to have even the shakes then, doesn’t he? He can’t refuse free food. Even if he’s about to pop!

The shakes give him a much NOT needed second wind and he vacuums it all up, scarcely remembering that he’s in public and can’t freely belch and moan and hiccup and generally make a scene of how he’s swelling with food. Still, he’s unthinking. Just eating. Stuffing. Growing. Expanding like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the damage actively being done to his waistline.

Bucky eats until he feels so heavy that he could be entirely made of metal, not just his heavy arm. He eats so much that he tiptoes the line of feeling sick. Overstuffed. Weighed down by good full-fat, sugar-sugar (no sweetener for him, thank you very much) food that tastes like home…

“O-oof,” Bucky puffs to himself, shocked by how much harder it is than he remembers to scoot and lift his ass out of the diner booth. Heavy. He doesn’t really fit in the booth anyhow, with his belly pressing painfully against the edge of the table and flowing onto the table itself. He’s so swollen. He needs to get home. He wants to crash and sleep off all these calories. He can’t function he’s so full (but… isn’t that the point?).

❤️

Soon, Bucky has a jittery day, all day, for a few days and he ends up solving the issue by marathon stuffing himself. He JUST went grocery shopping but, there’s nothing that can stop him from cleaning out the entire apartment - the cabinets, pantry, countertops, top of the fridge, fridge itself, and freezer - before giving in and ordering piles of take-out for every meal. Keeping any of his worries for Steve at bay by shoving food into his mouth that only shoves his stomach out fuller and fuller, rounder and rounder, heavier and heavier. It gets to the point that there is no fucking food and he’s sick of take-out despite its convenience.

So, with his belly bursting from his clothes like a dame who’s expecting but didn’t budget for maternity clothes, so she’s making do with what she’s got, he pulls himself out of the apartment on unsteady feet to go grocery shopping. The weight of his belly keeps pulling him forward, making his back arch and hurt. And… Bucky wonders, his cheeks hot, if any of the people around him think he’s round in the family way, not the greedy, stuffing himself beyond sound reason or logic way. He’s seen men be pregnant in the future. Palming his gut in front of the produce, rubbing it, Bucky looks down - he could see it. He could really see it. He looks pretty pregnant. Like. About to pop pregnant. Maybe even overdue. If it were Steve’s baby, though, maybe not. Steve’s baby would be pretty fucking huge and strong and -

Oh, God.

Bucky feels the way the food inside him shifts and churns and his temperature seems to rise at least ten degrees. He needs to stop before his prick gets any ideas and he’s indecent for public with how he’s fantasizing about being stuffed full of Steve like that.

Fuck.

Bucky shivers and hides it by biting into one of the apples he picked out. He needs to keep shopping. Quickly. He needs to get home. (If he’s honest with himself, the thing that he’s looking forward to doing once he gets home is slowly but surely packing every bit of this food into his huge, beach ball belly. How big could he possibly make himself? How badly can he stuff himself full? Hnng.)

His trip takes a turn for the worse then, his tummy is unbearably tight and solid and it keeps hitting the handle of the cart as he waddles behind it, pushing it. Also, with every turn down a new aisle, he keeps seeing Captain America themed cereals and snacks and drinks, and… he misses his guy so badly. So, he snatches it all up. Still! His monstrous gut growls.

Hungry, always so fucking hungry.

How can he still be craving more? It doesn’t make sense! He doesn’t have room for more. But, he supposes he would rather be dealing with an unending appetite than unending, heart-breaking loneliness and stress and anxiety. So… whatever. Bucky eats another apple out of his cart, burping as softly as he can around the juicy flesh of the fruit.

By the time Bucky gets to check out, he has a good amount of empty wrappers to pay for, things that he’s snagged off the shelf because they looked good and he needed to sate his worries, so, he kept stuffing himself.

Eating everything.

Bad, bad idea to go shopping when he’s hungry (even if it seems like he’s always hungry now).

The clerk checking him out doesn’t look pleased with him. But, also seems to have some restraint, appearing to take pity on him (or be making fun of him), murmuring, “bad pregnancy cravings, huh?”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits. He fucking hopes she can’t read his mind. It’s all gluttonous filth now. He does look fucking pregnant. Obviously so. Round and tight. A big fucking globe pulling his back into an arch and making his walk into a waddle, ankles and feet swelling, he’s so goddamn heavy.

“Uh, yeah. Yup,” he grits out awkwardly. He’s very glad the checkout stand comes up to his waist.

