#ill literally cry if i think about them being in pain

[rabbit-heart4]

genuinely terrified to listen to tmp because yall CANNOT be telling me my boys went through all that just to be trapped in the same computer from mag 65 binary. I REFUSE to believe that. i do not care if it is an alternate universe. my boys are happy and together somewhere else and they have two cats. what the fuck are you talking about

[sophiethewitch1]

me and what we want are going through a lovers spat rn because i desperately want to write more for it but i constantly feel like shit so its really getting in the way of our relationship. also if youve sent me any asks that i havent responded to i am geniunely so sorry about it i am in the trenches right now

[coulsonlives]

I just had to share this video because holy shit, it hits the nail right on the head! So well spoken. This stuff needs to be circulated more, esp with the growing number of people thinking they have this because of misinformation, or just outright faking it.

[lunar-wandering]

Actually no I cannot stop thinking about the fact that, it's not that that Scene is the first time the Collector has cried, it's just the first time there's been tears.

I mean;

Look at this. This is the expression of someone who's about to cry. And, notably, they do.

We can LITERALLY hear them crying in the next scene- but when Luz approaches them;

There's no tears. Quite possibly because, physically, it's not meant to be possible for them. After all, they are meant to live in space, I think having water freeze right when it comes out of your eyes would be a hinderance, honestly.

But, then later,

they do cry tears.

so what's different about them here than before??

My first thought is the icky moss stuff. Which is, coming from a combination of Belos and The Titan. Aka, the being that can negate all of the Collector's magic. And it is shown that the Collector's magic was not working. They were, for all intents and purposes, as close to human as they could be, here.

Clearly, they have enough power to hold up the archives, but it's very obviously painful for them- which is weird, from someone who can easily move the moon, you'd think that stabilizing the archives would be easy- except for the fact that, other than the star-board he's standing on (something that seems to be more of an magic item than his own magic, in my opinion, since others can seemingly use it without his input), and the ribbons (possibly also an item), he's not actually using magic to hold it up, just their own raw strength. (Which, wow, if this is how much they can lift at their weakest, how strong is this kid just in terms of physical strength?)

But anyways, that's not my final point.

My final point is that, even after the moss is gone- suddenly we see tears forming in the Collector's eyes, when we didn't before.

Their ability to form tears didn't go away.

It could, of course, just be a symbolic thing, you know, but... there was some Titan magic mixed in with everything. What if the Collector is now more mortal than he was before? Does he know? Can he be affected by things he couldn't before, like illness or poison? Did it impact his decision to return to the stars?

What does becoming just a bit more mortal mean to an immortal?

[infriga]

Another thing from the One Piece live action that I have a lot of thoughts about is a certain change they made that normally I might have disliked but actually felt they did rather well.

That being, Luffy listening to crew members backstories.

In the manga Luffy often goes out of his way to avoid listening to crew member's backstories when they're told by other people, because he doesn't like hearing about his crew from other characters and also because he's of the opinion that he doesn't give a shit about their past because doesn't change how he feels about them. All he needs to know is "this person hurt my friend/made my friend cry/has ill will towards my friend". He trusts implicitly that if his friend has a problem with someone then it's with good reason, he doesn't need to know the particulars. He'll listen to the crew member themself if they're the one talking about it, but if someone else is doing the telling he often leaves or falls asleep, with a few exceptions (like Brook's backstory, because hearing Brook's backstory is important for realizing who Brook is, which crew he came from, and his relation to Laboon. I think the fact that the one telling him is another crew member also helps here). This was a trait I liked about him, the way he places importance on hearing about this stuff directly from the person and wants to know what they want and how they feel out of their own mouth. It was a cool, subtle trait that adds some depth to him. It also gives this sense of respect to the privacy of someone who doesn't get to tell their own story, maybe not intentionally on Luffy's part, who doesn't really have a strong concept of privacy tbh, but as a vibe you know? Obviously it's a good way to provide exposition especially if the character isn't the type to tell their own story, but there's still an invasion of privacy on some level even if it's arguably justified.

Nami's backstory is one such instance like this. He refuses to listen about Nami from Nojiko (literally says "no thanks I'm not interested in her past" and leaves). He doesn't need to know about Nami's past to want to help her and he wants to hear that she needs help directly from her.

In the live action however, he listens to Nojiko this time, when she tells Nami's story. And I get why, the way the story is arranged doesn't give as much room for Luffy to wander off and witness Nami's confrontation with the villagers separately, and that aspect of his character would probably be difficult to get across without making him seem like a dick in live action to newcomers, hell it doesn't always get across in the manga/anime either, since I've seen plenty of people complain about him doing it and saying it's a dick move. But! They added a line in the live action that I think managed to get across the same feeling about his character quite well in a succinct way. It was when he says "I'm tired of hearing about Nami from other people".

