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nexusnyx · 1 year

Text

to my sweetheart

40s!bucky barnes x f!reader [8.2k] summary: The promise of a weekend home hangs over Bucky's head like the sun used to shine on sweet summer days, illuminating everything in life. It's all planned out in his head: the place he'll take you to, the things he wants to talk about, the hundreds of ways he needs to touch you. It's all planned. A taste of how it'll be when the storm passes—he's ready for it. 📝 this was based on this post. if you like it, reblogs and comments make all the difference. i hope you enjoy this sweetheart saturday, 'cause this will be the sweetest one. 🏷️ established relationship, letters, angst, longing, love delcarations, Steve x Reader (platonic) ⚠️Smut. Minors, DNI. Unprotected sex, body worship, slow fuck.

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ㅤㅤㅤJuly, 1943.

My sweetheart,

You're a menace even from far away. How can that be? If I hadn't met you exactly like this, I'd dare say I'm surprised. But I'm not. Little minx. Do you know the lengths of what I had to do to finish your last letter? The effects you have on me, even from far away?

I bet you do. Good god, I can bet you're fuckin' smiling, right now. Sittin' there all pretty with your knees pulled high, so giddy and proud of yourself for what you've done to me. Well—let it be known that this here... this is payback.

First things first, thank you for the pictures.

You're more than I could ever ask for, every single time. One of them is safely tucked inside my uniform. I placed the other one inside my pocket watch. Morita's already laughed under his breath as if I can't fuckin' hear him sayin "you don't let a single hour pass by, huh, Sarge?", so you should be happy to know that, as well. My guys are giggling because of me. Because I'm whipped for you.

Second of all... thank you.

From the bottom of my heart which belongs to you entirely, I'm thankful for you. Knowing Ma has a friend in someone soothes my soul. I got a letter from her a few days ago—she's mad at me for dating you "for almost half of an entire year, James Buchanan. almost half a year and you didn't think to bring her here yourself! You'll count yourself lucky if you go back to the base camp with your ears still intact because when I see you..." and this is a direct quote, by the way. I have her letter right next to me—Ma's mad, and I'm glad that she is. It means she loved ya. As I knew she would.

What did you two talk about? Ma said you played with the girls, too. I think I dreamt of that scene. Did she show you my embarrassing baby pictures? I bet she did. My favorite one is the one that Stevie's got paint all over him; I love that one.

Now... as for the rest of your letter.

What should I do to you, hm?

You can't just tell me these things, you lil' witch. Can't just talk about the things you wished I was doing to you, 'cause I'm not there to do them, and it makes my chest tight, my heart beating faster.

I went to the showers at 2 something a.m. to finish that letter, 'cause I felt your words like caresses all over my skin. Here's a new acronym I learned from Gabe: V E N I C E. Wanna know what it means? I'll tell ya.

It means I think about it, too. Not often, unfortunately, not because I don't want to, but because in here I have very few moments to think about good things, but when I do, that's where my mind goes to—in the sweet minutes I have all to myself, my mind runs back to your presence like a puppy, wiggling its tail with its tongue out, so happy and so excited beyond words because of one single person.

My mind rushes to you, to memories of us, to moments we shared. Most of all, it seems to zoom in on the seconds where we were the closest. I save those memories for the stars, for when no one else's around, for when I can let my brain dive and swim in them.

You said that for you, what comes back when you're alone in the dark is the ghost of my hands.

For me, it's the fathom of your lips.

The way you kissed put a spell on me. Right now, as I write this, I'm sitting alone in a corner of the common showers with my neck sweating just a little bit and my heart beating in my throat, all because of that: the thought of your lips, so present and so sweet, making me ache all over. Should I be concerned, lil' witch? With the way you have control over my body even from far away? As if I were a puppet with strings only you can see, I'm aching for you and you're not even here. I'm hard, painfully so, because your picture and the distant echo of your giggles in my ear are enough to put me in a trance... the way you whisper my name when my hands are searching in menace ways the best path to get under your clothes and imprinted all over your skin... It's so difficult to write like this, sweetheart. Very Excited, Now I Caress Everywhere... d'you get it now? D'you see it?

I'm not there, but I can see you reading this. I can see your thighs clamping together in a pitiful attempt to not think about how I loved to tease the path to my favorite place, with my hands, my lips, my tongue. I'm gonna dream about it tonight, I can already see it. Gonna dream about your little whines, and how excited you got, while always being so good. Never asked for more. Never pushed for faster. Just took whatever I had to offer you, and asked in the sweetest way possible for what you wanted. "Jay." I miss that. The way you call me Jay when it's just us. No one's ever called me that before, and no one ever will again.

So do it, lil' witch. Touch yourself all you want when thinking about me. You had to ask for permission, didn't ya? (It's a rhetorical question. You never have to ask. I told ya long ago that from me, you can take and take without ever asking first, and yet you did, anyway.) I'm the luckiest bastard in this godforsaken and twisted world, all because of you.

I'll be there on the last weekend of this month, only for two days, but it'll be enough.

Just a taste of what'll come for us when all of this is over. A taste of you — that I miss so goddamn fuckin' much, Jesus Christ, sweetheart — and hours and hours of making you smile until it's imprinted in the walls of my brain, secured safe and sound in the labyrinth of my mind.

Wait for me, but never sadly. Keep up your studies, and focus on them just as I focus on work here whenever I have to. Talk to your friends, stay clear of those damn radios that only make you anxious and get you to bite your pretty nails, take Steve out for walks and keep that neighborhood in check, the two of you. I'll be back. I'll always come back to you.

With love in my heart (and because of your menace ways, my hand in my pants), I say goodbye for now,

V.E.N.I.C.E;

always yours, J.B.B.

In a month and a half, Bucky has written and read more than in the past decade, at least.

You'd scold him for admitting such a thing so easily, but it was true.

There are a few letters exchanged by now—the U.S. Postal is doing their best, but can only do so much—but they're enough on their own. More than two, sometimes 3 pages long, filled with more post scrimptums than anyone else rather than you two would care to read and it's probably acceptable, and always signed with a lot of love.

It's a whole new world created between the two of you where childhood memories are shared, secret fears that neither Bucky nor you ever imagined talking about are laid on the table, and all of that written between paragraphs of gossip stories from home or the military base, and dirty dreams and wishes.

A mess. An entire conversation—one with topics that go back and forth since the first letter and short pieces of dialogue you two shared with important people; it's the best conversation he's ever had.

The longest. Deepest.

ㅤㅤㅤ"I love talking to you, Jay. If before I thought we were two peas in a pod, now I'm certified of it the same way I'm certain the Sun rises in the East to set in West. Can you see the same thing I do? Sometimes, it feels as if we're sittin' on our porch, on our living room armchairs, laughing to one another about the sweet memories or silly theories that only we find amusement in."

Through you, Bucky hears things his Ma is saying. Gets news from his two younger sisters, as well as realistic check-ups on Steve.

In one of your letters, you said, "you know, I'm starting to feel calluses. I dreamt of writing dark children's books for so long, and I think this is my punishment, in some sort of way. How in the hell am I having an argument with Steve and you through here? You two are wrong. We talked about this before and I'll say it as many times as needed: this whole 'trip to the future' thing is hiding something bigger, and it's cute that you two think that geniuses and billionaires are just giving us all of their biggest developments. Truly adorable," and it had sparked the favorite topic in his unit: the existence of aliens, or not.

You're there without being there.

Most of them don't even know about you, of course. Bucky's private, and likes to be that way.

Morita, Gabriel, and Dum Dum are exceptions—those tree men proved to be the exact type of company a fella needs when facing an untamed and suffocating darkness.

They teased Bucky about his alone 'poet' time. When the time in July finally came for the soldiers to be dismissed for a weekend home before being shipped to London, Morita bid him goodbye with, "and see if you do something else other than writing back home, eh, Sarge?"

Bucky would.

He barely gets any sleep, waiting for the time when he'll be sharing your presence and counting each minute of it, placing them in the same precious box he kept your words.

With his eyes closed, the smile sets in stone on his face.

To any onlookers that pass him by, Sgt. James Barnes looks at peace.

Everything around him feels sharp and colorful.

Bucky almost feels surreal—his energy is humming underneath his skin, scorching as hot as the star that starts to rise.

He breathes in deeply as he steps out of the train, welcoming the smell of home.

Brooklyn is a hive of noise, so loud and different than anything he'd been used to these past weeks, and he strides in confidence towards his destinies.

For each of his people, Bucky told a story, but all for a good reason:

First, he has to visit his family. If he had told Steve about the time his train arrived, he'd be there without any regard for his sleep and comfort, and Bucky loved him too much to pull him out of bed before the sky had even lost its dark blue tones.

So first, he goes to the Barnes household.

Bringing bread, he steps inside his home almost feeling like the first rays of sunshine itself. Bucky's welcomed by the oldest feeling of attached to being safe and sound when Winnifred's arms wrap around him and she lets out a choked gasp at his name.

"James," is the first name he hears.

He's James during breakfast while he updates his mother to the best of his abilities, and fights the persistent sting in his eyes whenever the light illuminates her dark hairs, shining evidence in her new silver strands. He's James — but in a scolding tone — when his mother hears that he omitted from Steve his arrival time, and he's oh, James when his plans for later tonight are laid on the table in a soft, almost shy-spoken tone.

"I really like her, you know?" his mother tells him.

She's leaning against the sink with her ruby red robe, the soft slippers he bought for her as a present, and her hair held up in a bun. Bucky smiles at the approval, ignoring the heat in his cheeks that blossom at his mother's all-knowing gaze and the glint in her blue eyes. "I'm glad to hear that, ma."

Winnie does no effort to hide how pleased she is, and he has to admit that the teasing face he catches in reflections sometimes came from one person, and it wasn't his father. "Will I get to spend some time together with the two of you, at least?"

According to Bucky's plans, very little, because the time was as counted as their paychecks. "Well—today I'm gonna have lunch with Steve, then the three of us will meet up."

"Right."

"We'll probably hang around Stevie and I's apartment. Then we'll get ready to go to the Stark exhibition."

Winnie's are you serious look reminds Bucky that she never saw the three of you all hanging around together. "Really, James?"

"What?"

"You're gonna bring that poor, sweet boy to chaperone and be a third wheel at your date? Son," the title is another scolding and meant to serve as a tug in his ear.

He can't help it—Bucky laughs. "Mom," he teases right back. "That 'poor sweet boy' will be just fine." He snorted—there was nothing poor nor sweet about Steve. "The three of us are friends."

"And I'm not doubting that for a second. I'm just sayin'. Does he need to be there on the date? Does he even want to?"

"They already argued about this and the final conclusion was, apparently, that yes, he does." Bucky had to bite his lip at those bits in your last letter—even through ink and paper, he could see you and Steve as clear as daylight. "Steve and her are really good friends, Ma. She knows how much I miss him, and she claims that he's been even more annoyin' about stuff, mumbling shit—sorry, mumbling stuff about 'Bucky this' and 'Bucky that', so she ain't havin' it. Plus, it's not like the two of us can't behave. We never made Stevie feel left out."

His mother chuckled. "For some reason I find it hard to believe that you two are not the grossest thing together."

"What?!" his laughter intensifies. "You never saw us together."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Hm?" Winnie's look pierces through him as the last drops of her coffee seep to the cup, and she grabs her cup like a ninja, with eyes still glued on him and her head shaking, no need for a single glance to where her hands are going. His mother sips, and Bucky's laughter subsidies to a smile. "Well, I'm glad you she's generous enough to share ya." Her whole face softens. "Bubba's right. Steve's been missing ya a lot."

Bubba. Bucky forgets how to breathe for a single second. "Bubba?"

The name that his mother calls the girls—Bubs, Bubba, baby.

Winnie smiles behind the cup, and he's not sure if her happiness is directed at him because of how he looks, or at the whole situation. "Yes, James. The woman who's been comin' to my house for two months now, havin' almost daily cups of tea with me to talk about life and the perils of life is, to your surprise and delight, my Bubba. Are you really surprised?" Her next chuckle is as sweet as her coffee must be. "I like her. I told ya already."

"I can see that."

His mother moves to sit in the chair in front of him. "And you haven't answered my question yet, young man." She crosses her legs and offers her coffee for him to sip, which he does. Gods, this woman is a bee. He returns it with a grimace.

"Right, as I was sayin', today we're going to the Stark fair, the three of us. Eat a hot dog, be annoyin' at the square, drink a couple of beers. Then tomorrow, uh—"

"You two love birds will be together all day, yes, I can imagine."

He's thankful his mother saves him from saying the embarrassing bits, at least. "I have to go back on Monday."

"What time?"

"Thirteen hundred train."

"So there's time for breakfast?"

His smile returns. "Yeah, Ma. There's time for breakfast together."

Across the table, his smile seems to be reflected back at him. It looks a little older, with more crinkles around the corners and kissing the side of the eyes, but the same smile nonetheless. "Now I'm happy." She sips the coffee, humming in pleasure. "And what's so interesting at this fair?"

"Was that Bucky's voice?! Ma! Is Bucky here?!"

Ah, that screeching tone.

The second name he hears—Bucky.

Screamed at the top of her lungs by Rebecca, and later by a still sleepy Dorca, Bucky's greets with open arms his young rascals and spins them in the air, so lucky to have their laughter be the only sound he hears once again.

He does his best that whole morning to imprint every second spent with them like a tattoo in the malleable muscle of his brain. He wants Rebecca's slightly nasal and bossy tone to be of easy access when he's far away. He wants to not forget how long Dorca's hair is getting, or how much his mother still has control of this entire house at the tip of her fingers as if she's a powerful spider whose webs are invisible, but stronger than the eyes behold.

Before he leaves, he takes them for ice cream. Bucky asks all sorts of questions, trying to squeeze as much as he can in only a few hours, knowing that no amount of time feels enough nowadays.

Later, there's Buck.

"Hey, Buck."

It's a second homecoming.

This one, it tastes like a little bit of everything. "Hey, Stevie." The tiny frame that fits in his embrace as if it were a puzzle piece, it smells like childhood and teenage years all mushed together. "Glad to see you're in one piece."

It's a jab to the fact that his best friend and soulmate was about to get into a fight just seconds before Bucky finds him, and it was met with an ocean-cold stare. Blue meets blue, and Bucky can only laugh.

"Oh, shut up," Steve rolls his eyes. "I hate that I let them go—fucking bastards."

"Hey, hey; you can't fight 'em—"

"Can't fight 'em all, I know, punk, I know." Steve sighs, but when he looks at Bucky again, his gaze softens. Something clicks, and Steve seems to come back to himself. "You sound like Father Chase," his snorted laugh means it's Bucky's time to scoff.

"Maybe because he had a point?"

"Always did. Doesn't change the facts."

"And what are the facts?"

"The facts, Buck, are that you're a softie," before he can come up with an answer, Bucky's frame is pushed back by the force of it—Steve doesn't go for it, he lunges for another hug, body crashing against Bucky's. "'m glad you're back."

The facts must be true, if only when it came to Steve, at least. "Punk," he mutters against soft blond strands. Bucky hugs back just as hard, and they let go at the exact same time.

A single look is shared, and then they nod.

Secret conversations aren't only spilled in acronyms.

I'm glad to be back, his nod says.

While Steve's says, Now we're alright.

They were. For now, everything was alright.

"You get your orders?" Steve starts walking in the direction that Bucky's heart was tugging in—the direction of your apartment.

He follows, putting one arm around Steve's shoulders. "Sure did. The 107th. Sgt. James Barnes, shipping out on Monday for England."

"Sargeant, huh?"

Under Steve's appraising eyes, Bucky's always felt a little bit analyzed. "Yeah." No inch of him went unnoticed. "I'll do my best to take care of all of them." An artist's eye on you could be an unnerving thing.

It soothed when he smiled. "Of course you will, Buck." Often, Bucky wondered if Steve had any idea of how much power his opinion yielded. "You always do your best." A smile of his alone, and Bucky felt more approved than any superior's highest praise. "I—" he hut himself short, but Bucky knew what he swallowed down. I just wish I could help. "I'm happy for ya."

Always so good, "thank you, Steve." Not a day would go by when Bucky would let it pass the opportunity to thank god for gifting him with Steven Gran Rogers. "Now—" he looked up, seeing your building approach. "You sure she has no idea I'm here?"

Another roll of eyes—Steve could one day get cursed with the sight of his brain forever. "I'm starting to think you're spending too much time with your comrades. You forgot already who's had your six since forever?"