It’s too much. Everything. Too much.

Once Bucky’s back at their apartment, he has to have security bring the bags up because he can hardly haul himself out of the car, wedged in behind the steering wheel, let alone the mass amount of food he bought to feed two super soldiers. But! Not even two… just him. Just one.

Just him…

Bucky eats more then. Because Steve enters his mind again.

He eats rapidly as if he’s a half-starved stray dog finding last night's leftovers in the garbage outside, he sweats like a pig while he does it, he pants and huffs and can’t catch his breath with his stomach encroaching on his lungs, pressing out and in, too, he bursts another pair of jeans the button flinging across the room and hitting the wall with how much weight was behind it, and he pops the seams on the side of his shirt with how far his belly expands out after literal days of nonstop eating. He can’t help it. He can’t do anything. He can’t breathe with so much food inside him. He can’t stop panting and moaning, his head spinning. He can’t move yet again. He can’t think about worrying.

❤️

In the morning, Bucky groans like he’s dying, lifting himself out of the dent he’s made in the couch, and heads to the shower to wash off the sweat and crumbs he managed to miss and not suck up like a damn vacuum.

He showers, steps out, and as the steam disappears from the mirror, he’s confronted by the fact that…

He’s chubby.

Like, really chubby.

It looks like he’s swallowed a beach ball or a pillow. His gut is big. There’s some soft fat overlaying his sudden belly (and his thicker thighs and arms as well as bubbling his butt out into a fatter shelf), but really, it’s solid. Solid. Densely packed with so, so much food inside him. God. How did he ever get all of that down his throat? He’s bloated, too. That isn’t helping at all. It’s making it so much worse. After his stuffing spree last night (and the past couple of days), he’s so bloated and tight, and pressing on his belly just makes him ache, it doesn’t get any burps or belches out.

He ends up with the fucking hiccups. Oh. Jesus. He whines to himself between the jolting hiccups. He’s aching with the pressure. The weight. The fullness. His gut and… and underneath his gut, too. He’s so full and swollen, he can’t help it. It’s such an intense feeling and Steve hasn’t been here to, to touch him or do anything, and -

Steeeve.

Bucky tries to stop himself, now worried about Steve being away and Steve when he comes home to find him like… like this.

Blown up like a balloon.

His abs don’t just look stretched, they’re gone! Beyond repair! He had abs the last time Steve saw him, now he’s… round. Big. Heavy - heavier.

But Bucky can’t stop himself. Because he’s an emotional eater. And he’s more worried now than ever. What is happening to Steve on his mission? Is he okay? It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten to call or text, so he has no idea what might be happening… if anything? When is he going to come home? When Steve comes home, how will he react to Bucky being fat? What will he say? Will Bucky be able to lose it if he’s less worried about Steve and he can see Steve and touch him and hold him? Will Bucky blow right back up into the stuffed turkey he is the next time Steve goes on an undercover mission where they can’t keep in touch? It’s all he can think about.

So, he uncontrollably stuffs and packs and shoves food into himself until he’s sprawled out on his back on the cold kitchen floor, groaning and rubbing desperate circles on his complaining belly at all hours of the day. Morning. Evening. Night. It doesn’t matter. He just can’t stop cramming food into himself. And he keeps getting bigger and bigger. Actively growing until -

Steve gives him word that he’s coming home.

Bucky is unspeakably relieved. But, oh, God, what is he gonna do about his weight?

The night before Steve is scheduled to come home, flying back, Bucky eats what feels like, at least, fifteen pounds of Italian takeaway. Everything is carb-heavy, oily, and rich. The only reason Bucky can get to sleep is because of the white noise of his tummy gurgling away, making him forget his worries. Any foolish plan he had to let his bloat go down all tomorrow, not eating until Steve got home, is ruined by the fact that Steve comes home at fucking 5:00 AM.

He crashes into bed with Bucky, and Bucky is so relieved to have him here (and so weighed down by enough pasta to give him a food baby… if babies were fifteen fucking pounds) that he just passes back out after being jostled awake. It’s not until he wakes up much later in the morning - almost noon - being spooned behind by Steve that he freaks out a little. Just a little. He’s remarkably cool, considering that Steve’s big, warm hand is resting perfectly on the fat crest of his gut. He’s pressed against his back where his gain might not be as obvious but… there’s no way he can hide it. When Steve wakes up and processes what he feels, what is he going to say?!