It brings to mind what he says to Robin in Enies Lobby. "I want to hear it from your own mouth!" he wants to hear about his friends and how they feel directly from them, not second hand from other people. And he wants to hear the truth because he knows when his friends are lying about how they feel. He doesn't care how well those other people know the crew member in question, he cares about learning about them directly from them. And later when they do the scene™ with Nami, it doesn't ring false when she says "you don't know anything about what's going on here" and he replies with "I don't" because to him since he didn't hear it from her directly he doesn't really know what's going on. He just knows that she's in pain and needs him but he wants to hear it from her, that she needs help. It isn't as subtle and doesn't have as many layers of interpretation that the original portrayal of this character trait is able to be, but that's just the nature of an adaptation like this, they have to be smart about what subtleties they keep and what they have to be more obvious/blunt about. There are actually a few areas where the live action are more subtle, like the way they take out a lot of exposition but still manage to explain a lot of stuff about their world through show rather than tell. The dialogue about devil fruits for example, they never outright say that devil fruit users have their power drained when they're submerged in water, but they do have scenes showing the effects and people referencing that aspect of fruits in ways that feel more natural to people who live in the world and aren't giving obligatory exposition. Other people have mentioned this but the live action is surprisingly good with show don't tell, and use it in all the right ways.

I get the feeling that some of the small adjustments they made to the script and exposition and stuff like Luffy's behaviour still feel right and in-character/canon compliant (not literally canon-compliant but in spirit if you know what I mean) to me because they feel like they get across some of the more subtle aspects of his character that a lot of people miss. Like it bugs me when people say the live action made Luffy "smarter" which I'm probably gonna make a whole separate post about. For now I'll just say, Luffy isn't anywhere near as stupid as a lot of people think he is.

Or when people think him not wanting to eat when he's worried about Zoro is out of character, when we've seen in the original series that Luffy actually *does* have a harder time eating or thinking about food when he's stressed out about his friends. In the original series it does generally take a bit more stress to get him to that point, but like I said I think they adjusted it to make this point more clear in live action, that Luffy's love of his friends and crew overshadow his love for food. And it also gives them a small moment to showcase more of Sanji's caring nature when it comes to food when he responds by trying to feed Luffy and convince him to eat, which is a great moment to add especially since they were limited with Sanji's characterisation due to him joining the latest in the season, they managed to pack in so much characterisation for him into a relatively short window and I was impressed by that. And I have some examples regarding Luffy abstaining from food for the sake of others or being more reluctant to eat when stressed, but I think I'll leave that for a separate post as well.

They had less time to develop the crew relationships so they made sure to emphasize their bonds within the scenes they did have, putting more weight on Luffy's worry for Zoro, having Luffy be a bit more outwardly attentive to the interpersonal dynamics of the crew, being a little bit more obvious about Luffy's emotional intelligence, etc. None of these things feel like they actually change anything about Luffy's core character, they just showcase aspects of his character that already exist and are just more subtle in the original, because it's a long running series and can afford to take more time to establish these character traits. Luffy might not have shown as much outward anxiety over Zoro's injury in the manga, but that's because Oda had more time to build up the relationship before that point, so the live action took advantage of the injury subplot to be more overt about how Luffy feels about Zoro, as well as how his one point of anxiety that really gets to him consistently is the safety of his crew and him feeling helpless when he can't do anything because the problem isn't something he can punch away. So in altering that scenario a bit they can still keep that sense of a deep bond between the two despite having less time to show them growing close in smaller moments like the manga does. They probably realised that having Luffy leave or fall asleep during Nami's backstory wouldn't come across as well in the live action or fit the narrative structure changes, but they still took a moment to add a line that acknowledged that part of Luffy's character.

Like part of why most of the changes they did make didn't bother me is because of that feeling that no matter what they changed they were still dedicated to being as true to the characters as possible in the most fundamental ways. I'd certainly much rather have the live action place emphasis on Luffy's emotional intelligence and empathy and care for his crew instead of putting emphasis on him being stupid and comedic and sacrificing some of his empathy and emotional intelligence in the process. Do I love when Luffy is a hilarious dumbass? Absolutely, but that isn't the most important part of his character, so I'm glad they did the opposite of flanderize him, and they still did keep the funny dumbass part of him intact they just didn't put more importance on it than they needed to.

Anyway, this got away from me, but I just wanted to make a post about this because I feel like it's a good example of how the show makes most of the changes work because it still feels like they get the core of the show and the characters. Which makes sense if Oda was so anal about it and had them change scenes or lines if they didn't feel right for the characters. Oda of all people would know what is or isn't in character for them, so I can feel the way these subtle changes still feel right despite the differences.

[sundrop-writes]

The Perfect Brat

Dom!Elle Greenaway x Dom!Fem!Reader x Sub!Spencer Reid

Summary:

Spencer acts up. You and Elle put him in his place. It’s an unconventional relationship, but it works so well.

Dom!Elle Greenaway x Dom!Fem!Reader x Sub!Spencer Reid. Co-Workers with Benefits. Smut/PWP. 