"Awn, Stevie—don't be jealous of my smelly, grumpy men. You'll always be my number one."

"You're ridiculous. Of course she doesn't know. Lady thinks you'll be here on the 4pm train, just like we talked about. She's probably still sleepin' 'cause of her late-night shift."

"Another one?!"

A scoff. "You try to tell Lady what to do and see how it goes. I already know my place of speakin', and it ain't that one."

"God, how on earth did I end up with the two more stubborn people to ever walk this goddamn planet? No, really—"

"Oh, because you're a beacon of flexibility."

"—you two are made from a single mold, and whoever used it on you first, and then her, saw their mistake two heartbeats too late, then broke the damn mold 'cause they knew if they made more, it'd mean world domination."

There's a single second of pause, and then Bucky turns to the amused gaze staring at him. Steve with a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face will always look the same. "You've gotten more dramatic. That's a fuckin' wonder." He turns around laughing to himself and shaking his head. "Go say 'morning' to her. I'm gonna go get tomato sauce, we ran out of it yesterday."

The implication that Steve's been hanging around more registers in all the happy places of Bucky's brain, but everything's washed away by the flood that it's the sight of it—

your window.

Bucky's entire world does the thing: it tunnels.

The same rounded, small rocks that he used on the first date still litter Mrs. Simyl's vase. He picks one, weights it in his hand, and with a heart-thumping loud in his chest, he throws it to your window.

A peck.

KNOCK

Bucky waits: one, two, three heartbeats.

He swallows the lump that rises in his throat.

The sun already rose, but it comes up again.

At least, for him.

When your head pops out in the window, Bucky swears it does.

Like a sniper's barrel, your eyes know exactly where it goes on instinct. They find him underneath your window pulled by the gravity that—with a quick check on his hummingbird of a heart, it's confirmed—still there.

North, meet South.

"Jay?"

"Hi, sweetheart."

Your face disappears, taking everything with you. The light, the warmth, the strenght in the gravitational hold of your beautiful eyes and gaze—as soon as they disappear, Bucky's spell is broken, and his feet gain life.

He knows you're rushing to your door the same way he rushes up the stairs.

He's glad the uniform stayed in his suitcase, safely tucked in his and Steve's apartment. He'd sweat from all the heat he's emmanating, and probably drench you in an ocean before he could get a single kiss.

Bucky's pulled by his North, and when he sees the familiar sight of your door, it's already swinging open.

"Oh, god." There's a breach in time. A break in the fabric of space. One moment, he's a few steps away from you, and the next thing he sees and knows, he has an arm full of you.

"Bucky."

That's him. James, Bucky, Buck, Jay. From all of his names, now's the only time when all of his cells feel slotted into place. Bucky's heard every one of his names, all the ones that matter, and now he is whole.

His voice evades him.

Inside his arms, he's aware that you're shaking, even if the notion takes a moment to register—as it should. He's shaking, too; vibrating, is more like it, because he's here, and now that he can breathe, his body seems incapable of doing so.

He inhales deeply, even if it's all trembling.

Your smell is different from any other. Bucky would recognize in a crowd of millions. He'd find it blindfolded, he was certain of it.

If they made him forget his name, Bucky would be Nobody, but even as Nobody, he would know that this is the scent of his person.

Citrine. Mint leaves. With a deeper inhale, he catches the underlying tone—vanilla. The purest and sweetest form, used in the lotion you put all over your body after showering sometimes, mixed with the unique and personal scent of just you. Vanilla has a taste on you. It's sweet, but not sticky.

It's summer.

Bucky is in love.

When the pull that holds you together seems to loosen its threads, you and Bucky pull back at the same time.

Not too far—neither one is able to go further than millimeters for now, and in the back of his mind, he's thankful that Steve gave the two of you the time you needed.

Just like he and Steve clung to each other like a lifeline for embarrassing minutes that neither one chose to talk about, you two are roped together, and going too far is impossible for now.

The only space is a breath of air separating your heads.

Bucky pulls an arm up, crowding your head inside his forearm. His palm spreads on the top of your head, holding you there.

His eyes find yours, swimming and spilling over.

Your lips tremble when you speak. "You told me you were getting here later," he feels your hand making fists out of his white shirt, resting on the curve of his lower back. After a sniffle, you add, "'m gonna kill you and Blondie," and then, you nuzzle your nose on his.

He laughs. Bucky truly is home. "He was just followin' my orders, lil' witch. No killing, please."

"You two planned behind my back," you go on, sounding small and choked still. His crybaby that never cried before.

Bucky's arm cage around your head got a little tighter, and his arm around your waist pulled you impossibly closer. "Don't cry," he pleaded in a whisper. "It was to surprise ya."

He thinks you're beautiful even with wet, rosy cheeks. "I'm surprised," your laugh came out choked, and you sniffled again. Bucky accepted the tears despite how much his hand itched to wipe them away, and clean your cheeks. Lower, and softer, so much softer than he was used to hearing any voice, you say, "You're actually here..."

The awe in your voice is a sentiment he can understand. "I am."

"I'm not dreaming."

His forehead stays touching yours as he shakes his head, and while it's an uncomfortable angle, but he likes it for now. "No. Seems neither am I." It's the closeness his heart aches for, and achieving it soothes the wrinkles in his soul.

You, on the other hand, seem to need a better angle—your head pulls back against his head, gaining a couple more inches of distance, and his body moves along with yours.

When you're far enough to look at his whole face, Bucky's breath is sucked out of his body.

He's here.

"I missed you, Jay."

And so are you.

Bucky smiles and dives.

Your eyes are closed, lips waiting for his.

If angels sing, this is it. Angels, a choir, or maybe just the white noise of his head subduing, opening up space for this—your lips on his are a single drop falling in a pond, creating ripples until the surface is a still mirror.

Neither one of you moves too much. There isn't back and forth, or any deepening of the kiss. On the contrary.

It is what it is.

A sweet sound of hello. A press of lips, two pieces meeting together, fitting in as one.

When the air he stored runs out and Bucky gasps in your lips, he hears your pleased hum.

You smile, breathing in through your nose. "'m so happy," you inform him.

Bucky laughs. He breathes out, and kisses you again, but messier this time. Rougher. He wants to taste your tongue, wants your oxygen in his veins. He nibbles, bites, sucks on your lips; Bucky finally gets his tongue intertwining with yours, walks you back inside your place, and closes the door with his foot even if somewhere in the back of his mind, he's aware that Steve will come passing by any minute now.

The kiss is enough for now.

A single taste—a sip of a galleon he'll drink whole later tonight, bathe himself, drown in; Bucky pulls back and is pleased to note how pink you look and the puffiness in your lips.

You two exist in silence for a moment, just breathing each other in, and then,

"You ready for a day with Stevie and I?" he asks.

Your smile is enough of an answer. "Where's Blondie?"

"Probably comin' right up."

"'Kay. Cool." You press your lips on his again, melting and humming softly; all the little sounds he's missed. The hums, and ahs you make when melting in his arms that he's taking back to the base with him. "'m gonna change."

"Cool. Let's go."

Your laughter as well—he's pocketing that, and keeping it close to his heart. "That wasn't an invite."

"Was it not? Damn, I could've sworn it was, miss. My bad."

"D'you think I can get any 'changing' done with you in the room?"

Although the question is asked amidst laughter, you seem okay with Bucky glued on your back and stepping where you do, channeling his inner cat. "I have no clue. We'll figure it out."

"And if Steve arrives?"

A cackle from him—you're the witch, but Bucky laughs like one at that joke. "I'm sure your new best friend can find himself just fine in your house. Wasn't he here last night?"

"How d'you know that?"

"He said you two ran out of tomato sauce. He went to get some to cook lunch for us."

"You mean for you to cook lunch for us. We're just sittin' there lookin' pretty and talking your ear off."

"Sweetheart, that sounds marvelous to me."

True as he said to his mother, there is no third-wheeling or chaperoning.

In the same kitchen as his two favorite people, Bucky has one of the loveliest afternoons of his entire life. In fact, his Saturday is so good that Bucky marks the date in the calendar in his mind — the 24th of July — as some special daybreak.

He fits right in. Between the jokes that you and Steve now share and he has no idea what the roots of them are, next to your attentive, hawk-like eyes that never seem to leave him, snuggled by the much smaller frame of a friend who still looks up to him as someone good.

It's a pity that Bucky has no superpowers.

He would fit an entire month right there, in the afternoon reserved for the three of you.

By the time the sun is setting down and you three feel the need to clean up for the exhibition, the trio has already covered every base:

The military. Family. Neighbors (both the annoying as well as the good ones). Steve's stubbornness, and then yours. England. Bucky's squadron, with the specifics of each man he claimed to like.

Bucky laughed. He sobered up—those coal, slimy tentacles of war tried sneaking their way to the front.

Impossible to be done with you and Steve present.

When Bucky comments about separating — 'Steve and I can go to the apartment to get ready then come pick you up, whatcha say?' — he gets the same attitude from both.

"Why would I go stay alone at my place?" you ask.

Steve nods along. "Just wait here 'till she picks up her overnight bag and she'll come with us."

"Yeah. Steve never takes longer than ten minutes to get ready, anyway."

"True. I say Lady and I will be ready before you are," Steve adds with a knowing smile.

You laugh with him. "Oh—that's for sure."

"Hey!" Bucky loves to see you two teaming up. It's the kind of thing he'd like to see forever if he has any say in it. "I don't take that long."

To that, he hears many arguments.

"Oh my god, who is he talking to?" you ask, turning your gaze to Steve.

"I don't know. He's actin' like we don't know him," Steve snorts.

"It's crazy. Did he forget the times we had to wait for him?"

"Many times."

You glance back at Bucky, all smiles and daring. "You think you can hurry up tonight, princess?"

It does something to him. He hates that it does—and he sees and hears it in Steve's laugh that it's obvious, too, that the stupid teasing nickname pulls a string or two of his, and he huffs away from you both. "Ungrateful duo of firecrackers, I swear to god."

"Oh, c'mon!" it's you, rushing to catch up to him, laughing the same as Steve.

"Yeah, c'mon—"

"Don't you dare, Steven," he cuts him off before he can use it too, and it gets only more laughter.

"You didn't answer her question, you know," Steve comments when he catches up to Bucky and you.

He rolls his eyes. "I'll speed up. 's not like I have to look my best—not when you two aren't doing anythin' to deserve it."

"Damn, Jay. Not even a little bit of cologne for me?" you pout.

The gall. The audacity. He huffs and puffs, and turns his eyes away from you. "I'll think about it." He's a joke. Bucky's going to spend at least triple the time in the bathroom, but it's okay, because he'll come out to you and Steve waiting for him.

"Welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow!"

In his uniform, Bucky feels oddly in place.

He's pulled by the sleeves by either you, or Steve. "C'mon, c'mon, Buck, it's starting!" you squeal.

Willing and pliant, that's his role for the whole night. With a smile plastered on his face, and a giddiness he hasn't felt since he was a kid. Not that he was ever this happy in his childhood—this is a new, shinier form of happiness.

It happens because he's in the right place. With the right people.

Also, he paid very close attention to your eyes when he left the bathroom an hour ago.

When Bucky saw that glint, a very familiar one to him, his body responded. He felt your gaze on him. On his uniform. The tension that for a second became almost like humidity in the air, it hung for a few seconds, and it made Steve go to the kitchen with yet another roll of his eyes.

"I'm... gonna go drink a glass of water. You two—yikes. Be quick. The eye fucking is gross."

"Such a gentleman, Steve," you joked, but the lack of eye contact with him kind of ruined it for you.

Bucky approached you, walking in slow and deliberate steps. He allowed you to look at every inch. Feeling it was good, too—your eyes ranking up and down his body was almost a physical touch, and it made the soft spreading of your palm on his chest warmer.

"You look..." the words left you, leaving your lips parted and pink. "Very nice."

Not often did Bucky feel bashful. "Thanks, sweetheart." A rare gem such as this needed to be polished, even if it was perfect in its raw form. Bucky leaned in closer, barely containing his smile, and with his mouth nearing your ears, he whispered. "I have a feeling it's not my hair and my perfume that you like."

The intake of your breath was loud from this proximity. "Jay..."

That whisper alone was enough for him. He whispered your name back and kissed your temple with a smile. "Save all of those thoughts for later, 'kay? All of 'em. I wanna hear everything that's goin' around on that pretty head of yours."

Breathless, you whispered, "'kay'," and then nuzzled your face against his neck before pulling away. The flush was high on your cheeks. Redder than before, and due to more than just makeup. "You really do look handsome," that whisper made his insides tangle, and he enjoyed it.

"'m glad you think so."

That part was only forgotten when he saw the automobiles.

Even if Steve hid it better than you and Bucky, the reality hit you three all the same. Three nerds in a science fairy served for more than entertainment; it meant a night to be remembered.

Bucky gets lost in hours of conversation.

You three see everything. Even the dance floor is forsaken in the name of reading about stuff, theorizing about what is left out of the exposition, and laughing with each other as the ideas that bounce between you three get wilder each time.

It's almost midnight when you three make your way to the apartment.

Bucky is in a tipsy state. Steve—well, his tolerance is not the best, and mixing sugar with alcohol is a bad idea. It's all good though, because you hate the taste of it, and walking between the two of them like a beacon of balance and normalcy is a thing you did before.

Steve's hand hooks through your shoulder, into Bucky's nape.

He talks about the war. The human condition—Mrs. Georgia, from downstairs.

"She's been cryin' every night or two. It's—sad. Loud. God, I'm so glad I'm gonna black out tonight."

Bucky ends up taking off Steve's shoes while you tuck his sleeping body into bed.

He looks up at you, and sees the strand of your hairstyle escaping the pins, framing your face into something more suited for the faint yellow lights of late-night times and the Moonlight outside. "At least he waited 'till he was home," Bucky reasons.

You smile at him. "At least he didn't puke."

"Touché."

Once Steve Rogers is safe and sound, you turn your body to Bucky, both hands placed on your hips.

Here it comes, thinks Bucky...

"Safe and sound."

He smiles. "That he is." Bucky knew he'd be. It wasn't his first time hearing this.

He extends one hand in the air and is delighted when you catch it.

"Let's go?"

It's barely a whisper.

You nod at him, fitting your body under one of his arms as you walk out of the room. In the quiet magnitude of this hour into the night, you whisper, "I should've let you buy me cotton candy."

Bucky closes the door of the room holding back his laughter. "I'll make you scrambled eggs when we get to the hotel."

"Will you?"

"I will."

"I don't know if I trust your tipsy self to a stove."

Bucky groaned, pulling you even closer to him to bury his nose into your hair. "I'll be a hundred percent by the time we make it there."

The conversation goes on in hushed whispers as you two walk, ignoring all the other rare figures you see walking in the streets too, not on purpose—on the fact that it's a new world, already.

As soon as the apartment door was locked behind him, Bucky's world shifted in its axis; everything becomes you.

He's barely aware of what he's answering.

The only thing he knows it's that you're teasing him—he pays attention to the blush he sees forming on your cheeks once you feel his gaze so locked on your lips. He laughs under his breath when you stutter, and then laughs harder when you poke him in the ribs for laughing in the first place.

He feels how warm you are despite how chill the night has become.

Inside his jacket—his uniform, you've found heat.

The hotel room he located for the night is not far from your house itself, and it's one of the most decent ones still inside his budget. Rooms that are nice and clean, plus a decent breakfast.

It was far from what you deserved, but Bucky had years of work ahead of him before he was able to afford that.

When he enters, you take a little spin around.

Bucky puts both yours and his duffel bags on the floor.

He lets you walk around, and take your heels off, his eyes following you.

When they finally land on him, Bucky can almost see the air that stands between you.

Your voice is as low as a whisper. He hears it loud and clear in the deep quiet of the night. "You're not gonna cook for me, are you?"

He's kicking his shoes off as he shakes his head.

Bucky's eyes are so attentive, that he catches the shivers that run through you.

"Tomorrow," he promises.

Your fingers graze the long sleeve of the dress until it hooks on the shoulder pad, but Bucky hums negatively.

The movement stops.

He takes his steps until he's an inch away from you, and breathes in deeply.

"'m pretty sure that's my job."

It was. One of the best parts of it, now that Bucky paid close attention to it. His hands removed the fabric from your skin, exposing it to the light entering the room through the window, and in those moments, Bucky managed to fit in hours.

Every inch of you being exposed to him, it was like he painted it somewhere in his mind, guarding that canvas in a special slide of his subconscious.