Bucky is jolted so strongly by his emotions that, in trained response, his stomach growls. He’s still stuffed. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t hungry. He’s hungry for relief from his worry and stress and -

Steve shifts, he stretches, he yawns.

He’s! Awake!

Bucky freezes.

His gut gurgles, loudly, trying to get Bucky to feed it.

“Hm, Buck?” Steve sleepily asks while nuzzling into his hair, assuming he spoke and it wasn’t just his overinflated stomach.

Tears prickle Bucky’s eyes, and he suddenly has the fucking hiccups.

Hic. Hic. Hic.

Terrifyingly, Bucky looks down through his watery vision to see his monstrously round tummy jolt and jiggle with each involuntary hiccup. He’s so fat. What is Steve going to say? What is Steve going to do?

“Aw, baby,” Steve’s sleepy voice is so warm on his skin, “got the hiccups?” He squeezes him, strong arms around his wide, soft middle, “you poor thing.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, he shakes his head tightly. No. Go back to sleep, Bucky wills him, testing any possible telepathic link they might have after their ridiculously long lives.

“Shh,” Steve tells him, patting (patting!) the fatty, soft side of his gut where it’s spread out huge and monopolizing so much of the bed, “it’s okay.”

“It’s - hic - it’s not okay,” Bucky whines.

“It’s okay,” Steve touches him so gently, rubbing his jumping, jolting belly, then - Jesus Christ - pulling up his tight sleep shirt to get better access.

Bucky is waiting for the other shoe to drop but it doesn’t. Hic.

“You feel good.” Bucky tries to suck in, but it doesn’t do anything, his abs are too fucking stretched - overtaxed by the sheer volume of food he’s put inside himself, gone forever after funneling so much fat and sugar behind them. “You feel like home,” Steve murmurs into his ear, kissing the back of his neck, “all soft and warm…”

“Oh.” Bucky says involuntarily.

“Yeah,” Steve chuckles, “you have no idea how happy I was to come home and feel you-”

“Feel?”

“Yeah, honey, it was dark. I didn’t want to turn the lights on and wake you up. So, imagine my surprise to feel you like this,” Steve drags his wide palm from the top of his tummy aaaall the way down, “you feel really good.” He squeezes him again. Bucky feels himself squish. Fat. Tubby. Excessive. “You’re all domestic now,” he noses his earlobe sweetly, the hint of an endeared, appreciative laugh in his voice, “soft and warm. Slow and big.”

Bucky swallows, he’s… he’s feeling warmer hearing Steve talk about him - about his body. He’s always liked it when Steve compliments and praises him. Touches him.

“You’re so cuddly. Gonna make it hard for me to let you go.”

“Don’t,” Bucky pleads, turning his head to look at him.

“I won’t,” Steve seals the promise with a kiss, “buuuut, if we wanna keep you like this, then we’re gonna have to get up and get your breakfast, aren’t we?”

Bucky’s gut gurgles loudly as if screaming its agreement.

Steve just smirks, his mouth uncharacteristically sharp for how early it is.

With anticipation, Bucky licks his lips. Should he tell him he’s still tender and stuffed? He doesn’t know how much more he could possibly fit into his stomach but… Bucky doesn’t think he wants Steve to go easy on him.

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #tight clothes #button pop #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby bucky

[altschmerzes]

🌹🌹 Wriggle up maybe some of Jamie's trauma?

boy howdy there is so much of that to go around. salutes.

specific content warnings under the cut along with the clip. it's not particularly intense, but it's upsetting and emotional. from the part of the fic set between seasons 1 and 2 and re: roy's retirement. it's a bit of a...... well. a lot of a long clip but i think we've come to expect that from me at this point lmao.

content warnings for the scene: jamie is living alone with his father in manchester at this point and his internal state is... not good. there is some like. it's not exactly outright violence, but it's rough contact that jamie doesn't want, kind of mocking not-affection.

--

Jamie is alone in his room with the door closed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if he’ll be noticed or stopped if he tries to leave and just fuck about in the park for a few hours until it’s late enough to go to bed when he hears it. The segment transition music of his father’s favourite sports network is a distinctive and familiar sound, a regular feature of life that’s gone back and forth from Manchester to London and back again, staying the same even as most everything else changed. Half the time Jamie doesn’t even register it anymore, it just is. Today he does. Today he hears it because he’s paying attention to the flat, tracking the sounds on instinct. And because Jamie hears the segment transition noise, he hears what comes after it.