Word Count: 2,900

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

THIS IS A RE-POST. This is a fic from my old blog (a blog that was shadowbanned, forcing me to move). This fic is not stolen, it is completely mine, and I am just re-posting it to help people find my new blog, and to make my masterlist complete when I post new fics for this fandom.

Detailed warnings and author’s notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is primarily a smut fic; reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; this could be read with or without considering the major canon events; dom/sub dynamics - Dom!Elle, Dom!Reader, Sub!Spencer (he is definitely more of a brat in this and I had so much fun writing it); implications of an ongoing poly relationship between the three of them; punishment and reward (Spencer is punished for being mouthy/talking back); size difference kink/reverse size kink (the reader loves how skinny and easy to toss around Spencer is); Spencer is spanked, Spencer is gagged with his own tie (the tie is also used like a leash on him); general rough play; Spencer calls the reader ‘Miss’; undertones of humiliation kink, mentions of subspace, mentions of pain kink, Spencer is called a whore, a slut a stupid brat;degradation kink (towards Spencer); mentions of paddling; mentions of jealousy; bondage - Spencer has his hands tied behind his back; Spencer wears a cockring; orgasm restriction (toward Spencer); Spencer is forced to watch while Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on (the reader is a bottom between Elle and the reader, but she still is 100% a dom in this); as mentioned - strap-on sex (Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on); crying kink (Spencer is pretty when he cries); mentions of pegging (from Elle toward Spencer); hair pulling (reader receiving); Elle is called 'Mistress’; the reader and Elle could both be considered mean in this. I hope that’s everything and I haven’t missed anything important.

A/N: the inspiration behind this is actually so funny. I was working on the second part of Lessons For A Genius and I literally thought to myself 'Spencer is too nice in this. he’s too well behaved’ - and then I started thinking about a fic where Spencer is a bratty sub and gets punished, and then in that scenario, Elle suddenly appeared in my head (I guess because Elle has such dom energy and she’s always bossing Spencer around in the show, this is just too real, they have so much chemistry) - and next thing I know I was opening another tab to write this because I couldn’t help myself. So I hope you guys enjoy it!! I would love to write more fics where Spencer is a bratty sub in the future. I just love writing sub!Spencer in general. (some people have asked me to write dom!Spencer and I am warming up to it very, very slowly.) anyway, please enjoy!

...

You were in the room for less than thirty seconds when Spencer’s pants were down. 

Usually, something like this occurred out of pure lust or need. Spencer was a very needy boy. It was rare that you felt this much annoyance building up inside of you. It was rare that you tore off his clothes out of anger. 

But he had mouthed off to you in front of the local cops, whining that you ‘weren’t his mother’ when you asked him how many cups of coffee he’d had that day and advised him to drink some water. It had been a sassy comeback that had several of the men in the room laughing, and at the time, Spencer had been grinning into that ill-advised seventh cup of coffee, thinking that you couldn’t see him. 

It was something that got a warm rage simmering inside of you. 

Generally, he had been the biggest kind of brat all day. He had been mouthing off, even going so far as to talk back to Hotch when given orders. And you weren’t taking too kindly to it. 

He had to know who was in charge. He had to know that you wouldn’t stand for him being a mouthy brat. 

The door to the hotel room had barely closed behind you before you had his belt undone, the heft of the leather causing the fabric of his slacks to drop to his ankles. This left him entirely exposed from the waist down, feeling a rush of vulnerability, knowing he was in trouble. His stomach clenched in anticipation. You weren’t entirely surprised to find that he wasn’t wearing underwear. He had been acting out all day because he was feeling needy, apparently. 

Before he could speak, only uttering out a few half hearted protests, you shoved him hard. He was so skinny, so easy to push around, it was almost laughable. You pushed him until you had him exactly where you wanted him - bent over the dresser in the middle of the room. It was a chest of drawers with an attached vanity mirror, forcing him to bend over it and brace his hands on the surface so he could look at himself in the mirror. 

So he could stare himself down and face all of his beautiful shame as you tore him apart. 

“Look, Miss, please-” He stuttered out. 

Clearly he was still trying to come back from this, still trying to grovel, trying to apologize. 

But it was too late for that. You had decided that during the car ride back. 

“Shut up.” You told him gruffly. 

You reached around his body to his front and grabbed his tie, slipping it slightly loose before you brought it partway up his head. He was confused by this, until you slipped the loop into his mouth, effectively gagging him. You then spun it so the length of the tie was at the back of his head. You tightened it harshly then, causing him to moan as the fabric scuffed sorely against the sides of his mouth. 

But that wasn’t all. 

You yanked back on the length of the tie as though it were a leash, pulling his tall body into a tense arch, forcing him to be exactly where you wanted him to be. He moaned deeply as a wave of pleasurable pain shot through his body, his back cracking slightly as you forced him into such an uncomfortable position. Your other hand was on his lower back, keeping his hips pinned against the edge of the dresser as you forced his neck back as far as it would go. 