When all your clothes were on the floor, he continued his ministrations of sewing all your measurements to memory.

Bucky's hands — palm spread flat, his fingertips, his knuckles — made work of you, while you removed his clothes in return.

Once naked, he could pass on to the next stage:

"Wanna remember how you taste, sweetheart."

The shaky gasp you let out when his words met your ear was too fast for him to catch, but everything else that followed fell into Bucky's lips.

They were wide, hand-made nets, built only for one purpose: to fish every part of you that was delectable.

Bucky started with close-mouthed kisses and ended up almost devouring you. Swallowing you whole.

There were hours between that first and last stage, though.

At first, everything was slow.

Bucky had been so preoccupied back at the base with whether the first time you two fucked would be the same as the ones from before or not, that he missed the entire point.

It had always been great. The connection between you two always started with more than just physical, and when it got to that point, you two were already lost in each other.

This was immersion.

Hearing your tender, then groaned, and later broken moans of "Jay" counted as his sea.

Your eager touches were current, guiding him in.

This was far from fucking. There was nothing crude about the first time—there was only love.

Bucky never made love before, but he understood why not when your body unfolded in front of him. When your legs open wide and everything blossoms, Bucky has full comprehension of what a feeling can do to two people.

Not just any feeling. This.

Bucky's a drunk man.

It's only his grace that you're as far gone as him. As Dionysus blessed—when Bucky's fingers intertwine with yours to replace your fisted hands in the sheets with his own instead, Bucky's gaze catches yours.

He sees the warm and inviting openness of black in your eyes.

Bucky kisses and leaves his feeling all over his path.

As overwhelming as it is, making love is also beautiful. This type of surrender required a level of trust and blinded faith that he's not sure he even had before, but he finds it right there, in bed with you.

The first time is slow.

Both of you taking your time to marvel at how in sync you are—to marvel at how wet one makes the other, and how unashamed both of you feel in touching each and every part.

He's never had anyone touching him the way you do. Bucky gets your lips leaving prints from his face, his chest, arms, and legs, all the way to the curve above his ass.

As he opens you up with his fingers, Bucky keeps watching all the emotions passing through your face.

The first time you make love, in gentle, long, and agonizing steps.

When he pushes inside at last, he can almost swear he hears violins.

Or maybe it's your nails digging at his back—your pained, blissed whines. "Jay."

He's whining, too—your name spills from his lips as much as air does, and you two move not to reach an end, but to feel what is connecting you at that exact time.

When the words leave his lips, Bucky can see them traveling in the air before being sucked in by yours. "I love you, sweetheart."

Out of his lips, into thick, warm air, and falling...

You gasp, closing your eyes for a moment, and Bucky tastes your tears when he's gifted back with, "I love you too, James." It makes him smile, shaking from head to toe like a leaf. "I truly do."

"I know. I feel it."

"It w-was never like—like this. Never before."

An understatement, if he ever heard one. Bucky could feel your heartbeat as if it was his own; it was more than just his cock buried to the hilt inside of your warm cunt, feeling every construction and high of your pleasure, or the vibrations of your moans and the pleas for his name that seemed to reverberate all through his being—

"This—" he bucked his hips harder, just to feel the waves of pleasure cursing through you, and laughed with his lips ghosting your mouth. "This is—oh—it's making love, sweetheart."

"Jay!"

Bucky was unsure of how long it lasted.

Could've been hours, or just a few, blissful minutes.

From the thick layer of sweat that covered your bodies by the time you both came undone, his guess tips more towards the first.

It's almost like seeing a visible thread being cut—when the orgasms hit your bodies, one right after the other, Bucky collapses his back in the bed, carrying your body along with him.

That's where you two stay, for a few moments longer.

"Were we whispering?" you ask.

He likes when your lips are on his skin. They're warm, and he has their shape memorized now. "I think we were." If he was a better artist, he'd draw them. "D'you want me to cook for you now?" he asks with a chuckle.

You tilt your head up, take a second to think it over, then answer with a simple smile.

So Bucky cooks.

He slaps your hand when you try putting on his white t-shirt laying on the ground, commenting, "No need for that at all, c'mon'," and watches with the same pleased and hungry eyes as you stay leaning on the wall as he uses the small stove for a quick meal.

After that, there are other times.

There's the desperate round, and there's the fucking, and the unexpected, and the lazy, 'we're too tired to move but still horny enough for this' moment where he just lays in bed with his hands between your legs, touching your pussy even if he's not actively doing anything.

Bucky washes you with careful hands and a lot of tenderness in the shower, running the cloth and the soap through your marked, sensitive skin as slowly as his sleepiness allows.

"We're gonna have a good day today," you tell him.

Given the whispering tone and slurred words, Bucky assumes you're almost sleeping, too. "Yup. All day to ourselves. Dinner with Steve. Come back here to sleep well."

"I love you, James."

Bucky would never get tired of hearing those words in your voice. He pulls your body close, kissing even if he'll taste soap and warm water. "I love you more." He whispers your name, kisses you again, and turns off the shower head before cold water sprays on his perfect day.

Nothing about today is cold.

Bucky's warm. While you may carry the elegance and magic of the Moon, you're his Sun.

His North, and his Sun, which would always guide him home, for hot and perfect days like this that remind him of why it's good to be alive and to feel all of this love.

↳ my inbox 💌 | tip jar ♡ ↲

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☆ next chapter ☆

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sherl-grey · 1 year

Note

For the get to know your fic writer meme: 2, 11 (I don't know if it means of your works but that's what I wanna know), 16, 28, 40 & 65? Sorry I got a lil carried away

hello friend, thanks for the ask!! realized i reblogged this without access to a laptop and had to wait til i had mine again to answer 😂 but here we go! (Also don't apologize, these are fun! Mostly I'm sorry because I can't answer briefly like a normal person, and this response is probably going to take up a lot of space, lol.)

2. Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

I don't have too many multichapter fics, and I think they've all been done differently, haha. "love don't roam, but occasionally it wanders off" was mostly outlined in advance. "the rose-pond swap" was me messing around at the beginning, but then people read it (lol, how dare people read this) and I frantically tried to plan the rest of it (and we can all see how that went 😂). "the weight of words" has the barest skeleton of an outline just to keep track of the canon timeline, but otherwise is just being made up. "my mind turns your life into folklore" was written on a complete whim, no thoughts head empty just eightrose. (I think we can infer here that planning worked best, but alas, it also appears that I'm bad at that.)

11. Link your three favorite fics right now (I don't know if it means of your works but that's what I wanna know)

😅Desperately going to try to remember what the heck I've written...

gravity like a lunar landing - Twelve is a major challenge to me, and I'm really proud of this because I think I managed to properly explain the way I see him in this one

Barcelona: Where No Doctor Has Gone Before! - Is the plot good? no. However, there are five Doctors, and it was fun, and even if I wish I'd planned it better, I'm fairly pleased with the result.

a more literal method of compartmentalization - I suspect this will always be one of the ones I'm most proud of, in that I knew what story I wanted to tell and somehow I got there? Wrote this in a sleep-deprived haze so no clue how that happened, but I'm glad it did!

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

Technically speaking, a lot. Things I'm actually thinking about writing? Maybe like... 5? 2 are Spotify asks from the frickin 2021 Wrapped game and YES I've started I swear 😂😅 I just got stuck. Various other people/conversations have had me revisiting like 4-5 things I'd jotted down in the past (Eight chameleon arch, a tenrose Bridgerton thing, a sequel to something, an out-of-order thing). Uhh, in non-DW news, I've got a Hellcheer thing I really want to write that's mostly about "right person, wrong timing" angst (with a happy ending because it's me, lol).

28. On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

Most days, I don't write. When inspiration strikes, anywhere from 500 - 2000 words, probably. On a few rare occasions, I've just cranked out the whole story in one sitting, but I don't generally have time for that nowadays.

40. If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

This is such an interesting question... I've never really even considered this. I think one of the scenes I most consciously decided to try to make pretty is the Woman Wept scene in LDRBOIWO (that is a bad acronym lol), so that could be nice? I'll have to think about this more!

65. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

Honestly, at the moment the thing I'm most hopeful about writing is the Hellcheer thing mentioned in 16. DW-wise, though, I really want to go update all of my WIPs sometime soon, and I want to get at least one of the songfics done--I feel like I'll feel way less guilty about starting new projects if I wrap up some of the outstanding ones.

#ask game #asked and answered #thanks Ace!!#nerdie-faerie #this was fun. haven't done one of these in a long time!

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thatfunkyopossum · 2 years

Text

I know this is a fandom blog but actually its my blog and I just want to talk about something really quick if y’all don’t mind giving it a little read.

Transandrophobia.

I’m a trans man, and I appreciate this term. Gives me an alternative to transmisandry, which isnt very useful due to association with cis misandry and the sorts of men who regularly use and refer to it as a systemic issue. It is a name for the experience of the transphobia trans men face for being trans, as well as being men. This is not a claim that cis men are oppressed, but rather that there is a lot of hatred (up to you whether it is deserved or not) and bitterness toward cis men that trans men end up taking the brunt for, as trans men are men without the support and systemic power that cis men have, and therefore are easier targets.

This term was coined by a trans man who had a kink roleplay with a trans woman that he stopped because the kinks in question and the role he hd to play for them ultimately made him uncomfortable, and was called anti-black because he was talking about omegaverse once and referred to it as ABO, the acronym for alpha/beta/omega. Because of these two factors, the person who coined this term has been canceled and used to delegitimize and demonize the term.

Trans men are the newest grain in the grinding mill of tumblr’s endless discourse. Are we oppressed, or are we sleeper agent oppressors?Is our existence somehow, hilariously, inherently transphobic? It’s been decided by some folks that we simply do not belong, just as aspec folks were decided not to belong, and just as bi-spec folks were decided not to belong. It is now our turn to be thrown under the crushing wheel and be the punching bag, and this will likely persist for a few years until no one really talks about it anymore. So here’s my message to other transmascs of any identity who are experiencing this for the first time from someone who’s seen it before.

Nonna this shit matters.

Now, that may be hard to swallow if a lot of your social interaction is online, but tumblr is basically the only place this is happening, maybe its also on tiktok, but it is impossible to overstate truly how tiny these discourse spaces are. My advice to you is to just keep being proud of who you are, talk to other transmascs (especially if you can find them irl) and, this is very important, interact with average ass people if you can. Nothing had made me feel more grounded in reality than spending most of my life around and talking to people who think that tumblr is a dating site are completely unaware that the queer community is no longer a united front (because of bullshit like this). It’s really shown me how divorced from reality queer purge cycles are. None of this shit matters. Stay proud, stay loud, youre not doing anything wrong by existing and talking about your experiences, and finally: take it easy, but take it.

Reblog if you vibe with this message, now take me off to the blocklist boys 🎉

#transandrophobia #transmasc #trans men #transgender #trans

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fairytsuk1 · 3 years

Text

sweet japan breeze | (f)

pairing: izuku midoriya x reader

genre: fluff

words: 3.2k

summary:

Midoriya grins as he traces the soft bridge of your nose, immediately looking away when you turn.

"Is there something on my face?"

"No! No, not at all."

Just the lack of a kiss, is all.

Sweat soaks through your white collared shirt and a string of curses towards the Department of Rare-Quirked Animals goes with it. Gracing you with a uniform more befitting of a tennis player, you grumble noisily. The net handle nearly slips out of your slick hands until you fumble and hold it with a grip that turns your palms white. You can see Midoriya’s green hair appear in your field of vision. He’s trying to act as if he isn’t squinting and analyzing your every behavior, but he is. The look makes you feel like you’re the rare-quirked animal.

“...What,” you squint back at him, squaring your shoulders to face him head on, “are you looking at?”

“What?! Sorry, were you concentrating? You just looked really stressed so I thought you might want a snack,” Midoriya whips his head left and right before sheepishly smiling at you, “I think we’re off trail anyways, my bad!”

You can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed with him, he’s been your partner since you first joined the DORQA. Your head aches at the thought of the insufferable acronym. If you had to see one more poster promoting their stupid monogram, you might need to be locked up.

But him. Your partner Izuku Midoriya...he always had a gleam in his emerald eyes no matter the job, and he always regarded you with a warm smile! He was the epitome of warmth and sunshine, your heart twinged at the thought of you ruining that with your sourpuss attitude.

Your hand brushes his as you take the protein bar, Midoriya’s face lighting up into beautiful shades of salmon. His back straightens and the apples of his cheeks lift. He’s so inexperienced that it’s funny to watch. He was also definitely a people-pleaser; normally you’d poke fun of him but you were too exhausted to do anything but munch on the almond-chocolate bar.

“I’m gonna radio back to headquarters so we can go back to our tent and get some dinner.”

He pulls his radio out and extends the antenna before turning away to call. A realization dawns on you whilst scanning the clear sky. It’s been four days and the white speckled fox was nowhere to be found. There hadn’t even been droppings or footprints; classifying it as extinct would make your life a lot easier but would lead to repercussions in Aizawa’s office. Aizawa...well, you didn’t want to know what would happen if you even dared to think about it.

There was absolutely no way you were going to let him call headquarters and let them know you’d failed on the excursion you begged to go on. It was just plain humiliating; the thought of Bakugou’s smug grin made you want to strangle someone. Bakugou wasn’t even here!

Midoriya had been moments away from speaking until a big fat finger slammed onto the hang-up button. Your foot beat on the ground, aura reeking of stubbornness. Midoriya cried out and turned to remedy the building lecture he was going to receive from Aizawa. You were quicker than him, swiping like a cat and jerking the phone from his grasp. The device cascaded into soft dirt and was nearly squashed under steel-toed boots.

“No way are we telling headquarters we haven’t found that damn fox yet, we’ll be here till we die as far as I’m concerned,”

“But I feel like we’re getting burnt out! Aizawa will understand!”

A loud sigh rings out as you press your palm to your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut as an attempt to calm down. “Understand my ass!” Retrieving his phone, you toss it to the boy and he lets out a sigh of relief.

“Let’s just go back to camp, okay? I can sway you with more food, can’t I?”

Your cheek twitches with the urge to smile as your eyes roll, settling on him dramatically. You cross your arms, he wasn’t going to win this battle.

“You think I’m gonna listen to you?”

“No, but I think I’m the more responsible one out of the two of us so I should at least try!”

Your shoulders drop as your jaw opens, a gasp of disbelief coming from your lips. If it had been anyone else, you would’ve screamed about the toxicity in the workplace as you stomped to Toshinori’s office. But in this moment, all you could feel was warmth washing over you. Embarrassment, you were responsible!

“I can be very responsible for your information, write that down in your little notebook!”

Picking up the forgotten net with a harrumph, you stomp your shoe to kick off dirt before walking away. Only two steps ahead, your body quickly turns around adorning the smile of someone who was losing their mind.

“You may be more responsible, but I’m more determined! I’m finding that fucking fox and you can come with me or not!”

You secretly pray he won’t report this, the termination letter left on your desk would be the final straw, your new life beginning by moving countries away and living within a secluded cabin. A strand of hair falls into your face and frustration explodes out of you with ascream. Shaking your hair out before tying it back up, Midoriya’s lips are strawberry and swollen at that point. With the way he’s biting them; they’ll turn into a pretty cherry red soon.

He shakes his head too, clearing the budding laugh in his lungs. He might’ve even looked a bit beautiful had he not been laughing at you.

He was such a nerd.

“Of course I’m coming, what kind of partner would I be if I didn’t? Besides, you need someone to keep you from losing your mind,” he settles his net on his back (firmly strapped in, he would never let you forget that important tip.) You find yourself looking away. Your eyes tug at the wants of your consciousness, desperate to admire the way his forearm flexed when adjusting his belt.

“Did you know this fox is patient and a hard-worker? Looks like you two are total opposites.”

You don’t miss the subtle dig and there’s a bruise to your ego with the way he smirks at you. Retaliation comes easy when your arms swing to capture his head in your net, a proud grin covering up the hearty laugh.

“Whoops! Looks like I caught a total dork in the wild, how’d that happen?”

His voice feels like the sunshine shining on your skin as he shakes his hair out, fluffy with his sweat gleaming under the rays. You only had a few hours left till you were blinded, only able to see his freckles in the shadow of an orange fire. The cool air that would breeze through as the two of you sat in silence, tension soon replacing the chilling wind. You slept in separate tents, professionalism was still a thing.