The segment hosts are talking about Richmond. They’re talking about Roy. Jamie closes his eyes and pulls at the front of his shirt, pinching the fabric idly between his thumb and forefinger and tugging. He hears press conference and major announcement and knee injury and something about those words, the combination of them, has Jamie pulling himself up off of his bed and out into the hallway. Every inch of him is exhausted all the way down to the core but he has to go, compelled for reasons he can’t explain to walk into the living room.

Standing in the doorway, Jamie watches over the back of the couch, over his father’s shoulder, as Roy appears on camera and starts talking. Starts crying. The words themselves are a blur, only a few coming through clearly as Jamie listens, sick to his stomach and struggling to breathe all the way in - team of doctors, continuing degeneration, announcing my retirement. Roy sits far away in London and speaks through tears through choppy inhales and shuddering exhales, and on the couch in front of Jamie in Manchester, James laughs.

Jamie’s father tips his chin up and laughs, his head tipping side to side, obviously tickled to bits by what’s happening on the screen. The press conference goes on, but it’s even harder to hear now through the sound of that laughter. It’s not loud - it’s amused chuckling and not full-belly guffaws, but it may as well be blasting on surround-sound speakers for all that Jamie can hear anything else past it.

“Oh, Jamie, lad, get a load of this shite,” James says. He’s noticed his son in the doorway, waving a hand over the back of the couch and gesturing at the screen. “My, what a shame. Roy bloody Kent, going out like this. Used to be a man, that one, and look at him now. Jesus wept.”

Frozen in the doorway of the room, Jamie stares at the television screen. Guilt rises in his throat, threatening to choke him, and brings with it a whole host of other things he can’t or doesn’t want to name. This is his fault. This is all his fault.

There’s a mobile in Jamie’s hoodie pocket, and a note in the bottom of his schoolbag with a phone number on it. His fingertips itch to go and find it, to text Ted Lasso and tell him that he didn’t mean for what happened to happen. Maybe if Jamie begs him to, Ted will tell Roy that Jamie is sorry, that he’s so sorry, so fucking sorry. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Turning and looking over his shoulder, James must see something in Jamie’s face that he hadn’t been able to hide - not that he was thinking clearly enough to try just at the moment. When he speaks, James’s voice has climbed into a mocking register, pitchy and singsonging with ridicule.

“Aw, what, is wee little Junior gonna get all weepy about that sad old has-been?” A sharp snort of laughter punctuates a rhetorical question that drips with casual, habitual scorn. “Hey, I mean, at least he was something. More than you can say.”

Beyond the thick and shuddering mass of emotion already packing Jamie’s chest too bursting there’s no room for anything more. The insulting reference to his own injury, the one that had ended his career before it began, doesn’t even make his surgically repaired knee throb with phantom pain the way it usually would have done. Jamie just keeps staring at the telly, watching Beard join Roy on-screen to field questions from reporters, ignoring his dad entirely.

Even fixed as he is on the programme, though, Jamie can’t help but track the man’s movements when he rises. James moves in his peripheral vision, always the most important thing to watch in any room, walking towards the hall and directly by Jamie. As he walks past, he reaches out and scuffs his hand through his son’s hair. It’s rough and abrupt, a mockery of affection that knocks Jamie off-balance and into the wall. There’s only the faintest echo of almost-pain but the adrenaline it spikes down his spine is as if he’s been shot all the same.

Once James is gone, Jamie doesn’t move. He knows that he should, that he should go back to his room or leave the house or do anything else, but he can’t. All he can do is stand there with his heart thudding hard in his chest and the crushing sense that he is all alone in the world and he fucking deserves it suffocating from the inside out while he stares at Roy’s face on the telly and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him.

#gav gab #gav answers #gd this is so rough. buddy it is going to be okay i promise. #writing liveblog #i always worry about sharing the more upsetting bits when people ask for clips bc i like #don't wanna just spring the bummer shit on anyone #but boy. Boy. #it's some of my favourite parts paradoxically #the feelings of it all etc #fic: wriggle up on dry land #ask box games #abuse cw

[glazemeda]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 200 FOLLOWERS!!!

I'm actually really surprised since you deserve so much more! You're so talented with all the small details in your works to how to transition flawlessly— like wow.

Cheering for many more achievements! I hope you've been taking care of yourself 😚

I'm here for the follower event! If I'm not following any guidelines or if you don't feel like writing this, please ignore the request. I don't request that often so sorry if I'm a bit awkward.