His muscles quivered and tears easily came to his eyes. His cock throbbed harshly with all of it. He always needed to be put in his place. He needed his head to be emptied as the control was taken away from him - as he was owned wholly, his body and mind no longer his own. 

When you were sure that he would stay like this, the subspace setting in and making him slightly more compliant, you moved the hand on his lower back. This forced him to hold the position on his own, his legs becoming shaky - but he didn’t move to make himself more comfortable, which did cause you to grin. 

Then, you hauled your hand back, delivering a harsh spank across his bare ass cheek. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You bit out harshly. “I know I did not train you to be such a fucking brat.” 

You delivered another spank, his soft skin already turning red from your hits. Your palm was stinging slightly, but you didn’t care. It gave you a certain thrill, and it was worth teaching him a lesson if his ass was sore tomorrow and he remembered this. Usually not being able to sit right did help him remember to behave. 

All Spencer could do was moan in response, being very effectively gagged by his own tie. His cock was angry and hard, trapped between his pelvis and the edge of the dresser as you punished him. 

“You’re just a needy little whore, aren’t you?” 

You barked, pulling his neck back even harder. This caused him to whine out in pain, such a beautiful sound that had you dizzy with pleasure as your ego swelled. You pulled him closer to you and placed your lips close to his ear, hissing the next words near his cheek with malice. 

“What’s wrong? The needy slut doesn’t get enough attention?” 

“Come on, Y/N, take it easy on him,” Elle chuckled from the corner, taking a sip of her drink. 

She had ridden with Morgan, so she had made it to the room an easy five minutes before you and Reid had. And thus far, she had been heavily enjoying the show that the two of you were putting on. But she did think you were being a bit too rough considering that Reid was a bit lippy on a good day. 

“Oh, I need to take it easy?” You chuckled sarcastically, looking over your shoulder at her. 

You tossed your hold on the tie, letting Spencer’s body relax forward slightly while you assessed Elle. He let out a whimper of relief, but didn’t make any further noise to draw attention to himself - not wanting the two of you to gang up on him and make his punishment even worse. (The two of you were devious minds, and when you worked together, it was a beautiful kind of destruction.) 

Sitting there, Elle was smug as ever, staring you and Spencer down with a clear heat in her eyes. 

“Last time you paddled him, he couldn’t walk for a week.” You added on, bringing up the memory to try and prove your point. 

“He was flirting with that waitress, he deserved it.” Elle said, speaking as though it was the obvious thing in the world. 

Generally speaking, you weren’t even sure if Spencer knew how to flirt. You thought that for the most part he just didn’t know when other people were flirting with him and didn’t know when to deflect it to stop it from pissing you and Elle off. But you had enjoyed it too much to argue with Elle about it - his bright red ass and awkward gait for the week following that paddling had just been too good. 

You used the tie-leash and a tight hold on one of his hips to spin Spencer around, tossing him onto one of the double beds in the room. He landed roughly on his stomach with a light bounce. He let out a jagged moan as his exposed cock scraped against the cheap hotel bedspread. But - true to form, trying to prove that he was a good boy, he did nothing more than lay there, staying perfectly still where you had put him. 

Elle grinned at him before she looked back to you. 

“So, what do you think we should do with him?” You asked, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder to flip him over onto his back, presenting him to her like a filthy prize. 

Spencer whimpered quietly and blinked up at you and Elle with big, wet eyes, clearly thinking that the puppy dog look could get him some sympathy. But there was no chance of mercy. He had already made his bed, and he was going to get fucked in it.

“I have a few ideas.” Elle chuckled. 

… 

That was how Spencer ended up in his current position. 

He was sitting in the chair that Elle had previously been sitting in, stripped completely naked. A light sheen of sweat had formed over his skin, causing his hair to stick to his forehead in that beautifully desperate way. His hands were tied behind his back with his own belt, and a cockring was secured around the base of his needy, throbbing cock. 

There was no possible way for him to get relief. Even if he became so desperate as to hump the furniture, all that he would get was a fruitless, horrible dry orgasm. The cockring so tight around him definitely assured that. And with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t take it off. Especially not with the way the two of you were keeping a watchful eye on him. 

You and Elle certainly weren’t going to let him get away with anything. 

He certainly wasn’t going to get out of your line of sight. That was the whole point. 

The bulk of his punishment was to watch. 

To watch you and Elle and not be allowed to touch his needy, throbbing cock. To have a feast of sights before him, but be stuck, not allowed to cum. Not even allowed to feel the slightest bit of relief against his pathetic dick until you or Elle decided that he’d had enough. 

“Please.” Spencer begged hopelessly. 

His hips arched up into the air slightly, humping into nothing, fruitlessly seeking contact. His cock dribbled out precum, almost as if the pretty pink cockhead was weeping out in protest, trying to show his deep, unsatisfied need. 

“Please!” He bawled. “I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” 

His voice was so beautifully wrecked. It sent a wave of pleasurable tingles right through you. 

“Did you hear that?” Elle chuckled behind you. “He promises.” She cooed these words mockingly. 