But you did wonder how it would feel to cuddle up under his arm and stare at the tent ceiling together. Maybe even the sky on a grassy patch in the summer. You envied your daydreams.

Every once in a while, Midoriya’s tracker beeped to remind you of where you are (well, not really, it was so you didn’t die out in the middle of nowhere) which knocks you completely out of your haze. There was no red, white, speckles, or fox anywhere. Anger courses through you at the thought of having to return back to camp empty-handed; your shoes stomping harder into mud. You rub your eyes before taking a deep breath, ready to zero in on the next nearby animal.

“We should probably go back soon, I think I might run out of water unless we find a stream but then…”

Your partner’s voice fades into obscurity when you see it, a flash of white in the corner of your eye. So fast you might have almost missed it if it weren’t for your keen senses. You could practically hear the crunching of leaves as it ran behind a bush.

In that moment it would’ve been much better to yell shhh and come at it with an element of your surprise. Your mind blanks, legs springing into action with a fierce jump. Your vocal chords could only make out one word.

“FOX!”

Both bodies soar through the air, Midoriya following your lead as you crash through the bush. Bramble sticks you in your side and your eyes shut to embrace the impact your elbows, your whole body really, were about to receive. Wind knocks out of you as you grin once you can feel yourself fully settled on the ground.

“I got you, you little…” your eyes open. You blink once, twice, you even squeeze them a bit, “...bastard.”

There is no fox, even the trees have gone silent. The pinecone with white sparkles on it sits perched perfectly on its bottom, it’s mocking you. Surely.

“That’s—”

“I know what it is, Midoriya.”

Shivers run across his skin at your cold throaty voice. Your head plunks into the ground, you lay there for a bit. It hurts so bad, if only the Earth could crack open and swallow you whole. Maybe falling into the Earth’s crust wasn’t so bad, burning to death must be colder than the shame that courses through your veins.

You can practically taste it in your saliva.

How was it possible to have made this...this rookie mistake?

“I want to die, Midoriya.”

He shushes you and lays a warm, large hand between your shoulder blades to comfort you. He winces when the shirt drags across your skin due to the moisture soaked through it.

Gross. He opts for patting your back lightly.

“It’s alright, we all make mistakes.”

“I’m considering quitting the field. How much do accountants make?”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “an actual accountant? Or is that a metaphor for something else?” He’s holding back his laugh, snorts coming out every few seconds.

Your head shoots up to give him an incredulous look, you didn’t even think he knew about that type of stuff. Let alone have the bravery to say it, your mouth opens and closes as you scramble to find something to say.

“You’re a pervert!”

His laugh echoes in your ears again like before, your own sounding out at the absolute ridiculousness of it all. Leaping towards a pinecone and now lying with a mud stain on your pristine white shirt. Things could not have gone any worse with this type of turn around. Maybe this was the good ending.

Midoriya’s hand reaches to his pocket, digging out his tracker and standing from his squat.

“Ready to go eat some nice soup from a can?”

You snort and push yourself up, kicking the pinecone with the remnants of your anger before turning to him, “soup in a can?”

“It’s all we have…” he trails off and fiddles with his tracker, “soup. Soup is all we have…”

“Yeah, you said that. What’s up? Don’t tell me...did Aizawa find out I did that?! Did you leave your radio on?” you reach towards your pocket and pull your radio out, “did I?...”

The incessant beeping you were used to hearing was silent now. When Midoriya sheepishly looks at you, flashing the dark screen of his device you think you might try to find the nearest cliff.

“Oh wow, oh great. That’s just, it broke? Like just now, it decided to fucking break?”

Rapid nods in quick succession.

“Okay. This isn’t a joke or anything right?”

“No. It is broken and you left yours.”

You spend a few minutes screaming with a stick in your mouth at the sky, the makeshift gag effective at silencing you but the rage still swirls like a storm inside you as you pace incessantly. Midoriya sits on a log, trying to radio in or charge the tracker with sun power (“it doesn’t have that capability!”) but it’s a lost cause.

You’re stuck in the forest.

“Fuck! ”

It’s not long before you’ve given up hope. You’re going to die out here to some sort of animal that will eat the meat off your bones like a plate of ribs.

“Midoriya, I feel like we’re walking in circles. I’m also going to starve to death so we should call it quits.”

“I didn’t know you were so weak! I told you we should've gone back earlier, but you’re stubborn!”

He’s mildly irritated, you can tell by the way his jaw clenches while he looks rapidly for a familiar landmark. You feel bad, you didn’t mean to be so rude. He was way more put together than you were, you needed him.

Your eyes search the surroundings, looking for something to possibly cheer him up. “Berries!” Your hand leaves the back of his shirt and you miss his disappointed frown from the disappearance of your warmth.

“We can eat these, maybe there’s hope after all.”

These are poisonous, you learn this within the first few days. If there was one thing Midoriya liked, it was teaching. You were sure if he weren’t here, he’d be helping some little kid realize their dreams of working in the safari.

“Well, aren’t those like-the poisonous ones?! Don’t put anything in your mouth!” He grabs the bush branch and shakes it away from you, the berries falling with little thumps on the ground.

You grin.

“I must be going crazy, we have got to find a way home before I mistake you for a nice piece of broccoli.”

“Shush. Look, remember when I went to pee? I found a water source.”

You blink, a dead look in your face.

“Listen, I may think you’re attractive but I’m not drinking your pee.”

He scrambles for words and shakes his head with wide eyes.

“Attractive?! I was just-there was a stream so I took the time to purify it!”

“Oh! Well, I just thought you were taking a shit.”

“You’re being inappropriate!”

Had someone been listening in, all they would be able to hear were the pleads from a male and the wonderful laugh of his partner.

Midoriya always felt golden light flow through his chest when you were around. The trail you two were on continued downhill, a man-made path making itself known once the two of you kicked astrew leaves away, it was mutually agreed to head downhill as you (possibly) recalled going uphill to get where you were in the first place.

The stars were beginning to rear their pretty heads, speckling in and out of the sky and it left a heavy feeling in your chest. You didn’t want something to happen to either of you, unconsciously clinging to Midoriya harder, you sighed shakily.

“I was joking before, but I'm actually getting a little nervous.”

You admire his freckled jawline, illuminated by the lantern he’d broken out. He gives you a quick side glance, searching for a trick being placed before nodding.

“Me too. I’m really sorry about the tracker, I should’ve charged it!”

A huff escapes you from the way he was so utterly wrong, you were the one mistaking pinecones for foxes and being ridiculous.

“No way! I was the one being immature, I’m sorry about that one. We should’ve gone back like you said.”

His shoulders square a bit more, your frame shrinking in tandem. You two were like two animals, one protecting the other with its teeth bared and stance wide.

“You’re...You’re really the reason I’m here.”

“What?”

A beat of silence passes through the both of you, your lips ruby red from the way you gnawed on them with your anxiety chilling you.

“I just mean, you’re the reason I joined. You were so little, prattling on and on...It inspired me too. I probably wouldn’t have been able to get here if it wasn’t for you.”

He’s a bit shocked, half his face is lit and you can tell he doesn’t know what to say. His mouth opens and he can’t even resist the ear to ear grin making its way to imprint his feature.

“I-I mean...well! I’m glad,” he takes a deep breath, “I have to tell you something.”

Midoriya’s hands clench at his side, dripping with sweat as you look at him with big eyes, eagerly anticipating his anecdote.

You watch as if it’s slow motion, he takes a breath and the ghost of a word escapes him but the sound of a tiny scream beats him to the finish line. You’re sure he said something, but your eyes flit past his shoulder, lower, to stare dead in the eyes of a white speckled fox.

The two of you stare in a locked gaze as it’s tail swishes back and forth. You don’t even breath, blood rushing in your ears.

“You motherfucker.”

“Huh?”

You bound past Midoriya, heels digging so hard into the ground that dirt flies up in a cloud. It was like you nearly disappeared.

“The fox Midoriya, the fox!” you cry, “I need you!”

He wasn’t sure if it was the fact he’d confessed and your selective hearing had kicked in, or the fact that it was his job. He didn’t know what made him feel so happy, maybe it was the part of you saying you needed him.

A phrase so simple that struck him in the heart. His feet dashed behind you, lantern outstretched as he cried for you, “I’m coming!”

It was like life or death, but it wasn’t. Why did everything feel so emotionally charged? Your thighs ached and the threat of collapsing was gaining on you.

It hit you though, jumping from rock to rock, that red tailing practically swishing in your face.

“I like you. More than partners, like! I want us to, you know, date and stuff.”

It was totally jerky and awkward, but the words registered in your mind when the fox darted into its burrow. You pause, careful to not ruin it’s precious home. Midoriya comes barreling beside you, barely even panting while a stitch in your side wrecks your lungs.

“Did you get it?!”

“You like me?”

Midoriya gives you an incredulous look, “you’re asking that after we just ran all the way here?!”

“It has a family.”

He sighs a loud breath and squats, “yeah. It does.”

You stare at the opening and listen to the soft squeaks in the nighttime air.

“I like you too.”

His head snaps up, voice wavering while you two share an interlocked gaze.

“Really?”

A familiar smirk quirks up, “duh. What kind of a girl follows a boy into the same field if she doesn't like him?”

Oh! He supposed it should’ve been more obvious when it was worded like that. You plop down next to him, leaning fully against him.

“We can’t capture her. She is a mother.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

The stars shine the brightest at this moment, you can’t exactly see his freckles the way you could before but you know they’re still there.

“The moon looks beautiful tonight.”

“I’m glad I could share it with you.”

A soft nudge is given to your shoulder, “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

You snort and let your head hang. Midoriya resists the urge to kiss you right then and there.

“I don’t know, I guess foxes just do it for me.”

A wordless hum reverberates through his chest, shifting to wrap an arm around you. The moment’s sweet.

“So, how are we going to get back home?”

“I have no idea.”

#izuku x you #izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #bnha x reader #boku no hero x reader #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader #izuku midoriya fluff

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tmngoose · 3 years

Text

Some Assembly Required: a Rottmnt story

Remember this post? Well, I decided to clean up what I had and show it to y’all. This was supposed to be a much longer story, but back when I was writing it, I jumped ship for a different fic I was working on and never came back OTL Characters: Donnie, Mikey, Raph, Leo, April, Shelldon, Draxum, Huginn & Muninn (albeit super brief) Tags: Lab accidents, fires, minor injuries, hurt/comfort, obscure UHF reference I won’t be uploading this to Ao3, so you can read it under the cut :U

For the longest time, Donnie dreamed of the perfect lab partner. Though Shelldon was an impeccable assistant, there were moments where Donnie longed to work side-by-side with another scientist. Someone with a thirst for knowledge! Someone who shared his passion for all things technical and methodical; a scientist, just like he considered himself to be!

To think Baron Draxum would be Donnie's long-awaited lab partner was not a scenario the Softshell had ever fathomed. Still, it was one he accepted with great enthusiasm.

Draxum and Donnie saw no reason to doubt their capabilities. However, the rest of the family remained wary whenever the two of them went off meddling in the lab. With April's help, Raph, Leo, and Mikey devised a strict set of guidelines to ensure Donnie and Draxum wouldn't get into too much trouble.

"Scoff!" Donnie threw the hefty packet of rules down at his feet, offended. "What do you take us for: a pair of unhinged Frankensteins? Y'know, it'd be nice if, just for once, you guys would have a little faith in our scientific endeavors!"

"It's not that we don't trust you guys," April explained, "It's just... you guys tend to get a little carried away with your projects, that's all!"

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"The last time Barry was in a lab, he created the Oozesquitos," April folded her arms, "And don't get me started about the time you messed with your brother's brains."

"Okay! I get it!" Donnie sighed. He picked up the packet of rules and flapped the dust out from its pages. "We won't get carried away: Todd scout's honor."

April smiled, "Thanks, Dee."

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me, Draxum and I were just about to partake in our latest scientific acquisition: Professor Philo's Chemistry Set for the At-Home Scientist!" Donnie started off for his lab, tucking the packet into a compartment in his battle-shell.

April shook her head, smiling as she headed inside the living room, where the sounds of 8-bit gaming welcomed her. Raph and Mikey were too invested in whatever racing game they were playing to notice April.

"Soo, how'd it go?" Leo asked from his beanbag chair. "Is Donnie mad that we're afraid he'll bring Potatozilla into existence or what?"

"I say he handled it pretty well!" April plopped herself down in the recliner. "I told Donnie that we just wanted to make sure he and Draxum toned it down a bit, that's all."

"See? I told you he'd listen to April!" Mikey grinned smugly at Leo.

Leo rolled his eyes, "Whatever." He went back to scrolling his social feed on his phone, "I'll believe it when they don't create a giant mutant potato or somethin'."

"Be nice, Leo," April swung her legs over the armrest. "We've gotta have a little faith in 'em. Besides, I've never seen Donnie this happy since-"

KA-BOOOOOOM!!!

A powerful tremor shook the lair, taking everyone by surprise. The trinkets Splinter's 'Do Not Touch' cabinet rattled and shook, a few of the lighter items clattered to the floor. April held onto the armchair with Raph steadying it before it could topple over backward. Mikey hid inside of his shell out of reflex as Leo jumped to his feet, prepared to face whatever threat was upon them.

"Omigosh!" Mikey exclaimed, popping his head out of his shell. "What was that?!"

"You don't think DIGG's tryin' to take down the Kaufman Coliseum again?" Raph frowned, trying to rub the ringing out from his ears.

"Um, guys?" Leo sniffed the air, "Does anyone else smell something burning, or is that Raph's 'Taken-By-Surprise' stink?"

Raph sniffed at his underarm, "Nope. It's not me!"

April and Mikey took a moment to smell the air, their noses wrinkled at the familiar acrid odor of smoke.

And smoke could only mean one thing: something was on fire.

Oh no! Donnie! Barry! April's stomach dropped over the thought. She bolted out of the living room with Raph, Leo, and Mikey right behind her. "Please let it be a giant mutant potato!"

It wasn't a giant mutant potato.

By the time they entered the atrium, a thick cloud of smoke had spilled out from the mouth of Donnie's lab, billowing up into the rafters above. Although they couldn't see it, they could hear the fire roaring from deep within the lab.

"Mad Dogz!" Raph barked, "Initiate ‘Fire Safety Plan Alpha!’" “FSssPAH!” Mikey pronounced the acronym from the back of the group.

But before Raph could lead the rescue, Draxum leaped out from the smoke carrying Donnie in his arms; their matching lab coats singed. Shelldon flew out, not too far behind, with Huginn and Munnin holding onto his back.

"Barry!" April ran up to the soot-stained alchemist. "What happened?! I thought y'all we're gonna take things easy? Didn’t y’all read the packet?!"

"We were," Draxum rasped, passing Donnie's limp body into Raph's arms. "If it weren't for a pair of idle hands." He gave his gargoyles a sharp look while removing the safety goggles from his face, leaving clean rings around his eyes.

Munnin's wings sagged, "The instructions weren't joking when it said 'everything in this chemistry set is a fire hazard.'"

"Yeah, including the instructions," Huginn hung his head, "Our bad."

"So, how're we suppose to handle this whole situation?" Leo asked, gesturing to the raging inferno that was (formally) Donnie's lab.

"I'm on it, dudes!" Shelldon replied, concentrating on his emergency protocols hardwired into his drives.

The fire-alarm system blared to life. Then came the hissing of the sprinklers going off and the gush of extinguishing foam spraying deep within the lab. Slowly, the smoke was beginning to ease up, much to everyone's relief.

Slowly, Donnie began to stir, groaning as he slowly regained consciousness, "Ugh... what? M-my lab..." His confusion morphed into panic as he realized the severity of the situation. "My lab!!" He squirmed feebly in Raph's arms, mortified.

"Woah, take it easy," Raph held Donnie against him, firm enough to subdue him yet careful not to hurt him. "That chemistry set of yours nearly got you guys barbequed."

Donnie frowned, "No, you don't understand!" His eyes stung with tears as he thought of his life's work gone in a blaze of unsupervised stupidity. "Everything's ruined!"

"Hey, you don't know that for sure!" April gently touched Donnie's shoulder. "Besides, what's important is you're both okay!"

"April's right," Mikey agreed, clinging to Draxum's side, "We're glad y'all made it out safely. A little flambéed, but you get the idea."

"But my lab," Donnie emphasized.

"Lab shmab, we can worry about that later!" Leo nudged Draxum with his elbow. "For now, let's focus on getting you toasted marshmallows taken care of."