Thank you! Can I ask for a Tighnari — B, D, M, O, and Q?

Thank you!

note: waaa tysm!! sorry for the wait, you can find any missing letters in the masterlist! haha tumblr stop messing up or deleting my writing tags: pretty much just fluff.

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Tighnari doesn’t care much about appearances or titles, he doesn’t care how you look. He thinks you’re beautiful regardless of the outside, even if his eyes were first drawn to you because he found you physically attractive.

But what he truly loves and admires about you, is how willing you’re to help him. Be it him or someone else, he thinks that helping others makes you even more beautiful. He also can’t help but stare at you with obvious love in his eyes when you talk about something you like. Is there anything more attractive than seeing your lover looking so happy?

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

All he wants is to stay with you. Maybe it’s because of the hybrid blood, something he shares with regular fennec foxes, but he can’t see himself with anyone other than you. His heart belongs to you.

He doesn’t really dream, he just hopes. He hopes for a future where your face is still the first thing he sees when he wakes up, where your lips touch his before you have to part ways for a few hours, and where your arms wrap around him when you’re finally reunited.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

Tighnari is actually quite good at hiding his feelings… except from Cyno, the general mahamatra knows the forest ranger too much not to notice. His eyes soften when he sees you, and his friend notices how he smiles more often after talking with you.

Not much changes, but Tighnari tries to spend more time with you. He gives you flowers, following with tips on how to take care of them, he’s always keeping an eye on you if he thinks you might get sick, and it’s a little easier for you to avoid his scolding… unless you were just being reckless, then others will even pity you.

glazemeda 2022

#genshin x reader #tighnari x reader #tighnari fluff #200 followers fluff event

[kindlingkeen]

🍓 🏜️ ☁️ for the ask game 🥰

For this ask game

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction?

I’ve always been a daydreamer but never really got into writing, my own perfectionism always thwarted me. Almost a year ago now, I stumbled upon the Batfam fandom and fell platonically head over heels for Jay. Around the same time, a family member got really sick, eventually transitioned to palliative care, and then went into hospice. I spent a lot of time with them where all I could do was sit next to them and just be there. I devoured everything I could find in the fandom that fit my interests (you would not believe how many fics I’ve read in the last year), branched out to the comics, and then somewhere along the way started writing, too.

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I can’t pick a favorite. I absolutely cherish heartfelt, long, detailed comments, but I also have commenters who regularly leave <3s and I love that just as much. Someone once left a comment that was just *basks* and I go back and look at that all the time and grin. I think the most fun I have with comments is when some asks a question, ‘cause then I get to think more about the story, decide how to answer, how much to reveal, etc. The dialogue is fun.

☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username?

KindlingKeen comes from my DnD group of many years ago. We were on a long campaign and my character had a Tressym familiar that I was very attached to. The DM killed it off (still not sure I buy that it was unintentional) and I had some big feelings about that. Our group had been staying in an inn, and I promptly set it on fire. Aggressively. And repeatedly. In spite of many, many attempts to get me to stop. Thus the nickname ‘Kindling Keen’ was born.

Thanks for the ask, buddy! 🥰

#keen converses #truth or dare ask game #how is the dare part of this supposed to work exactly? #my ask box is always open

[im-so-tethered]

I’m so glad you’re starting to feel better! Being sick is the worst. Don’t push yourself and be sure to get lots of rest! You sounded so cute and pathetic rocking your hips against the air~ I know exactly the feeling~ I know I can trust you, so I’ll tell you a secret. You know I’ve been something of a stone top since transitioning but recently I’ve been feeling so submissive! It’s driving me crazy~ There’s been so many cuties on here with cnc kinks that…. well, I’ve developed a bit of one myself. Isn’t that always the way? Sure most of the time I find myself wanting to be on the giving side of things, but I’ve been wanting to get groped and took advantage of soooo badly lately. And a bit of an intoxication kink newly found as well? I can’t stop thinking about being slipped something, or taking an edible that’s just a little too strong for me, turning me into a pliable mess of a toy for someone. I want to feel the room spin and see someone’s eyes light up like a predator spotting prey. A hard cock in my hands, a wet pussy smothering my mouth, it doesn’t matter to me in a half daze. Flashes of consciousness between positions and feeling a recognition of what’s happening to me briefly before the fog of pleasure washes over my mind and body again. Oh how I’m yearning to be used, oh how i find myself lusting after bodies. It’s just not like me. I feel feral~ I like to play anonymously but it makes it so hard to find other like minded cuties here sometimes! I’m unsure what to do and how to slut myself out more openly, should I make a little side blog princess? Let me know~ And of course let me know when you’re feeling 100% again, I would love to hear you yelp for me again~ 😇