Both of you knew that it wasn’t a promise he could keep for too long. 

Elle huffed out a devilish laugh as she raked the sharpness of her nails across your back. She sounded just as amused as you were watching Spencer’s pathetic attempts to get back on both your good sides. 

“I fucking doubt it.” You grunted back breathlessly. 

“If he wasn’t so pathetic, I might take pity on him.” Elle said, her voice taking on that mean edge that she knew Spencer loved. 

He moaned at the words, his hips flexing up once again. Unlike when he played poker, during sex, he always gave away all his cards, always showed what pleased him most and what his weakest spots were. It was one of the reasons you loved taking him apart so much. One of the reasons you loved owning him. 

“If you were a ‘good boy’, you’d shut up and watch me fuck your precious Miss without complaining,” Elle said, continuing to mock him, fucking her hips harder into you to drive home her point. 

She had you in the middle of the bed, perfectly on display for Spencer - on your hands and knees, completely stripped naked. The two of you were a perfect visual tease for him - with Elle in her bright red lacy bra, a commanding presence behind you with her thick seven inch strap-on buried in your wet, wanting pussy. You were absolutely enjoying yourself as she fucked in and out of you with an intense roughness. 

Most of the time, the two of you teamed up as a wicked force against Spencer - and combined, you were a deadly sinful team. But when the two of you took the time to enjoy pleasuring each other, it was a rough, chaotic slice of heaven. Like lighting clashing against itself in the best way. 

When you did let her fuck you, you weren’t whiny or submissive to her wills. You took it well, never begged for it. And she understood you and what you needed - the feeling of a thick cock splitting you open, that rough touch that Spencer never gave you because he was so subservient to your will. You loved the fact that she didn’t treat you like a glass doll. 

“Please!” Spencer tried again, going directly against Elle’s order to sit there and shut up. 

You weren’t sure if it was him playing up again or if he actually thought he could talk his way out of this somehow. 

“Please, let me touch you! Let me help you cum! Let me service you, Miss! I’ll be so good!” Spencer begged, his words dissolving into sobs as the desperation heightening within him. 

“What? You think you’re allowed to touch this pussy? You think you should be allowed?” Elle growled, fucking into you so hard that it caused a wet smacking to resonate through the room - something that made Spencer want you even more. 

You laughed in response to Spencer’s whiny antics, and the incredible fake cock plunging into you from behind - a sound that dissolved into a loud moan when Elle reached around and rubbed your clit, clearly wanting even more from you. 

Elle hammered her hips against you like she hated you, fucked into your pussy with a brutal passion. She was partially trying to show Spencer what he was missing out on, a deadly ache growing in his gut when he thought about the emptiness he felt without her perfect fake cock. Because he did spend a fair amount of time fucked out and drooling on her strap when she wanted to fuck him with it - from either end. 

And she was partially trying to get you to be messier, wetter, louder, putting on more of a show for him. The more beautiful and pornographic you were, the more effective his punishment was (not that it was hard for you to become a walking sex dream, as gorgeous as you naturally were). 

Elle loved to fuck you like this - she loved having your tight pussy hugging the silicone of her cock. You were a challenge. You didn’t simply beg for her cock, your body didn’t just mold and bend to her wills because she touched you with strong hands. You always fucked your hips back into her twice as hard, and you laughed and snarled back if she called you a dirty bitch. 

It was part of the reason that the two of you so perfectly destroyed someone as needy and submissive as Spencer. Spencer, the type of person who got whiny and started acting up if he didn’t get enough attention from either of you in the run of a day. 

“I’ll be good!” Spencer whined. “Please! Please, just touch me! I promise I won’t do it again!” 

His eyes had become as wet as his cock, the tip glistening with precum as tears dripped from the corners of his eyes, his entire being reeking of desperation and uncontained lust. 

“Do you even know what you did this time, you stupid brat?” Elle prodded, her voice dark and lacking any sweetness as she spat the words across the room at him. 

Spencer let out a wounded sound that was barely recognizable - perhaps he was trying to compose himself to speak, perhaps he was truly clueless. 

He could be so mouthy sometimes, but most of the time, he didn’t even recognize his sass as a problem. 

“What makes you think you’re worthy to touch her? What makes you think that you get to touch her after being such a dumb brat all day?” Elle teased him. 

She emphasized her words by yanking back on your hair, delivering a pleasurable amount of pain that made you moan out as she continued to harshly thrust her hips into your wet cunt. 

“What makes you think that a brat like you gets to touch these perfect tits?” Elle mocked him, leaning over you to grope roughly at your swaying breasts. Of course, just to show him what he couldn’t have and heavily enjoying your body in the process. 

You chuckled at this, enjoying the way Spencer’s features twisted up in displeasure. Clearly he was whiny, wanting so badly to touch you - but he hadn’t earned it. Not tonight. 

He let out a few more tears before he spoke again. 

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled quietly. “I’m a bad boy. I’ve been bad.” 

“Why?” You heaved out, breathless from Elle’s efforts. “Why are you bad?” 