"Yeah, what Leo said!" Raph adjusted Donnie in his arms, heading for the bathroom where the first aid kit was kept. "Just you wait; maybe it's not as bad as you think!"

-x-

Raph's sense of judgment was always a mixed bag, and this time, he couldn't have been farther from the truth.

The lab was a smoldering mess, virtually unrecognizable to the Turtles, Draxum, and April. The walls were blackened, and the smell of burnt wiring and computer parts hung sourly in the air. Puddles of foam and water gathered in parts of the floor, adding to the disarray.

Donnie searched desperately for anything salvageable, but the prospects were slim to none. The bandaged Softshell approached the remnants of his workstation, absolutely gutted. He reached for what was once a prototype for a new battle shell, but it crumbled into ash in his hands.

"Alas, this must've been what it felt like to lose the Library of Alexandria," Donnie mourned poetically, sinking to his knees. Shelldon drifted up to his heartbroken creator, pressing his head against Donnie's side like the loyal drone he was.

"Okaaayyy, so it's a little charbroiled in here," Leo cringed. "But if anyone can fix this, it's you!"

"Do you have any idea how long that'll take me?" Donnie moaned, overwhelmed by the daunting task. "It took me years of refurbishing junk and computer parts, and now I have nothing! Zilch! Nada! No equipment, no materials, no anything!"

Donnie's outburst left the others speechless. They had seen him upset before, but nothing to this extent.

Quietly, Draxum approached Donatello, "As someone who has lost their life's work twice, I understand your plight," he said, joining the turtle on the floor. "However, unlike myself, you are fortunate not to face this endeavor alone. You have your friends, your brothers, and... your lab partner," Draxum looked off to the side, somewhat flustered by the sentimental mushiness his words implied.

"Draxibald's right, Donnie!" Mikey beamed. He was so proud of Barry for stepping up to the plate. He popped up in between them, slinging his arms over their shoulders, "You've got us to help you! We'll have your lab up and running in no time!"

Leo smiled, "Yeah, with you bossing us around, we can totally get the job done!"

"But a total rebuild of this scope requires a certain level of technological sophistication!" Donnie deflated, "So unless you know of any tech-savvy geniuses out there, I don't see how any of this is possible."

"Oh, I know a guy," April answered, "And I'm lookin' right at him~" She smiled at Donnie, who didn't know how to process the compliment. "Have a little faith in yourself, Dee!" Donnie blinked, stunned that his own words were used against him.

"Yeah, you said so yourself!” Raph joined in, “You and that big brain of yours built this lab out of nothin' but junk! If there's anyone who can build back better than ever, it's you! So whaddya say, Don?"

Donnie looked at Raph's hand extended out to him. He then glanced over at Leo, Mikey, and April, all eagerly awaiting his response. He turned to Draxum, who gave a curt nod.

Touched by the support of his family, Donnie wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, "I say let's order some pizzas and chop-chop! Rome wasn't built in a day, people! We've got our work cut out for us!" He took Raph’s hand and was lifted up from the ground. Yes, Donnie supposed he could have a little faith in himself, and everyone else as well.

#rottmnt #tmngoosepost #abandoned fic #rottmnt fic #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt april #rottmnt draxum #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt leo #rottmnt shelldon #huginn and munnin #I was going through my old WIPs and decided to show y'all this one

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jwillowwolf · 3 years

Text

Magic and Miracles - Prologue

Tag List: @sandersidesbigbang @thomassanderssidesbigbang2021 @theimprobabledreamersworld

First Chapter > | Masterlist

This is a multi-chapter fic I've been working on for the last couple of months as a part of the 2021 Sanders Sides Big Bang. The original idea came from this post by @remy-please-come-back [thanks again for letting me use the idea 💜].

Summary: Ever present, never seen. Feared and admired by all beings. The life that bursts from the earth, the secrets hidden in stone. It dances in the fire’s flames; it gives the wind its mournful tone. Here it is, this is it. Defined yet unexplained. In the depths of the ocean, and of your own mind. In the veins of all creatures, including humankind. For magic is in everything, yet unknown all the same.

For the longest time, Logan wanted to learn magic. So, when he was offered the chance to study it at a new magic school, he decided to follow his dreams. Along the way, however, he'll learn about so much more.

Warning/s: food mention.

Characters: Logan, Emile, Remy, OCs.

Read on AO3

0 | The Underdog's Debut

Ever present, never seen. Feared and admired by all beings.

The life that bursts from the earth, the secrets hidden in stone.

It dances in the fire’s flames; it gives the wind its mournful tone.

Here it is, this is it. Defined yet unexplained.

In the depths of the ocean, and of your own mind.

In the veins of all creatures, including humankind.

For magic is in everything, yet unknown all the same.

Perhaps this was why people found it so intriguing from such a young age. They wanted answers to what magic was, and while they didn’t find what they sought, they did learn how it could be used to their advantage. Spells were created to do anything that their caster’s heart desired. From creating a small orb of light for reading in the night to manipulating a tidal wave that could crash down on your enemies.

Magic was something not easily understood, which was one reason why the Council of Wizards evaluated all potential magic users. They wanted to gage that these young mages could safely use the power they were wielding. If not, then they needed to be properly dealt with before things got out of hand.

This was a good thing, but also not because to learn magic safely you would need someone else to teach you first-hand.

Now that doesn’t seem like much of an obstacle, except the only established wizards were of the nobility, and therefore only worked with nobility. The system was pretty much rigged to make it hopeless for average people to learn and use magic. Or it was until our protagonist came along.

He rose from poverty to royalty, became a hero among heroes, and faced off against one of the greatest threats to humankind that ever existed! But I’m getting ahead of myself -sorry- let's start from the beginning, shall we?

Oh, but where to begin? Ah! We’ll start from his first test with the Council of Wizards when he was only a young lad of 15. It was the beginning of spring, which is when the COW always held the learner’s test. This test evaluated your magical potential and gave the council a heads up on how many new mages there were. Yes, COW, don’t ask me why they went with that acronym.

The ceremony was being held in the grand hall of the palace, and it was open for anyone from the Srednas Kingdom to come and watch. The test itself was rather simple but the festivities that came with it made things feel like a special holiday. Nobility and common folk alike were gathered to watch and see what new wizards would be taking on learning magic. There was even a small market of sorts set outside the palace to take advantage of the crowds and sell foods, drinks, and commemorative merchandise.

Inside, people were everywhere, talking excitedly to one another and trying to find good places to view the proceedings. At the end of the room, there was a dais with two thrones where King Thomas and his husband, Prince Consort Nico, sat to watch. In front of the dais were nine chairs for the COW members, who talked with the royals and amongst themselves. Even they seemed eager for what was about to happen, and yet no one knew truly how monumental today was going to be.

The event had begun the same as any other year. Noble children from across the land showed off whatever three spells they’d learnt for the test. Most were common tricks like lighting candles or making plants grow. A handful showed off with advanced versions of these spells, such as holding the flames in their hands or making entire trees grow. Still, regardless of how many times these spells were cast, the crowd watched in awe with each new user who passed their test.

And then a young man in a simple navy tunic and black trousers stepped forward. He looked to be in his mid-teens, the same as most of the young mages and walked with an air of subtle confidence. He had a slender form and soft features that pronounced his youthful appearance. His hair was raven black, swept neatly to the side, and his eyes were such a dark brown that they seemed almost black.

“Please state your name and title.” Silvia, the eldest council member, said.

“My name is Logan Picani.”

“Title?”

“I don’t have any.”

Silence fell over the hall. “Pardon?”

“I don’t have any titles.”

“How do you not have any titles?”

“I’m not a noble.”

Some people audibly gasped and began whispering conspiratorially to one another.

“Young man, you do understand what this test is, correct?” Allen, another council member, asked with a thinly veiled look of disgust.

“Yes sir, I do. I also know for a fact that there are no rules against my taking the test because of being a commoner.”

Allen frowned and opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by Silvia. “I suppose not. Well then, let’s see what you can do.”

Logan took a deep breath and then held up his hand, “Ignyght.”

The tip of his little finger began to glow with golden light. The crowd watched on in silence as he carefully moved his hand to draw the necessary rune with the trail of light that flowed from his finger.

Once the rune was complete, he spoke again. “Solhart.”

The rune turned stark white and then disappeared. For a moment nothing happened, then a small white orb appeared where the rune had previously been floating. This earned a few excited claps from the crowd and an approving nod from two council members. But Logan didn’t stop there.

“Groh.” This time the light from his fingers was bright green. He made a different rune then repeated the sealing word, “Solhart.”

The orb multiplied until nearly fifty of them were floating in a cluster before Logan.

“Stahwynd.” A deep blue light flowed from Logan’s finger as he drew the final rune. “Solhart.”

The orbs burst apart from one another like birds flying off a tree in fear. Some people from the crowd shouted in shock as the balls of light zoomed off in all different directions until finally, they stopped. Now they were floating all around the room above the spectators who gasped as they realized what Logan had done. The hall’s ceiling was pitch black, so the lights looked like stars in the night sky. It was a breath-taking sight that inspired many to cheer and clap for the young mage.

“Alright, please settle down,” Silvia called over the noise before looking at Logan with a thoughtful expression. “Where did you learn this?”

“I taught myself.”

Silvia nodded then turned to talk with her fellow council members in hushed tones. Allen and two others seemed upset, while the rest of the council were neutral if not mildly impressed. After a few minutes, she looked back at Logan with a soft smile.

“Mr Picani, you are officially granted your learner’s license. I hope when we see you again in a few months time, you will once more surprise us all.”

The crowd cheered and Logan nodded before walking away with a look of pride. As he made his way through the crowd, he received congratulations from many strangers. And then he was tackled to the ground by an enthusiastic brown-haired girl.

“You did it! You did it! I knew you could do it!”

“Everleigh, my ribs.” Logan wheezed, causing the girl to release him.

“Oops, sorry. My bad. Is your chest okay?”

“It’s fine.” Both youths got up with smiles on their faces. “I did it.”

“Yep. In a couple of months, you’re going to be an official grand wizard.”

“Considering I just got my learners, I don’t think I’ll reach such a title that quickly.”

“You just created a night sky in the palace ballroom! I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

Logan smiled softly, “Come on, we should head back to the bakery to celebrate.”

Everleigh nodded in agreement and linked their arms so they could walk side by side. As they walked, Everleigh excitedly told Logan about how incredible it had looked from the crowd, and what kind of reactions the people around her had had.

Logan was uncharacteristically grinning by the time they’d reached the bakery. Walking inside only made his smile widen as the smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries filled his senses. It was after all the smell of home, so of course, it made him feel warm and welcomed. His father, Emile Picani, was standing by the counter helping an elderly customer when Logan and Everleigh walked in.

“Thank you, dear.”

“Oh, I should be the one thanking you, Mrs Goldstone. The brownie recipe you gave me has become a bestseller.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Have a nice day dear.”

“To you as well, ma’am. Oh, Logan, Everleigh, you’re back. And smiling,” Emile gasped, “did you get it?”

“He’s a wizard!” Everleigh dramatically announced.

“Not yet, I still need to finish the second test in a couple of months. I do have a learners’ license though.”

“Well, I think this calls for some celebratory tarts,” Emile said, ushering both youths into the back of the shop where the Picani’s sitting room/kitchen was located. “I’m proud of you logan. That hard work really paid off.”

“Speaking of hard work, you are going to take a break, right?” Everleigh asked.

Logan looked away from her sheepishly. “Well…”

“Come on, Lo. You’ve been working hard non-stop for months.”

“Yeah, kid, you work with me in the bakery all day, then study well into the night. And don’t think I haven’t seen you pull an all-nighter here and there.” Emile chastised.

It was true that Logan had worked long hard to get to where he was. it wasn’t exactly a simple task when books on magic were hard to find, and what knowledge they had was even harder to grasp. Figuring out pronunciation for the initiation/sealing words and learning to keep his hand steady as he drew the runes.

It had taken him many long nights of studying by candlelight to figure out the spells he’d performed. But with Everleigh’s library apprenticeship and his own persistent nature, he’d managed to learn a good deal about the basics. And now it was paying off. He officially had a learner’s license and would get a chance to become a genuine wizard.

Then he could use magic to help so many of the villagers who couldn’t afford the high-priced assistance of other magicians. Medicinal potions? Enchanted prosthetics? Transition spells? He would be able to give all this and more at prices his peers could afford.

Logan knew that what he was doing seemed near impossible, but he was going to do it or die trying! …okay, so maybe Emile and Everleigh were valid in their concern for his health, but this was his best and only way to study magic.

Before Logan could argue this, however, a stranger walked into the bakery. He was tall and slender, with a bronze tan and confident bearing. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a clean white tunic, black trousers, and dark brown riding boots. His short curly hair was the same dark brown shade as the boots, and his eyes were hidden by black tinted glasses.

“New customer, how do you how do?”

The stranger smiled. “Hey there, gorgeous. Sorry but I’m not a customer today. Is this where Logan Picani lives?”

“Yes, that’s my son.”

“Son? No offence honey but you look too young and handsome to be a dad.”

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” Logan asked, taking over the conversation for his blushing father.

“Ah, yeah, I’m here to offer you a very special opportunity on behalf of the crown prince.”

Logan and Emile gaped. “The crown prince?”

The stranger nodded. “My name is Remy Animosni, and on behalf of his highness, I’m here to extend an exclusive invitation to the Srednas Magic School.”

Logan frowned. “I wasn’t aware that there was a magic school here in Srednas.”

“Well, that’s because there wasn’t, not until now anyway. It’s something that the prince arranged to start this year with a few students to show how good it could be to the council. You particularly caught his interest today with your starry spellcasting, hence the personal invite. You would learn alongside six other students under me about everything there is to know concerning magic, from the full basics of spells to how you can modify your own enchantments.”

“That sounds incredible,” Emile said.

Remy nodded. “Yep, and not only that but you will be given your own room at the school and anything you may need or want during your stay will be provided by us, free of charge. The location of the school is just an hour out of town, so you could visit home on weekends if you desired. So how about it, kid?”

Logan was gobsmacked. The crown prince had not only seen him but was impressed enough to send an invitation to learn magic at a special new magic school.

“Wait, what do I have to do for the prince in return?”

“Absolutely nothing. The offer is completely free of any fees or deceptive dealings. I promise. The prince even sent this with me to make sure you could have physical proof if so desired.” Remy stated, producing a scroll from inside his jacket.

Emile and Logan both looked over the document and found no problems. It was a straightforward invitation for Logan to study magic at the prince’s new school, with promises to provide anything he could need while he was living at said school, and nothing more. The father and son shared a thoughtful glance. It was definitely an opportunity.

Emile smiled. “Do it.”

“Really? You think I should accept?”

“A chance like this only comes around once, and I can always hire someone if I need the help. Follow your dreams kiddo.” Emile said with an encouraging smile.

Logan bit his lip as he considered things. He really hadn’t thought today could get any better, then this happened. He was worried about leaving his dad, but Emile had told him to take this chance. And he was right about this being a once in a lifetime opportunity. Besides, Remy had said he could still visit the town on the weekends…

“Okay. I accept.”

---

A/N: thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this. I'll be posting two chapters a day until the full fic is up, so if you want to be tagged, you can just ask. [Also, here's a link to chapter 1]

I'd love to hear what you thought about the chapter if you wouldn't mind commenting. Thanks again for reading! Here's hoping you have a magical day 💜

#sanderssides #sander sides #sanders sides fic #logan sanders #ts logan sanders #ts logan #remy sanders #emile picani #fantasy au #Thomas Sanders Sides Big Bang 2021 #food mention tw

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 3 months

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AITA for changing my (30 FtM) name?

I was born with a very angrogynous/masculine name. For the sake of this post we'll say it's Alex Andrew Lastname. I was bullied for it growing up and can often see on people's faces that they were expecting someone different when they see my name first. I never liked my name growing up because I didn't think I fit the vibe. I'm just not an "Alex". But honestly, if I ever fully pass, that could change.

I recognize I've hit the trans guy jackpot. I've seen quite a few trans men change their names to my birth name, first and middle. Logically, I'd never have to change it for safety or validation reasons.

I've been using a different name for years now. My partner of 10 years doesn't know me by another name and cringes when we have to use Alex for legal paperwork. This name has been public knowledge to everyone including my family for about 8 years. We'll say this new name is "Elijah" (it is not)

The problem arises when I bring up my final legal name choice to my mom.