😳😳😳 I think you answered your own question there, darling 🥰 you should definitely make a side blog to let these kinds of feelings out. I know it’s helped me start to figure out who I am…turns out 🫣 yeah…the urge to just turn off your brain and let everyone use you however they want is so strong!!! Imagine the two of us being offered up at a party 🥵🥵🥵 it’d be hard not to explore you myself while you’re that pathetic hehe

I should be better by the end of the week 🤞 I will definitely let you know 😳

#come and play #ty angel 😇 #im so obsessed with you im sorry djdkfmnfm #I need you

[girlactionfigure]

This is Japanese diplomat Chiune Sugihara and his wife Yukiko.⁣

⁣

They spent 18-20 hours a day writing and signing transit visas by hand in Lithuania for more than 6,000 Jews for 29 days from July 31 to August 28, 1940.⁣

Yukiko described their last days in Lithuania: "He was so exhausted, like a sick person. Even though he was ordered to go to Berlin, he said he couldn’t make it to Berlin and suggested we go to a hotel and rest before leaving. When we got to the hotel, the Jewish people came looking for us there. So he wrote some more visas in the hotel.⁣

The next day when we got to the train station, they were there too. So he wrote more visas on the platform until the train left. Once we were on board, they were hanging on the windows and he wrote some more. When the train started moving, he couldn’t write any more. Everyone was waving their hands. One of them called out, ‘Thank you Mr. Sugihara, we will come to see you again,’ and he came running after the train. I couldn’t stop crying. When I think about it even now I can’t help crying."⁣

As the train left the station, Sugihara said, "Please forgive me. I cannot write anymore. I wish you the best." It is estimated that the actions undertaken by him and his wife are responsible for the present lives of around 100,000 people.⁣

After the war, Sugihara was forced to resign and work menial jobs (selling lightbulbs door to door). He languished in relative obscurity until 1968 when an Israeli diplomat managed to find him and finally got him the recognition that he deserved.⁣⁣

Sugihara never told anyone what he had done during the war. Even his closest friends had no idea. "I may have disobeyed my government, but if I didn’t I would be disobeying God. In life, do what’s right because it’s right, and leave it alone."⁣

Source: Liphshiz, Cnaan (23 May 2019). "Holocaust hero Chiune Sugihara's son sets record straight on his father's story". Times of Israel.History Cool Kids

#Chiune Sugihara #Asian Righteous Among the Nations #Shoah #Jews

[sakiyaki-sashimi]

My sick with maybe fever ramble of the day: ever notice that no matter how a woman is their femininity (or lack of) will ALWAYS be put into the question?

You like girlie things? The positive term might be a girlie girl, but “you’re probably a popular girl”, or people think you EXCLUSIVELY like girl-centric things and nobody would expect you to like anything else.

You don’t like girlie stuff? Maybe you’re just a tomboy, but now you can’t NOT like girl-centric things either because now you’re “just a pick me girl”!

Trans girls have this too! You’re expected to be some fully fledged voice actor, look like the spitting image of a cis girl no matter when you started transitioning, and you can’t look masc/like masc things at all because “you just like boys things so you’re just a boy” then.

BUT (cuz there’s ALWAYS a but) if you like stereotypical girls things and dress or talk about that stuff then you’re a “caricature of womanhood”

This also affects guys! “Pick me boys” and “men’s men” exist too, and then boys get harassed for liking too many girl-centric things or they get called toxic for liking guys stuff. wtf are they supposed to do then?? Trans guys have to grow a perfect beard to even be equated to a man as if femboys (who would STILL GET HARASSED) don’t exist.

AND ON TOP OF THAT, if you’re gay then you’re expected to dress a certain way (femme for gay boys and more butch for lesbians for example) but if you DO dress that way then “you’re such a stereotypical gay you can dress normal you know??”