“Good boys don’t talk back.” Spencer finally admitted, his voice weak with defeat. 

“Look, the genius finally figured it out.” Elle commented, beautiful condescension dripping through her voice. 

“Good!” You huffed, fucking your hips harshly back into Elle’s cock while you locked eyes with Spencer’s wet, glassy ones. “Now keep your whiny fuckin’ mouth shut while Mistress fucks me, and maybe - fuck - and maybe I won’t keep that cockring on you all day tomorrow.” 

Spencer whined harshly at this, but didn’t protest. Elle grinned, planting a kiss on the back of your neck before she dug her nails into your hips and fucked you faster.

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot, and there will not be a sequel or a continuation of it. If you enjoyed this, please comment about the body of work that has been written. If you want to see more Spencer fics that I have written, definitely check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or check out my other Masterlists to see if anything catches your eye.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 7129

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

12. Pôt de crème

Mary

That day really winds up feeling like the epitome of a terrible horrible, no good, very bad fucking day for Mary, and it starts early. Leaving the apartment for work after the massage cocktease from Hell is odd.

She’s left feeling happy to have helped, but also hurt, disappointed, and mad at herself, of all things. That was the perfect opportunity for her to make a move and finally force those two to tell her that they’re not interested! (Though a small and pitifully thirsty part of her brain still exists in the fantasy land where they’d take her up on it.) But she’d chickened out and kept it strictly platonic. Ugh. Lame.

She manages not to think about it for a while, as she gets into the rhythm of her day at the bakery. She still can’t shake the cloud of anxiety and irritability looming over her, though. The good old days of any lasting effects from Bucky’s drops are gone, and instead she’s left to slowly percolate a bad mood as she clocks in and figures out the best order to get her projects done for that day.

Dennis is the manager on schedule, which sucks because Mary’s never liked him, but he’s in the office for the most part, since he’s a stuck up do-nothing, and she's able to pretend that she’s alone. 

No matter though. She can’t focus on anything, feels overly emotional, and almost breaks out in tears when she drops a tray of cupcakes on the floor. She manages to hold it together as she cleans up the mess, and moves onto the next task. Her list for the day now feels miserably long, and she doesn’t even enjoy decorating the base-iced babycakes that are waiting for her from yesterday. She fucks up the writing on one of them and loses her shit over something that is not worth losing her shit over. That’s the stupid thing that finally pushes her to tears, and she tosses her piping bag angrily onto the counter, what the fucking herself and feeling like she’s going crazy. 

Like baseball, there’s no crying in kitchens: That’s what the walk-in’s for. So, she hides back by the dairy products until she’s able to pull herself together. She comes out shivering, not crying, and in a horrible mood. 

Buttercream is next, so she gets the sugar boiling and the egg whites whisking in the forty quart. She tries to talk herself up in her head as she goes through motions of streaming in the sugar and then scaling the butter she’ll add to it once it’s whipped cool. “You’re not bad at your job,” she mumbles to herself, trying to push the threat of tears away with positive thoughts. “You’re not.”

Jesus fuck, why is she feeling like this? Nothing that bad has even happened! So she dropped some fucking cupcakes, so what? It happens. She checks her phone to see if she’s about to get her period, but that’s not it. Her focus is shit, so of course she eventually goes back to thinking about Bucky and Steve. 

Today is Bucky’s day off. Mary thinks about him being in pain that morning and how his movements had been crippled by pain. … She thinks about his broad, muscled back under her hands, his warm skin, the moans of relief he’d given whenever she worked out a knot. Poor guy. Even though she hates to think of enduring it again, she has to admit to herself that she does care about Bucky, and she would endure it if he needed her help. Hell, if it’s something that’ll help him in the long run, she’ll have to do at least one or two more massage sessions to teach Steve the ropes so he can help his husband in her absence.

Bucky doesn’t want her to do it. She pouts about that, but scolds herself as soon as she realizes she’s doing so. Don’t be lame over guys who don’t want you. So Bucky and Steve just want to be gay together in peace, so what? Why is she losing her shit over the tiniest rejection like this?!

She ruminates on it while she’s at the stove stirring a massive batch of pôt de crème custard, and it occurs to her that the part she’s actually most upset about isn’t their platonic feelings for her: it’s her own lack of bravery and straightforwardness with Bucky and Steve, and how she’s become such a pathetic wallflower over the past few months. 

Maybe if she’d flat out asked about a romantic relationship from the beginning, she could’ve gotten the rejection out of the way and been putting herself out there to meet someone new by now. She might’ve met a Dom at one of the Center’s socials, or at least could’ve been swiping the apps and going on dates. Getting laid.

But instead suddenly she’s turned into a shy girl (obnoxious). She hasn’t been a virgin since college, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t sleeping with whoever she could get her hands on, back before Steve and Bucky 'adopted' her. She’d been so good at it back then, saying what she meant and going for what she wanted, dragging at least one new guy back to her place to fuck every other week. Why can’t she just do something now? 