"Why that? I would have never named you that. I don't think it suits you." I double down and explain I like the name and don't mind the religious connotation (we went to church but she's always appropriated eastern religions, I am not religious) Additionally, SHE should have been using it all this time, even when I'm not there. She complains. "Can't I still call you Alex? I mean, I gave birth to you, I should still be able to call you Alex. I gave you that name because it was androgynous and cool, why do you want to change it?" I tell her again, no. If she's the only person deadnaming me, other people will feel they have the right to. "Can I call you Al?" No, sorry. "Can I call you Andrew? I named you after your uncle, he didn't do anything wrong."

Because she's pushing back so much, I tell her the truth. Growing up, she was abusive and negligent. When she did use my name, she said it like she hated me. When I was in trouble, when she was disagreeing with me, when she bullied me. She didn't really say my name in rare situations where she was proud because she was jealous and focused on making sure everyone knew I was cool and "unique" because I was "her kid". Because of it, I cringe when I hear my birth name. It's a strong name, a good name, even, but it makes me feel small and tired. I told her I was proud of her going to therapy, that we could start over, but that I'm asking to be respected as a person.

Shortly after I was born, she asked my grandma to draw up a tattoo of my deadname. It's a large, dark piece on her entire lower back. I told her I don't expect her to cover it, that she can keep it and mourn the name however she feels, but I'd like to get a matching, small tattoo with her to celebrate my new name if she's interested. She didn't really respond. She finally said she still doesn't like the name Elijah, but asked if she could call me Eli (yeah, obviously)

Despite all of this reaching some sort of compromise, I've heard I've made a bad decision from both sides. Some think I was too gentle and understanding and should have essentially said "fuck you this is my name take it or leave it". Others think I should have kept my deadname because there was nothing wrong with it, I'm being too emotional about it, or that I'm choosing to inconvenience others by changing things age 30. There's also the idea that no one really likes their name so it's not a great reason to change it.

AITA for having no real reason to change my name and doing so anyway?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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queenboudicaa · 3 years

Text

From Graham Linehan from The Glinner Update [email protected]

Played The Fool

Sue Donym

Sep 16

I remember my college days studying journalism, which don't seem so long ago, but actually are now, and as a young eighteen year old, a friend gives me something she says explains gender. It is Judith Butler's Gender Trouble. I have heard of this book. People treat it like The Bible. I eagerly open the book and attempt to read it.

I cannot make heads or tails of it. I conclude I simply am not smart enough or well-read enough to understand the religious revelation. I make it to page sixty before giving up, the constant mentions of ‘Althusserian’ and ‘structuralist’ and ‘reifying’ finally defeating me. I don’t feel like any of the book has actually managed to lodge itself in my head.

I give the book back to my friend, and then I pretend to everyone around me that I have read the book. No one figures me out.

When I get older, I realize they all did the same thing.

In my senior year, I win election to student government. I am to represent ‘LGBT’ people. I am proud. I am unaware I am now standing on a cliff, the ground beneath me slowly breaking. I bury my head in the sand as my position becomes increasingly precarious.

I meet with faculty during the first semester. I read through a policy. Suddenly ‘LGBT’ has morphed. It’s ‘LGBTQI+’. I don’t know what the Q and I stand for, let alone that seemingly erroneous plus sign. I am supposed to be the expert, and all these middle-aged people are looking at me to explain the youth speak which is even bedeviling I, the putative youth. I muddle through, using this surprise new acronym, and then I Google it surreptitiously in the meeting. It means ‘Queer’ and ‘Intersex’, and the plus sign appears to be decorative in nature. I wonder what the Q covers that ‘LGBT’ doesn’t, let alone the God-damned plus sign, and I wonder why ‘intersex’ needs to be included at all.

They talk enthusiastically about how everyone has a gender. There are women with penises, men with vaginas. Gender is understood to be how you feel inside. I contort my mind around this way of thinking as best I can. A man is someone who behaves like a man, and a woman is someone who behaves like a woman. That is the working definition you have, even though you paper over it with phrases like ‘identifies as.’

I don’t think about. You can’t. You are told this is how it is, how it has always been, to think otherwise is actually you replicating the kyriarchy, over and over and over again, and you nod and accept it, because you are given this set of facts and told to nod. Pseudoscience justifies it. People talk about ‘brain scans’ and ‘the wrong bodymap’, and ‘indigenous genders’. It’s all conjectural bullshit, but everyone goes along with it.

When I can’t perform the cognitive contortions, I simply don’t acknowledge contradicting evidence. To do so would be to jump off a cliff into an abyss. It is a reflexive thing, unconscious, and its origins lie in the instinct for self-preservation.

Everyone goes along with it. I am a coward, so I accept it and move on. I am twenty two years old, and I don’t know any better, and I want to trust the organizations that say they hold my best interests at heart.

Part of my role on student government was providing student-based pastoral care in my college’s LGBT center. By the time I get there, it’s morphed into the LGBTQI+ Center. I consider myself even-keeled and well-adjusted, perfect to help ‘my people’.

Many of the people that come see me have fairly normal problems. I speak to lecturers about not being homophobic, meet with faculty about LGBTQI issues, and sit through interminably boring student government meetings full of bloviating Young Democrats self-assured about their future self-importance. Increasingly, more people come to speak to me about trans issues. Walking through the center one day, someone assumes I am a ‘pre-hormones trans man’. When I correct them, and say I am a butch lesbian, they suddenly become hostile. I don’t know why, but I feel offended to my very bones about being assumed to be a man.

More and more of my fellow butches suddenly start declaring themselves to ‘truly be men.’ I don’t think about this. You’re not supposed to think about it, or question them, just accept and affirm and acknowledge and adulate their new found authenticity. I get a new package of fliers from an LGBT charity, open them up, and suddenly find that I, simply defined as ‘butch’ (forget the lesbian!) am now supposedly ‘trans’ and under the ‘trans umbrella.’ I call this ridiculous, and loudly.

Someone pulls me aside to ask why I’m being so transphobic.

I meet with a charity group. They have this young woman on staff who declares herself ‘non-binary’ and uses ‘they/them’ pronouns. She does not strike me as gay, and her entire purview of ‘LGBT’ seems to forget the first three letters. She assumes that I am a trans man. When I tell her I am a lesbian, she asks ‘are you sure? Maybe you’ll change your mind’. She then starts talking to me about her boyfriend.

I wonder why this straight girl with dyed hair is telling me what to do on gay issues. What gives her the right?

At the end of the meeting, someone I know from the charity group tells me that ‘Aiden’ is upset I forgot her pronouns. I hadn’t realized. I tell him that this dyed hair fag hag told me I’ll change my mind about being a lesbian. He says that doesn’t excuse messing up Aiden’s pronouns.

The next time I meet Aiden, she keeps calling me ‘he’. She gets upset when I get angry with her.

My student body president sends me a please explain email the next day about upsetting Aiden.

One day in the center, in walks a man in a dress. That’s what I thought in my unfiltered thoughts, before the cognitive dissonance kicks in. But the Aiden experience has taught me a lesson to not speak up. The man uses ~the magical pronouns~, ‘she/her’ and this means he is a woman. He dresses like a prostitute downtown and declares he’s a lesbian.

He says he is a trans woman. But Chloe is different from all the trans women I had met before. They would call themselves ‘gay men gone too far’, tell you hilarious stories, wingman for me at the bar, argue about ‘when Madonna went bad’, arguments that turned into handbag duels at dawn. Many of them were older, and many of them had stories about surviving in a homophobic world, surviving AIDS, dangerous johns, and the joy they felt now, that gay rights had gone somewhere. This man was very different to them.

My hair stands up on the back of my neck every time I deal with ‘Chloe’. It requires conscious effort to make sure I don’t mess up his pronouns, because my brain says that’s ‘a fucking man’, but my cognitive dissonance around the situation and my sense of self-preservation knows that if I don’t call this man a woman I will be in for it. I have seen the results - ‘Chloe’, all six feet of ‘Chloe’, screaming at a fellow trans woman, Clara, half his size, for saying ‘you’re a man honey’. Chloe himself came to me demanding I ban her from the space. I refused.

Clara stops coming into the center. I ask her why, and she says ‘those flipping transvestites, they’re not us.’ Clara never comes back to the center.

None of this thinking about Chloe’s pronouns is conscious. I feel guilty every time my thoughts use the ‘wrong pronouns’. My head is tied up in knots - not something freshman me would have considered, turning up to the center with the goal of getting laid, now trying to smile and put up with this man.

He makes every conversation in there uncomfortable. We relax when he is gone and only homosexuals are in the room.

Suddenly, my straight friends start asking if I’d ‘sleep with a trans woman’. I try laughing this off. One friend gets very insistent, and when I tell him that I wouldn’t consider someone with a dick, he starts wondering if my preferences are ‘rooted in bigotry’. I ask him if he’d sleep with a trans woman. He tells me that no, he’d prefer a woman who can have his children.

I smile and nod, and when the conversation ends, walk out of the room as fast as I can.

Chloe tells us at length about their sexual proclivities. Bondage and leather and ‘being a dom’. Chloe tells us about his lack of luck on lesbian dating apps. I keep to myself that I had ended up setting a height filter to filter out ‘the trannies.’ Nor do I tell him that me and a group of women had made fun of men like him on lesbian dating apps, swapping screenshots and Silence Of The Lambs jokes.

Soon there are more Chloes and fewer women. They all start talking about radical communism, about ‘sex work is work’, ‘cultural appropriation’, and about ‘TERFs’ and how hideous they are. One of them expounds to me at length why I shouldn’t read any feminist works from the seventies, because they hated trans women, and I wouldn’t want to hate trans women, wouldn’t I?

They all behave the same way. I keep getting reports about the Chloes harassing people in the center, particularly young lesbian women. Then there is an influx of ‘Aidens’, straight women declaring themselves to really be gay men. One of them tells me I am ‘appropriating the culture of trans men.’

One day I am in the center, and I look out the glass window of my office. There are a dozen people sitting in the common room of the center, talking animatedly. I realize none of them are lesbian or gay in the actual sense of the word. I feel uncomfortable, but I cannot articulate why I feel such discomfort.

One of the Chloes knocks on my door. This one wears a pink tube top and a pencil skirt. I am strongly reminded of Buffalo Bill. He asks me out for coffee. I decline. He asks why, as I am single. I say that I am busy that day. He tries asking for another day. I say I am playing club football that day. He keeps trying to cajole me. Eventually I dispense with the politeness and tell him I am not interested in him. He shouts at me that I am transphobic and leaves.

A few hours later, my phone blows up. His friends are calling me transphobic for not being interested in him. It’s just one date, they say. One little coffee. You might like it. You don’t know. Your last girlfriend dressed the same. You need to unlearn your genital preferences.

I think to myself my last girlfriend was a foot shorter and had a vagina, but I don’t say anything. I ignore the messages. He is allowed boundaries. I am not.

I am sitting in a class. It’s on sexual histories, a class I took to broaden my horizons from my journalism degree. I try not to think of the student loan I’ll be incurring from taking it.

Strangely enough, it is perhaps the first blow to the self-imposed contortions of my thoughts. The professor starts his lecture by pronouncing that sexual orientation is, in fact, a social construct. He explains that the word ‘homosexuality’ did not exist until the 19th century, and thus, homosexuals are a creation of repressive Victorian sexuality. I find this theory strange. I had grown up in the ‘born this way’ era, to be sure, but my homosexuality seemed biological, instinctual, basal to my very way of being. A powerful attraction to women came to me as naturally as breathing, or seeing, or farting inappropriately on the second date. Yet here was this man telling me, that in fact, my perceptions were merely constructs based on my surroundings.

It seemed strange to me. Someone from the class, notorious for asking questions, puts his hands up and asks about the Romans - you see, he is a student of the classics, and he remarks that the Romans knew of homosexuals. The professor gravely informs in that in fact the Romans were aware of a ‘behavior’, and that as ‘homosexual’ as a word did not exist at the time, there were no homosexuals. Only behaviors, that we codify and understand on a cultural basis.

This made less sense to me than before. It made even less sense to me when someone else asks about trans people. The professor remarks that ‘trans people have always existed’.

Yet homosexuals were invented by the first sexologists, rather than through self-definition? We had to have heterosexuals invent us, as other, first?

I am sitting with some gay friends, and one of them complains about the focus on trans issues when we still don’t have same-sex marriage federally yet. We talk about our disappearing spaces, and I voice that sometimes I am the only lesbian out of thirty people sitting in the LGBTQI+ student center (it had been renamed). I think of it in terms of getting laid - because suddenly all the ‘lesbians’ in the center had penises. It happened so quickly that it was easy to notice. I went to a lesbian group, and it was a sausage fest I made up an excuse to leave. The Chloes moved in, and the lesbians instantly left. I feel constantly uncomfortable, watched, stared at, envied. The Chloes all talk about their genitalia and violent pornography at length, in public, and it makes me feel gross and dirty, and I start to dislike most of them.

I post on my Tinder that I’m not into penis. I log in the next day to find out my account has been banned. Tinder never gives me a straight answer as to why I was banned.

I finish out my term on student government. I don’t run again. I’m a senior. I finish my degree and hurry off to the real world. One of the Chloes takes my place as ‘LGBTQI+ students representative’.

It is the one who tried getting me to go out on a date with him. He makes me feel uncomfortable throughout the whole handover.

I am upset, because he will destroy everything I worked for.

I go to the gay bar with some friends. But when we go, we feel like the only homosexuals in the whole god-damn bar. It’s full of people with dyed hair. A man in a dress tries grinding on me, and when I turn around and tell him no, he calls me ‘transphobic towards trans femmes’. When I declare I am a butch lesbian, people ask if I am a ‘TERF’. I don’t know what a ‘TERF’ is, other than ‘terfs’ are bad. I have been told terfs are bad, so it has to be true right? I don’t want to be a bad person.

I try going to other gay events, and suddenly I am outnumbered. Me, a few older lesbians, and some gay men huddle in a corner of spaces we once proudly called our own, as the Chloes and the Aidens declare it their own - and even worse, that they are just the same as us. It is unnerving, and they no longer feel like safe spaces for me. Gradually, we all stop going. There were no more gay people in the gay space.

I have a lesbian friend. She tells me excitedly about a first date. She meets them in a quirky coffee shop. It is a trans woman twice her size. When she tells the trans woman that she’s not interested, they lose it at her in the coffee shop, calling her a transphobic bigot and screaming and shouting and threatening to hit her.

She tells me, because she knows I don’t tell people things. But she cannot say anything in public. She’ll be transphobic. So she keeps it to herself, and this man gets to continue preying on women who think they’re safe, catfishing, coercing and abusing them.

To say otherwise gets you labelled a terf. And terfs are bad. Why are terfs bad? Don’t ask. Just accept that terfs are bad. Terfs hurt trans women, and you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?

Eventually, my friend hears of her date doing it to someone else. She writes a call out post, saying that you shouldn’t hide important facts about yourself on dating sites. She gets called a terf for saying that ‘lesbians don’t have dicks’, and being verbally abused in public was the rational response of an oppressed person to oppression. It’s a scarlet letter, and she is branded with it. I am a coward and I do not speak up in public. I hate myself. I am thinking of my personal prospects, and not my friend, and not my people. Because if I speak up, I can kiss the career I dream about goodbye. I fear that scarlet letter being branded on my forehead.

I tell my friend in private that I support her. But I daren’t say that in public.

I daren’t ask questions.

One day, I am aimlessly browsing the internet at work. I have written enough copy to cover my ass for the next few weeks. I wait until my boss leaves for the afternoon, and wait out the rest of the day mindlessly scrolling. I see a post in an LGBTQI+ students group on Facebook I’ve forgotten to leave. It’s a troll post, which is apparently ‘terf rhetoric’. The link is still there, and the comments are blowing up, united in performative outrage.

I click the link . I find myself laughing at the description of ‘men in dresses’. To these ‘terfs’, a man has a penis, and a woman has a vagina. Anyone saying otherwise is a damned fool. It seems such an easy way to think about it. I mean, what is a woman, anyway? It doesn’t seem evil, wicked or bad. It seems… sensible.

Finding out more about this new way of thinking becomes addicting. I keep my scrolling through it on my phone. I have always had a fondness for reading people being harshly critical about anything, and now I have an endless source of it, articulating things I knew instinctually but could never find the words to verbalize, could never find the courage to verbalize. I wonder if I am being radicalized - images of ISIS radicalizing fighters over the internet run through my head. But everything seems to make so much sense. I am no longer contorting my thoughts around the desires of others, but thinking freely, observationally, openly, fearlessly.