Ik this isn’t like some new observation or whatever but I’m so upset smh, it’s like that whole thing of be tanned but also be Snow White skinned or you don’t wanna look anorexic but you can’t be fat! I would honestly rather have one toxic beauty standard that I could never fit into than be constantly told off for everything I do. It would suck but at least people would know what they want like goddamn

(This is so petty but this whole rant came from me telling a girl that I don’t get how girls can just have their makeup on all nice in the morning cuz I can’t even get out of bed till the last minute and she said “stop being a pick-me saki” ugh)

#sakis zatsudan #how do i even tag this shit #like how #pick me girl #pick me behavior #pick me boy #girls girl #boys boy #trans #gender #idk what else to tag tho

[sidhewrites]

Chapter 10! We are once again making liberal use of the bracket method to keep writing momentum up. Also, I accidentally gave Kaz adhd whoops

Project Info

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[Change time skip to a month so kaz has more time to get to know lucy and Josie has more time to be weirded out by ren but since she n kaz can’t stop fighting it means that things keep getting weird]

When Josie's schedule finally lines up with mine, another two weeks had gone by. Renfield, though perfectly healthy, was still acting off, so she was uncomfortable leaving him alone any longer than necessary. I don’t love going over there again, but if it means I can get rid of her stuff once and for all, then so be it. 

Josie’s apartment is an extension of her own sense of style. She’s painted the walls a deep violet, with black accents and old furniture she’s sourced from work. Incense and cat fur mix to give her place a distinctly unique scent. I used to hate it, but I also used to think cats are assholes who only want to bite you and murder things until Josie taught me that a cat wagging its tail means the opposite of a dog doing the same.

"Has the vet said anything new?" I ask as Josie lets me in the door. She steps back, giving me enough space to get into the front hallway. I force myself not to remember all the times I pressed her up against one of the walls and kissed her neck over the past year and a half, make myself think of the countless late nights arguing, the weeks of silence. Old habits die hard, and I'll bury them alive if I have to.

[conversation and transition]

Josie trails off, gaze drifting over my shoulder. I turn to see what she's looking at, and snort. Renfield had kicked his bed off the little table in front of the window, and stood on it now, raised up on his two hind legs. He seemed to be surveying the view, judging it, and finding it wanting.

"Aww, he looks like an old man."

"Don't," she pouts.I pull a face. "Get off my lawn right meow!"

[Transition]

Another week passes before I hear from Josie again. I'm in my apartment, doing my best to focus on homework when the siren call of social media is so close at hand. My attention is ruined entirely, however, when I feel the sting of seeing her name pop up in my notifications.

She sent me a text with more exclamation points then I have piercings. Tomorrow!!!! We're gonna be famous!!!!! Aaaaaa! She follows up with a link to an announcement on the Haunted Archivist's social media feed, reminding everyone that the video drops at 9pm EST.

I frown at the screen.

Another text comes in before I can respond: Let's watch it together. I'll get the projector set up and everything.

I feel sick. I'm about to put the phone on silent when a third message comes through.

Uh. Actually.

Thank god I don't have to break it to her. I don't have the patience for her accidental guilt tripping tonight.

Sorry. That's probably awkward to suggest. Maybe not...

But please watch it! You're in it, so you should see that part at least!

Yeah, Jose. Now that you mention it, it is really awkward to invite the person you used to date over to watch a video about the very thing we fight about constantly. I groan at the screen. She's going to start apologizing now, because she can't help it, and I'm going to get mean, and it'll just keep going around in circles.

Sorry, she texts again, because I haven't responded, which obviously means I'm angry at her. Which, I mean, I am, but it's just because she's doing this and I've lost patience for it over the years.

The texts keep coming in, and my phone buzzes and buzzes.

Just forget I said anything. That was really stupid of me. Maybe you should watch it with your new girlfriend?

I mean if you call her girlfriend. Sorry. I don't know if you guys have a label or not. It's not my place to judge, you seem to like her a lot, and I want you to be happy

I've had enough.

Shut up.

[They argue, until Kaz gives in and agrees to watch with Josie. Once they've agreed on plans:]

I throw the phone across the room.

I hate her. I hate myself for hating her. Josie has never been anything but kind to a fault, and it's not something she deserves to be hated for. She's probably crying now, too.

I hate myself for making her cry. I hate her for crying. I hate this whole damn thing.

I get up to retrieve my phone, and go get a pint of ice cream before going back to my homework. There's an exam at the end of the month, and I'm not about to let my grades slip any further than they usually do. Phan would kill me, or at least sigh at me which is just as bad. But my mind keeps drifting, first to Josie, then to Lucy, then to how stupid I'm being about this whole thing with Lucy. It still hurts to talk to her, but we also can't go more than twenty minutes without fighting no matter how hard we try to be civil. For every semester the past two years, we shared at least one class in our schedule, which meant I always had someone I could rely on to help me focus, or at least to loan me their notes when my mind inevitably wandered too far and I spent the whole hour thinking about god-knows-what.