Frowning, she decides that she will do something over it. The ideal would be to move back to her own place, but she can’t with the custody order in place and Dr. Linda on Bucky’s side. Gritting her teeth, she figures she’ll do the next best thing: she’ll start getting laid again. She’ll go out and meet people. She’ll go out straight after work each day. Unless he wants to physically tie her up and keep her prisoner in the apartment, Bucky can’t stop it. 

She’s just got to work up the nerve to break his rules like that. Nerve which, in her current mood, seems quite out of reach. She sighs and reaches up to grab the Grand Marnier off the shelf for the pôt de crème. All she feels like doing now is going back to the apartment and crawling into bed, to be honest. She wonders if this is what actual clinical depression feels like. Maybe. Maybe worse. Sarcastically, she thinks that a shot or three of alcohol would certainly help, and then she pauses with her hand on the bottle as she’s about to pour it into the custard. Oh. 

She’s not drinking anymore. 

Fuck. That’s it. She’s hardly ever had sex sober in her life. Barely ever even flirted without some liquid courage in her system. That’s what’s changed. She always used pick up guys in bars, or at other places where everybody had a drink in their hand. And at home at her apartment, whenever the creeping buildup of anxiety and irritability would get to be too much, a couple vodka sprites were what made her feel better. She pauses in her stirring. Thinking about it now is making her almost physically yearn for a stiff one. 

She looks down at the bottle in her hand, shame coloring her cheeks as soon as she has the thought. Even at her worst, Mary never drank on the job. She grimaces at herself and hurriedly sets the bottle back on the shelf before temptation can win out, then turns back to the stove.

“Fuck!” she hisses, scrambling to turn off the burner when she’s met with the sight of lumpy pôt de crème. She whisks it frantically to try and stop it, but it’s too far gone: The eggs in the custard have curdled. She throws her head back and groans. “God dammit!”

She makes a last ditch effort to save it by dumping the lumpy custard into a Cambro, tossing in a few ice cubes, and furiously burr-mixing it with the immersion blender, but it’s no use. She’s irrevocably ruined a massive batch of dessert (with the expensive liqueur already added in it, to boot) because she wasn’t paying attention. Growling, she dumps it all in the trash bin before Dennis can happen to walk by and see, then stomps back to the fridge to grab ingredients to rescale the recipe.

She lines up sheet trays of paper dessert cups on her workstation table for decanting … and takes one cup with her over to the stove while she stands there and cooks the second batch of pôt de crème.

It’s when she’s stirring and pouring that second measure of liqueur into the pot that she gives into impulse and pours a shot’s worth of the stuff into the extra paper baking cup—that she now realizes she brought over for this express purpose in the first place. She gives the empty kitchen a furtive glance, and tosses it back. “Ugh.” 

Orange flavored liqueur? Really Mary?

She hears the rebuke in Bucky’s voice in her head, which is annoying and drives her to repeat the action once she’s drank the first. She tosses back a second. Gross gross gross. She checks the label on the bottle: 40% ABV. Good. She puts the bottle back on the shelf, pissed about feeling so uncomfortable in her skin that she stubbornly refuses to feel guilty over her actions, and finishes cooking the custard to a smooth nappé this time. Perfect. 

She pours the custard over the white chocolate and lets it melt. She burr mixes it, strains it. Ready to go.

Later maybe she’ll feel bad about it, but as she grabs the sauce gun and begins the tedious process of dispensing the pôt de crème into the cups, that warm, pleasant feeling of a buzz starts to creep up on her, and she finds herself in a better mood before long. Things seem brighter, and she finally feels like she can breathe. She’s able to think about Bucky and Steve without feeling like a piece of dirt, and even laughs about the stupid massage episode. Two shots of liqueur on an empty stomach makes that seem like not such a big deal, and she simply decides that she won’t volunteer for massage duty anymore, because obviously it was a mistake. She’d liked helping Bucky to feel better when he was hurting, but not enough to make up for having to endure the very non-platonic swooping in her belly she’d gotten from having her hands all over his naked back. Fuck, is he ever hot. Both of them are. They’re bodies are just, guh. 

She doesn’t need that frustration in her life.

She’s got a moderate buzz by the time she finishes her next project, and she cheerfully bops onto her next task. 

It’s such a relief, not having that heavy feeling of anxiousness and general uncomfortability weighing down on her. Jeez, she hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten. She forgot how much a few drinks helped. She gets giddy and chases that feeling, quickly sneaking another quick shot (this time of the rum they use on the rum buns, though, because it really was gross that she drank that liqueur straight—blecgh). What’s one more quick drink in between batches of cakes going in and out of the oven, after all?

… And then just once more, after she’s added the last chunk of the butter into the whipping forty quart. By the time she’s got everything set out to basic-build the next bunch of babycakes, she’s in a great mood. It’s almost as good as the subspace had been, back in the beginning with Bucky. She hums songs under her breath and moves around the kitchen assembling and icing the cute little five inch cakes that are her specialty.