It felt like my mind had freed itself from chains, chains placed upon it all those years ago, when that naïve eighteen year old who wanted to get laid tried reading Gender Trouble.

The gunk on my mind slowly unclogged. My way of thinking suddenly changed. I was no longer denying what my eyes saw in front of me. No, now I saw things as they were. There was no more contorting my way of thought. For the first time in a long time, I felt clear-headed.

One of the links I clicked in my flurry was a link to Dr. Ray Blanchard’s paper on ‘autogynephilia’. I read it, and finally, I had an explanation. Homosexual transsexuals. And ‘autogynephiles.’ The two types of his famous and controversial typology.

‘Autogynephiles’ - men who had a sexual fetish for ‘being a woman’, a fetish for an alter-ego female self, a fetish for our bodies, our minds, our souls, our experiences. All reduced to jerk-off fodder for some blockhead man.

It explained why they were so desperate for lesbians to date them. They needed us for validating their sexual fetish. Our lives and experiences, our spaces, our dating apps, our culture, our media, our websites, every breath we took, as far as they were concerned, needed to be focused on validating them. Because otherwise, the fantasy was ruined! This straight man would not be able to jerk off over ‘being a lesbian!’. We were not people, we were non-player-characters in their video game. Actresses in pornography, extras in a film where they were the protagonist, and we were off script. We weren’t fully-formed people, with our own desires, we were things, objects, film props.

The entire gay movement, from the lesbians to the gays, to the homosexual transsexuals, reduced to nothing props in some straight man’s sexual fantasy. That’s all we were to them, ultimately.

And I was expected to go along with it?! We were all expected to go along with it?

Not only that, I had gone along with it. I had advocated for this.

What had I done?

Every moment you come close, every moment you start thinking something isn’t right, you start feeling a little foolish.

Of course this is fine. Everyone is telling me so. The media, the public, the people around you. No one voices concerns. When you have them, you don’t say anything, because no one else is, and because you are a coward.

You feel a little foolish because this is foolish. Saying some women have penises is foolish. You know it is foolish, from the minute that idiot phrase leaves your mouth, to the minute it dances across your tongue, to the minute your nerves send the signal to your larynx to make the required movements to produce the very sounds. But, you think, you are no fool.

You are no fool, you think, when someone says ‘biological women have XY chromosomes’, or that it’s okay for a man on the college track team to identify as a woman and take a place on the woman’s track team. You know that’s not right. But everyone else is going along with it, and you are no fool, and you shouldn’t feel foolish, because everyone says this is the right thing to do, the right side of history, doing right by an oppressed minority, so you go along with it.

You are frightened of realizing you are a fool. So too, is everyone around you. No one likes being played the fool, no one likes realizing they were sold a pack of lives as a naïve eighteen year old looking for other gay people. And no one plays you for a fool. And thus the dance continues, everyone one too frightened to admit that, perhaps, we are all fools, believing in something physically impossible, no different to the bible-banging megachurch attendee, with our owns chants, our own magic words, ritual knowledge, and ability to be born again. We are smart. We liberal. We are on the right side of history. We couldn’t be believing in something that isn’t scientifically backed. We’re smarter than that. We’re not fools.

And when it finally gets too much, and you drift over to the cliff’s edge, the cliff that you can see the bottom of, the cliff you know you can’t come back from, you pull away. Because to go over it would to be to admit that you’ve been played the fool. No one likes that feeling, the shame, the embarrassment, the horror, the fear. What lies over that cliff is exile, a scarlet letter, fear and hatred and nasty women who just want trans women dead.

What lies beyond that cliff is a realization that you have been used. You have been used by something greater than yourself, to push medication on children. You have been used by straight men to participate in their sexual fetish without your consent. Your entire community, rendered a jerk-off prop for some straight man over night, and you were told that objecting was ‘transphobic’. You have been used to spread homophobia beyond your comprehension, to take part in the destruction of your own community, and you were told this was right and good.

To realize this, to acknowledge it, to move on and try and forge something better, that takes true strength of character. To realize this, to deny it, and obfuscate what you are doing, that I can understand. I too, was once a coward. I too, did not want to believe what my eyes told me was sitting in front of me. That cliff is scary, and to jump off it seemingly lies nothing but social death.

But eventually something pushes you over, without your consent. You realize you have been played the fool, because finally, something so gratuitous occurs that you must. Even the greatest cowards will eventually be blown off the cliff. The music will stop, and the dance will end, and you will finally feel the shame, the embarrassment, the horror, the fear, the guilt.

Because no one likes being played for a fool.

Perhaps, then, it is best to get this over and done with now, while you still have dignity to defend.

Some details have been changed to protect the identities of those concerned.

#radical feminism #radical feminists #transwomen #transwomens bodies look awfully similar to mens bodies #radfem #radfem community #graham glinner #butch #lesbian #lgbt #lgb

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

Text

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @willowcrowned

Tagging: @squirenonny @sergeant-angels-trashcan @the-roadkill-cafe @brawltogethernow

Remember to make a new post!

How many works do you have on AO3?

160, but that number’s going to go up as soon as I transfer some tumblr fics over

What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,721,084

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Girl Genius, Naruto, Marvel (MCU and comics), Voltron: Legendary Defender, Miraculous Ladybug, Harry Potter, Star Wars Prequels, Hamilton, Doctor Who, Twilight, Attack on Titan, The Good Place, Beauty and the Beast (1991), Enchanted (2007), Hunger Games, Firefly

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Capsaicin, Rattlesnake of the Day, The Universe's Newest Puppet, I Don't Believe You, and Just a Little Death

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to respond to most comments of substance (e.g. I recently had someone commenting with a line of emoji hearts on every chapter of JaLD, which was sweet but not something I can actually respond to), but I have a few sitting in my inbox from months ago, including one that’s currently aged 221 days that I keep MEANING to reply to but just... can’t dig up the energy to, because it’s a really nice, really thought-provoking comment, and my brain is mush.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I’ve got a few but let’s go with The Colors on our Metal Skin.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

So many, the craziest is probably... depends on your definition of crazy?

- That's Science! (minor fandom and minor subsection of a giant fandom)

- Your Exit is in Another Castle(many fandoms)

- Storms, Sincline, and a Single Drop of Sincerity (crack ship treated very seriously)

- To Build a Queendom (main character appeared for all of like five issues of the actual canon)

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I got suicide-baited a LOT for SasuKarin fic. So. Yes.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Not very often but sometimes! I have a lot of headcanons and general musings about how characters have sex, but I rarely have a brainstate to write actual smut. If I write smut, it’s usually queer dom/sub stuff with a heavy emphasis on consent in situations that make said consent complicated.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Sort of but I think it was just a really weird search engine access thing.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I remember! I think someone asked for permission once and then didn’t follow through.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

A few times, but most of them petered out. The most recent attempt at such was Sowing Discord with @purronronner.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I think I come back to SasuKarin regularly enough that it counts.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

So many but let’s say Turn Back the Clock. I had so many plans! I finished the cosplay for an AU version of a character that never made it on page!

What are your writing strengths?

I want to say banter. I love writing banter, and I’ve been told I’m good at it.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I think I have a hard time keeping character voices consistent with canon and within a work, and I'm really bad at juggling really large, complex political machinations even as a reader, let alone as a writer, especially when canon's already giving me trouble. This could be just a thing, and not a weakness, except the fandoms I tend to dabble in are fandoms where complex, large-scale political machinations are A Major Thing.

Also I can't stick to plans, which is probably why I'm so prone to abandoning things.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Really hard to balance in a way that adds to the story instead of taking someone out. I started out with anime fandom, where it’s an ongoing struggle to balance where you keep the Japanese and where you don’t, especially when half the fandom is reading one translation that keeps things, and half the fandom is reading another translation that doesn’t.

- You (probably) want to keep the names of people, but do you keep the names of towns? - How do you choose to translate this title to keep the correct rank in implication as well as direct translation? - Everyone knows the name of this attack, so it shouldn’t cause a hiccup in reading to keep it, but what about the less well-known attacks? - This acronym is widely known by the fandom but only works in Japanese, do you use it anyway? - English doesn’t have the same element of including age and politeness when referring to family members, do you want to work out the correct way to represent aneue and nii-chan and sofu-sama as anglophone slang variants, or do you work with the actual Japanese as shorthand and include an author’s note addressing why characters use the words they do?

More recently, I’ve been in Star Wars fandom, where you’ve got both a bunch of sort-of English made-up words (jizz music, transparisteel, flimsi, kriff) and semi-developed conlangs (most notably Mando’a and Huttese), and there’s that element of 'when is it a good idea to use the words you can find on Wookiepedia, and when is it overkill?'

Characters do switch from one to the other, and there are good, in-character reasons for doing so that revolve around culture and childhood traumas and personhood, but where a tv show can include subtitles to translate for the viewer in time with the spoken words, something like that can break up the flow of the narrative in fanfic. So you have to balance where you include dialogue tags to differentiate, or when it would make sense from a character perspective to include nicknames in another language that can be dropped in among the English (e.g. clones using Mando’a nicknames for Jedi could be a matter of the clones claiming a culture that was refused to them, and it’s something you can build a lot of character development into as a choice), when it makes more sense to just write “and then they said something in X language that the POV character didn’t understand,” when it's best to just italicize the parts in not-POV-language, and so on.

Basically, it’s a hard thing to balance and you always risk alienating readers with it, but sometimes it makes more sense for the characters or setting.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter (I know, not surprising).

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I have a few that I'm always going to be fond of, but Red and Gold is one of the ones I'm most proud of.

#Phoenix Answers Memes

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aforrestofstuff · 4 years

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“Is this the ask box? Dude I have no idea where to submit crap but here it goes: The S Class have a group chat, what’s it called and do they chat shit about Amai Mask in it? Does anyone send memes? What do they talk about? I feel as if you’re the best person to ask crap like this too”

You sent me a submission. But that’s ok, tumblr is hard. It took me like 4 months to figure out how to turn anon on so you’re already a step ahead of me lol.

How the S-Class heroes text and what they would do in a group chat:

So, the name of the group chat would probably just be “S-Class”. Nobody really wastes their time trying to change it because Child Emperor would just change it back.

Yes, they make snide remarks about Amai all the time. Metal Bat especially.

I’m gonna give a rundown on what each S-Class hero does in the group chat and then give you their texting style when talking to other people (with a screenshot):

Tornado of Terror:

Group chat: Only talks shit in the group chat. Pulls no punches. She’s salty 24/7 and only agreed to be a member of the chat just so she can berate the other S-Class heroes in the event that they fuck up even a little bit.

Texting style: Her texting style is a lot. Just... a lot of words in caps. If you don’t respond to her within five minutes, she’ll spam the living hell out of your phone. She’s so angry. Someone help her.

Silverfang:

Group chat: Nonexistent. He reads all of the messages but never participates in conversation. He rarely ever uses his phone anyway. The Messages app is the only app on his home screen.

Texting style: A... lot... of.... dots..... Texts like an old man on Facebook. He doesn’t know how to implement contact names so he just memorizes everyone’s number.

Atomic Samurai:

Group chat: Also nonexistent. He has that shithead boomer attitude that all new technology is evil and useless, so he doesn’t even bother reading the messages in the chat either.

Texting style: he rarely uses his phone. He just has one because Iaian’s cell carrier gave him a freebie. Atomic Samurai texts surprisingly well, he’s just super salty about it. His only contacts are his three disciples, and he would’ve had to resort to remembering their numbers like Silverfang had they not put their names in themselves.

Child Emperor:

Group chat: serves as moderator. He basically does anything the Hero Association execs doesn’t wanna do, so he’s in charge of keeping the group chat friendly (which is almost impossible).

Texting style: perfect grammar. Very professional. All of his contacts are labeled specifically and he uses a different phone each week because he’s paranoid of any information leaks.

Metal Knight:

Group chat: He would be a moderator like Child Emperor but then the Hero Association grew a brain cell and said fuck that. Because of this, he’s requested to be left out of it. He wouldn’t give enough of a fuck to read the messages nor engage in any discussion anyway.

Texting style: Very demanding. Short texts. Uses a different phone each week like Child Emperor because lord knows he’s got a lot of shit to hide.

King:

Group chat: he’s not even in the group chat and he thinks it’s because nobody’s noticed, but the truth is that everyone knows it and they’re either too intimidated or don’t give enough of a shit to ask. He gets nervous every time someone mentions it in a meeting because he would rather swallow a microwave than have to talk to his coworkers any more than he already has.

Texting style: pretty normal. Lenient on grammar, uses acronyms, texts at normal intervals. His phone is full of pics of anime catpeople and he gets Discord notifications a metric-fuckton times a day from the many, many gaming servers he’s part of (nobody knows it’s him though).

Zombieman:

Group chat: lurks. He reads only the important messages and responds with one-worded texts. Usually just things to let everyone know he understands what’s going on like “got it” or, “affirmative”.

Texting style: he knows how to use his phone, but in a middle-aged suburban dad sort of way. He only ever uses it to read the news, take pictures of crime scenes or important documents, use the notepad, and text a select few people. He gets new phones often—not quite as often as Child Emperor or Metal Knight—because he’s also paranoid about it falling into the wrong hands. In addition to that, technology hates him. Siri never listens because his voice is fucky as all hell.

Drive Knight:

Group chat: He doesn’t even have a cellphone, nor is he in the group chat. He’s basically a walking computer so he’s got 0 use for a phone. And he’s not in the group chat because he specifically requested that he not be put in it on account of the fact that he doesn’t give enough of a shit about his coworkers’ internal affairs.

Texting style: Doesn’t text. Like I said, he doesn’t have a cellphone. If he wants to get a message across, he’ll communicate it over comms. Like a weirdo.

Pig God:

Group chat: Is surprisingly active? I think I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but the main three things he does all hours of the day are use the internet, eat, and do hero work (which also counts as eating). So, lo and behold, he’s got a lot of spare time to communicate with everyone over text. It’s easier for him to talk over text than it is in person, since he’s really shy. His real personality really shines through. Proud of him.

Texting style: Basically like any regular teen. Uses acronyms, sends the occasional meme, leaves people on read for hours at time because he can’t be bothered to pick up the phone, and has no care whatsoever for grammar.

Superalloy Darkshine:

Group chat: Super active. Engages in nearly every conversation and almost serves as a mediator whenever it comes to arguments. He’s really positive and doesn’t like conflict so he’ll do whatever he can to alleviate any tension between anyone in the chat in the event that it arises. If Child Emperor wasn’t moderator, it would be him. He also exchanges boomer-ass fitness memes with Tanktop Master. The two of them just kind of have their little side conversations while everyone else is talking about a completely different thing. They’re best bros.

Texting style: Like I said, he’s super positive. He’ll use emojis every other word and a LOT of exclamation points because he feels there’s not much else he can do to express his perpetual excitement about everything. He takes care of his phone relatively well considering his whole schtick is tanking damage. He might need to get it repaired every once and a while because he absolutely REFUSES to get a new one. He grows attached to objects really easily and losing something he’s had for so long would feel like losing a close friend.

Watchdog Man:

Group chat: not even in it. He can’t even text because no phone in the world can detect his fingers through the super thick pads of his suit. He doesn’t even have a phone for this reason. Why would he need one when he’s in the same place all hours of the day?

Texting style: like I said, he doesn’t even have a phone. If he did, he’d probably eat it. Not because he’s too dumb to know the difference, but because he feels that’s the only use it’ll serve to him.

Flashy Flash:

Group chat: Only reads the important messages and engages in conversation when it serves to humor him. He’s not super talkative, but when he is, he’s got a LOT to say. He usually just quarrels with Tatsumaki whenever she gets smart with someone. It’s a wonder she hasn’t killed him yet.

Texting style: Sort of formal. He texts exactly like how he talks. He goes the extra mile to use proper grammar and even thinks emojis/acronyms are frivolous. Pretty pretentious, but he gets whatever point he’s trying to communicate across quite well.

Genos:

Group chat: I can’t decide between him either being super involved in the chat or not giving a shit at all so I’m just gonna flip a coin here... Super involved! He’s got something to say on every topic and voices his opinion with no filter. Aside from that, he doesn’t really engage in conversation very much. He just sort of drops in every so often to give the take of the century and dips the fuck out.

Texting style: Basically like Flashy Flash’s style. He texts exactly like how he talks, uses near perfect grammar, and thinks emojis/acronyms are a waste of time. Occasionally, Saitama will convince him to “act like a teenager” and type “lol”, but it never sticks. You could say... he’s programmed that way. Hehe.