It's good for both of us that we're sitting on opposite sides of the lecture hall now, but I can't help but feel the emptiness besides me, where our elbows used to bump against each other, where we'd tap our toes together in little secret acts of affection.

[Make the transition smoother so that she's basically venting to lucy who listens sympathetically that night and suggests maybe not talking to her again. Lucy is so understanding and sympathetic, and Kaz looks at her like she hung the moon.]

Something is gonna go wrong here, with this. With us. Whatever we are. I know it will, if only because I'm so steeped in self-loathing and doom to consider anything else.

[Transition]

But dawn is breaking. Lucy has to go. I don't even have work today, but I drag my sorry ass to a coffee shop anyway, and drown my sorrows in caffeinated sugar and scones.

Tag List

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #mystuff #writing #my writing #spilled ink #graveyard lesbians #supernatural romance #wlw #wlw romance #wlw novel #original fiction

[softlenaluthor]

Would somebody be available to offer some advice?

(Long story short: I got fired bc of mental health costs, my boss didn’t follow procedure during my reintegration so that could be a problem for him, and now he might be asking me if I want to come back)

In August, I called in sick for work due to stress caused by the workload, and I worried I was going to get burned out. I’ve requested to speak with the company doctor, but after our initial conversation I’ve had to wait seven weeks for a follow up meeting. In the meantime, I returned to work with less hours, verbally agreeing to do so with my employer. In the Netherlands, this is supposed to be done in collaboration with the company doctor to monitor the progress.

Three weeks ago, my boss informed me that I had to think about what I wanted to do in the future as my contract would expire by December 31.

Two weeks ago, we followed up on that conversation. I felt better and insinuated that I was interested in getting back to work fulltime. He informed me that the decision has been made that my contract would not be extended due to the risk of my mental state potentially causing another sick leave next year. It would cost the company a lot of money. I was told that I could stay home immediately and was not required to come in at all. My vacation hours (which I have never taken) would be used for my last two months of pay. My accounts were scrubbed that same day, and he sent out an internal message to colleagues that I would not be coming back to work. I was “allowed” to speak to the company doctor, since I had that appointment planned anyway.

Considering the fact so much has changed since the beginning of September, I informed the company doctor that I was basically back to work for three scheduled hours, while I more often than not worked my full contract hours. I also took on nearly all the same responsibilities during that time. It was only the first two weeks that I didn’t take on much work and tried to focus on my health. After those two weeks I felt guilty and started taking things on again. I also mentioned that my missing hours were paid with my holiday hours.

That is not how re-integration works in the Netherlands. They have to pay me sick pay instead of using my vacation hours, and my reintegration has to be documented. The company doctor advised that she needs to sit down with me and my employer to have a chat about it.

Thing is, I was never a bad employee. I took on too much work and nobody stopped me, and I got burned out. The way they tried to erase me does not sit right with me. I told the doc I’m not interested in seeing him again, nor do I feel comfortable just going back to work. But I do have a responsibility to actively work on my reintegration, so I will do it. It’ll likely be 2x a week 3 hours only.

You’ll be inclined to think, but why? If your contract expires in December anyway?

We’re gonna sit down and talk about it on Thursday. My employer called me this morning though, asking about what I said to the company doctor. I didn’t tell him what I said, he doesn’t have a right to know. I just told him that the doc advised I need to sit with him and talk about it. My employer asked me what I wanted. If I still want to work for the company. He told me that he can’t have me sitting at home unless I’m using my holiday hours for it. Do I want to come back? “Not really,” I thought to myself, “not after how you treated me for having a mental illness.” Of course I didn’t say that out loud, because everybody needs work.

What would you say in this situation?

I don’t want to lie and say that I want to come back, but I do need a job. But do I want it there? He’s lost a lot of credit for how I was shoved aside after I worked tirelessly for this company. (It was my stupid mistake, I understand, to work so many extra, unpaid hours. Sometimes I’d come home at midnight.) In the Netherlands, if you’re not responsible for your firing you’re entitled to transition pay in most cases. I need to be careful how I thread in order to soften the financial blow that might be awaiting me.

#long post #ignore if you ain’t reading allat #otherwise I’d like some advice 🤲🥺 #work related