Metal Bat:

Group chat: Shit-talker in chief. He initiates all discourse on Amai Mask and nobody really complains since they’re all in the same Amai Mask hate club, practically. If anyone’s sending good memes, it’ll be him. He’s got no filter and voices his opinions with no fear, taking no prisoners and shit-talking everyone equally.

Texting style: Gen Z to the extreme. Uses emojis, acronyms, the whole shebang. He’s young enough to have grown up on technology so he knows how to use his phone well. The phone itself, however, is barely functioning. If it could talk it would be saying “kill me...” because Badd drops it, smashes it, and breaks it 24/7. The only thing he does to repair it is apply some scotch tape and call it a day. It looks like shit. He doesn’t want to get a new one until the one he has now is COMPLETELY broken.

Tanktop Master:

Group chat: Like I said, he and Superalloy Darkshine have their own side conversations while everyone else is on a completely different topic. They exchange boomer-ass memes about fitness and shit. Other than that, he doesn’t really participate outside of the occasional one-word text that lets everyone know he understands what’s being said.

Texting style: Dad. He texts like a dad. Not a smart dad either, like a tryhard dad that had just googled internet terminology and uses it in all the wrong ways. He doesn’t use emojis because there’s so many that he gets overwhelmed. He tries though, by god he tries.

Puri-Puri Prisoner:

Group chat: Basically a mediator like Superalloy. He doesn’t really like conflict and does his best to spread love and cheer but to no avail, since everyone else is a huge drag. He engages well in conversation and offers his input on plans. He’s a pretty active and well-rounded member.

Texting style: one problem, though. He’s not supposed to have a phone in prison. His texting style is very abbreviated and almost illegible because he has to get the message across as fast as possible before anyone notices he has a cellphone. The phone itself is old as hell and smells like ass. For obvious reasons.

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maggyoutthere · 3 years

Text

Storytime with Maggy!

WARNING: Tws in the tags

Just getting this off my chest because this has been boiling up inside my head for a while. This will be a long one so don't bother to read it if u don't want to; this is legit just so I can get it off my chest.

Ok so

Some people that follow me here on tumblr know me from the BATIM Amino. I used to be very active there, even being one of the biggest content creators (I'm not saying that lightly I was literally on the Top 15 when it came to that weird reputation points system) . I recently left Amino as a whole because of something that happened there.

So the story goes like this: I was 13 when I started posting on Amino. Bendy and the Ink Machine Chapter 2 had just come out and I was drawing fanart of it. After a while I started talking more with other artists there, making ocs, just having fun. It went well for a few months until I met this person. For the sake of anonymity, I'll call them HWI (it was an acronym to their persona's name or something).

So I'd been checking out this HWI person for a while now. I really liked their art style and this specific character they had. They had this classy killer 1800s style and I'm an absolute sucker tor those. One day, I got the courage to message them with a small piece of fanart. They replied and liked it, and then the conversation went on.

We commented on each other's art, rp sometimes, we became really close. They later on introduced me to their other friends and we made a small group chat on Amino. We rpd a LOT to pass the time and just play with our characters. I remember staying up late just to talk to them about how my day went. I wasn't very social at the time and I had the bad habit of grabbing onto the first friend I could make like my life depended on it.

So 2018 came around. I was diagnosed with autism, at the time still called Asperger's Syndrome. All I knew was that I finally had a face to put on the problem of "being weird"; it wasn't a problem at all. It was different sure but I wasn't broken or less that anyone else. I didn't told anyone online about my diagnoses because well I was coming to terms with it myself first. This will come in hand later so stick with me.

With time I started realizing I had a favorite character of them that I just liked way way more than the others; that same oc I spoke about earlier. I had no fucking idea why I liked them so much it just??? it happened, and I believe HWI realized that.

We had these two ocs. One of them was mine and the other was their oc, and we kinda shipped them so we just made them a couple for the heck of it. I had lots of fun doing rps and fanart of those two but I never understood why. After a while, HWI started acting a bit weird. They did a total 180 on said character, randomly making them rude and unlikable. Now I know that it was just an rp and I shouldn't have taken it seriously, but it was bumming me out a little: the only place I had to vent out stuff and to take a break was now making me feel bad.

I was stupid by making those small moments the pillar of my self confidence. I was in a rough spot at the time and latched onto that group chat like it was the only good thing I had in life. I now know I shouldn't have done that.

I didn't had the guts to step up and tell HWI to at least don't be so rude so I kinda just took it. A few months went by and I finally had the courage to stand up against them. I had realized at the time that I was having a hyperfixation on said character and I told HWI to just not be that rude. They said they didn't meant it and told me they would stop. Except they didn't.

Then followed 3 years of having HWI dangle that character over my head like some treat for a dog. They'd threaten to stop using said character or to delete their stuff if I didn't behave in the way they wanted. If I had an opinion about something and they didn't liked it, they threatened me with that stuff. I now look back at it and realise "That was just some stupid random character why was I so scared and in panic?" But I was young, didn't had good role models and didn't knew better.

I moved to an arts school when I started 10th grade. There I met a lot of people who were like me; everyone had their very distinctive quirks and troubles they were coming to terms with, people were discovering themselves. Everyone was so different from each other, but everyone respected everyone and the whole school lived in harmony. I felt like I finally fitted in, I started making lots of friends and my life changed for the better.

In 11th grade, I finally told my friends about what had been happening for 3 years now. They knew about my previous problems at home and about my autism so they told me that they thought I'd been groomed by HWI. I didn't believed them at the time; HWI had been so nice to me and helped me through a lot in my life. Then I finally took a step back, and it hit me.

I never liked HWI. They were indeed very rude and manipulative, but they had something I loved so much that I'd become submissive to the point of believing that was normal, that it was the way to treat friends. They were 20 when I was 13. I thought it was ok at the time, until they started asking for fanart and favors in exchange for rp time, and pushing sexual rps onto me a lot. They would tell me that they were the only one who could understand me, that the rest of the world was just filled with evil corrupt people and I fucking believed in everything they said. They would bring down the mood of the whole chat with their negativity to the point other people started complaining about it. I remember having a breakdown mid-lunch break when it finally hit me. I'd been groomed.

But, thank goodness, this has a good ending. As I realized that I had to get out of this situation, I quickly came up with a plan. I had tried multiple times to go without said hyperfixation but I would always end up having panic attacks and just not feel well. So the plan was to try and get said character to my side and run off as quickly as I could. I knew they didn't liked the character at all and were just using it to control me so I knew I could do some kind of art trade with them and get the character. After a while of asking if I could have the character since they weren't using it anymore, they said they would give him to me in exchange of some fanart, demanding it to be very very good or either they would refuse to give the oc. I rushed to ibispaint, drew something I was dead sure they would like and sent it. And then it was done.

I stayed in the chat for some extra weeks as if trying to prove myself wrong; that HWI was a good person and this was all a big misunderstanding. But it wasn't. They continued being toxic and manipulative, but they didn't had anything to use against me now. I left the chat and a few months later the Amino as a whole.

So to anyone who finds themselves in a situation similar to this one, here's a piece if advice: get out of that shit as fast as you can. I know there are people who have it WAY worse than me, but I don't wish for anyone to go through something even remotely similar to what happened to me.

If you find yourself in a toxic relationship, get out of there as fast as you can. No matter how many lies they tell you, that no one else would love you or understand you, that only they can handle what you are; it's all bullshit. There are somany people out there who would protect you and fight for you with their life. Heck you find yourself with a toxic friend but are scared to leave them because they're your only friend? Hit me up! I'll gladly be your friend!

People deserve so much more than feeling like they're emotionally dependant on someone else. Self-love and self-worth were two of the best things that I learned to have since I left that toxic relationship, and everyone deserves to feel good and to be proud of themselves FOR themselves.

Wow this was... long XD so yeah. HWI is also on tumblr but don't go searching for them. I told them off and that's it. As the meme goes, the evil has been defeated XD I will be posting stuff with those two ocs since I'm kinda removing them from the BATIM fandom and making them kinda just their own thing. I still love them to pieces and want to draw them so so much!

So wow you've made it all the way down here? Have a snack you must be so tired 🍩🍪🍰🧁🥧🍫🍬🍭🧃

#maggy moment #tw trauma #tw abusive friendship #tw child grooming #tw venting #go eat a dick HWI 💕

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jochmus · 3 years

Text

A Discussion of One Approach to a Universal Characteristic

I have felt inspired yesterday to make this attempt as a text post on Tumblr. By the subject’s weighty history and definition, it should by no means be an easy endeavor. However, there are two individuals from my readings that have inspired me, named John Locke and George Polya. Although I own both of the texts that interest me by these men, I have not read those specific texts unfortunately. Another influence was the eloquence of Euclid’s axioms, indeed I have not read the Elements either except for like the first page. I tend to become distracted very easily, and this is not something that I am very proud of.

Now I must reveal my passion for the works of Ramon Llull. He was the guy behind the most complete version of Characteristica Universalis, but that is only because he managed to inspire Leibniz to come up with his Characteristica, which was never really worked on or implemented, and the system that Llull created is called Ars Magna, in four distinct stages. The term Ars Magna itself with regards to Llull refers to the Ternary Art, which refers to the wheels or volvelles that he used have elements or principles being divisible by 3. Furthermore this also by coincidence is the third phase of the art, but the phase and divisibility of the wheels are distinct things.

Enough of Llull. Leibniz is really the only person to be regarded here, as it can be assumed that he wished to update Ars Magna to the science of the time and his own distinguished opinion. That being said, he never managed to create such a thing, but merely wrote to his collaborators and associates about what a proper implementation of this Universal Characteristic would look like. His letters are somewhere in the order of magnitude of 10^5, which is a complicated way of saying 10,000. Indeed I do not remember the estimated number from the Wiki, but I do believe it was something like 30,000.

By the way, the Wiki does list 21 different attempts at Characterica Universalis, which is the number if I recall correctly, that this scholarly text on Llull mentioned that the man had written this many different version of his system. Quite interesting, but I cannot lower myself into base numerology. That has been superseded. To return to Ramon Llull for a moment, the man allegedly got his system from the Sufis. This precursor system is called Zairja, and there are a couple of texts available on that subject, one written by modern scholars and another written by a Tunisian historian who wrote the Muqaddimah. A hint for those of you curious about the latter text: The chapter about Zairja is in the third volume of that text, and is available on the Internet Archive.

Back to Leibniz; for some reason essay writing is quite tiring. From what we can discern about what he stated that this system would look like, well I have some bad news. Leibniz simply took the diagram that Empedocles created in antiquity and said “There.” What I mean by this is that Leibniz just took the four elements and their supposed connections, in doing so adding another four nodes to the diagram, and being content with drawing lines between said nodes in order to ratiocinate (think) on paper. Anyone can tell that this is follysome since we now know for a fact that the Classical Elements theory is rubbish. In fact, I have a hot take that it was not only responsible for the idea of “race,” but also the idea of depression. I have created an acronym for the various iterations of Classical Element theory, that is “EHTR” (pronounced ‘ether’) or Element-Humor-Temperament-”Race.” Indeed this may come as quite a shock everyone, but Kant the philosopher was really racist and decided to rank the “races.” I am not going to get into this, but I will say that it may have become esoteric or something through the likes of Manly P. Hall, who mentioned the same scheme Kant used, albeit reordering some things, after the latter mapped it to an analogy about the caste system mentioned in the Bhagavad Gita. I can feel the cancelation brewing already.

There are probably many different ways to attain this Universal Characteristic. I find that I have provided enough introductory information on this subject, so let us move on to the main part of this essay. Unfortunately, this whole thing was spurred on by a feeling of grandiosity, so I really don’t know how valid my intuition is. Furthermore I forgot what it was that I could use to implement Charicterica Universalis. That being said, I think it was along the lines of a study of analogy, using mathematics, so that we could potentially describe the various processes that underlie reality. The other part was a return to metaphysics proper, or the three general distinguishing features of it according to some textbook, those features being categorization (which is what I consider to be important in particular with regards to this endeavor), thinking and a sense of supremacy regarding the method. Personally I really don’t think that the last one means much, and is in fact a detriment to updating philosophy as should be periodically done in my opinion. Science will always push the boundaries.

I am going to split the remainder of this essay into three parts: The first part will be about analogy; the second, categorization; and thirdly an obscure paradox that I came up with last night, as a bonus for making it to the end of the essay. You could just skip to the paradox, if you would like, in fact I will bold the title for you, in case I have wasted too much of your time and am boring you.

On Analogy

I envision analogy as not something fundamental, as the man who wrote Zen and the the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance stated that analogy is irreducible to sub-elements; and I argue against that position taken by the author of that text. I am honestly getting tired of writing and I have written the later parts of this essay before I wrote this part, so here goes nothing.

In the next part I briefly mention knot and graph theory. I envision analogies as graphs, as I was inspired by Schrödinger’s book What is Life that the genetic material was a crystal. Not true, but why could this crystal represent mimesis, as opposed to “genesis?” (Genesis as in genes, an improper way to say that mind you.) Yes, I really think that this is the case, but it does sound kind of crazy now that I have it on paper after having it in my mind for a few years. I don’t know. I dislike the designation that Dawkins created for such things, the “meme” which he literally took from some German scientist with the same first name, and removed the ‘n’ in mneme to create this Internet garbage we see today.

Then there are the developments with the idea of metaphor. I don’t really feel like getting into these because I am too tired and I keep making typing mistakes. Just know that it is possible to limit portions of the structure of the analogy to make it more congruent with other analogies or structures. Lastly, it really feels like the literary criticism movement is starting to claim all of the universe as its “text.” That is a portion of Structuralism, at least, according to PhilosophyTube. She stated that Structuralism started as literary criticism, and what do we as human beings do? Why we map the text to the whole of the universe. Some could argue that is a kind of metaphysics were it to be loosely understood. ...

On Categorization

The general gist of what I am thinking of here is that Ars Magna’s major issue is that it is not chaotic enough, if that makes any sense. What I am attempting to get at here is the thing about the questions generated in that system solely referring to the statements created. There is no architecture or complexity there to be studied and afterwards engineered, as it is just base multiplication to generate the questions. What I would like, is for the creation of the questions to be irreversible and chaotic, indeed those are separate things, much like the weather. Knot theory, or graph theory would come into play here, I am not sure which but that is what my intuition is telling me. Also, many statements could be superimposed to generate a set of questions, or a single question. Hopefully my mathematical studies will enable me to investigate this further in the future.

It must be stated now that the whole category term does apply in my opinion to Ars Manga. This is because the system abstracts the categories into a table of about 54 “elements” which are then combined a second time to produce very short strings of text, for instance “BCD.” Of course, the strings could very well be longer, and could incorporate more intricacy in this manner, but it is really the interaction between all of these strings which constitutes the architecture of the system, although this is done in a manner contrary to the mainstream Lullists, which is an anachronism, really.

Case in point the categories must translate into natural phenomena and vice versa. At the same time, if the categories were generative, then they must be irreversible in order to be as intricate as possible. The sky is the limit with this, “New Lullism.” I don’t feel like explaining any more, but if someone wants me to tell them about why the standard categories must be reversible, and the generative categories the reverse, then I will explain this another day. Indeed, it may be a false distinction; there may very well be four types of category system, that is:

Standard reversible;

Generative reversible (Ars Magna);

Standard irreversible;

Generative irreversible.

That is all for this part.

The Paradox

There is a possibility for a Universal Library, but the one available on the Internet is not feasible for conducting research on, because it is an art website and is not powerful enough to locate texts and be practical. I am talking about an implementation for the Universal Library called the Library of Babel. You can visit the website at libraryofbabel.info. I do not have the energy to disclose the theory behind this whole thing right now, but on request I will write about it another day.

The mathematical constant “pi” supposedly does not repeat. Yet there is a trichotomy to be established here, when the constant is juxtaposed with the Universal Library, either;

1). The Universal Library is effected by Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem (was stated by two separate mathematics professors to likely be the case);

2). Pi does indeed repeat minute portions of itself after a significantly large computation of it is conducted, with an upper bound order of magnitude of around 10^5000. Note that this is a back-of-hand calculation;

3). Pi cannot be mapped to the Universal Library.

This trichotomy may indeed be defective as I am not trained in logic, and also I had to make up the last one as I forgot what it was. Oh well.

Thank you very much for reading all of this. Have a swell day.

#characteristica universalis #ramon llull #leibniz #essay #ars magna

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