It’s her pet project, something she’d suggested to Mr. Flaherty, the bakery’s owner. Not only are they friggin’ adorable, they’re easy to bang out a bunch of them all at once, small enough to cost pennies to make, and big enough and cute enough that people are willing to pay way more than the cakes are actually worth. Mary knows for a fact that they have the highest profit margin of any item in the bakery. She’s privately very proud that Mr. Flaherty had listened to her idea and decided it was something they would offer on the regular menu. Dennis had underplayed it—like the jealous killjoy he is. 

Mary celebrates her good mood with another teeny sip of booze and then spends extra effort on smooth-icing in all the best pastel colors, thinking that today is a great day and can only get better from here.

Wrongo bongo.

“What the heck!”

“Oh, shit,” Mary hisses, running into the back when she smells burning bread and hears her manager’s voice calling out. Sure enough, Dennis is there, oven mitts in hand, angrily sliding a tray of blackened croissants onto the speed rack, and going back to the oven to pull out another. There are six trays of ruined croissants, and Mary grimaces “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

Dennis ignores her until he’s finished pulling out all the wasted product, and when he’s done, he lays her out. “This isn’t fucking Panera Bread,” he tells her angrily. “We’re a mom and pop bakery. Profit margins are slimmer than slim!”

Mary cringes. “I know, I know, I’m sor—”

“How much money did you just cost us?” Dennis demands, hands on his hips. “Huh? Tell me. I want you to stand there and think about it and tell me how much.”

Mary stares for a second, then realizes that he’s dead serious. Humiliated, she licks her lips and does the math: 6 trays of 10 = 60 croissants, 60 x $4 per ganache-stuffed croissant, minus about $30 ingredients cost. It takes her longer than it normally would, since she’s been drinking, but when she’s worked it out she winces and looks down in shame. “I dunno … A little over two hundred, I guess.”

Dennis flails his hand holding the oven mitts. “We can’t afford to have you ruining hundreds of dollars of profit, Mary. Get it together.”

She frowns, indignant. “I was up front helping a customer,” she defends. 

“That’s what the oven timer is for.”

“I know that. I just forgot to—”

“You’re forgetting a lot of things lately.” He gestures angrily at the trays of blackened croissants. “I’ve tried to help you. I gave you time off to get your shit together when your boyfriend came in and told me about your mental condition.”

Mary grits her teeth. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Dom, dungeon master, whatever,” he says nastily. “I don’t know what you people get up to. But I’ve given you a lot of chances cause you’re apparently dealing with some shit. I can’t keep doing that forever if you keep costing this place money.”

Mary glares and steps up closer, getting in his face. “Maybe if you actually hired someone for front of house on Tuesdays, then I could actually focus back here!”

Dennis’ expression changes suddenly. He narrows his eyes at her and leans in closer. “What’s that?” he says, deathly quiet.

Mary huffs. “I said, you need to hire more—”

“You smell like alcohol.”

Everything comes to a stop as his words hit her like a bucket of ice water. Oh, fuck. She takes a step back, shaking her head. “What?” She scowls like that’s absurd, about to say something to deny it, but the words die on her lips when she sees the way Dennis is looking at her. He knows. Mary feels sick.

Dennis’ expression darkens further. “Are you drinking on the job, Mary?”

“No!” (what’s she supposed to do, tell the truth?)

“I don’t believe you.” He squares his jaw. “I’m calling Mr. Flaherty in.”

“What?!” 

“Two hundred dollars of wasted product? Drinking on the job?” He’s already walking over to the wall phone and picking it up. When he looks back in Mary’s direction, there’s a gleam in his eyes. Fucker never did like her. “I told him I thought you had a drinking problem, and now I have proof.”

“You don’t have shit!” Mary cries. She’s actually panicking though, as she watches him dial the number to call the bakery’s owner. 

“I have the security cameras,” he says, looking vindictively pleased. “We’ll check them. You’re gonna be out of a job.” 

Mary stands there and watches in horrified disbelief as Dennis calls Mr. Flaherty and tells him that he needs to have a word with him in person that afternoon about “something serious.” He doesn’t give details, and when the call ends and he hangs up the phone, he shoots Mary a smug look. “I’ll work the register so that you can finish your shift back here and not make any more stupid mistakes.” 

Mary scoffs, panicked and angry and sick to her stomach with what’s happening. “No way! Forget it!” She hurries to untie her apron and yank it off. “I’m not gonna stick around here for you to lie and get me fired. I quit!” She tosses the apron to the floor and stalks back to grab her purse from the office, too panicked to think straight. She cannot stay there and see poor old Mr. Flaherty watch video evidence of her drinking on the job. He’s always been so nice to her, and now she’s betrayed him and fucked everything up. She’s just ruined the only job she’s ever liked. 

Dennis is getting less and less angry and more gleeful about it. “Bye bye, Hot-Mess Mary,” he sneers. “Don’t bother coming back. We’ll mail you your last paycheck. Have a nice life.”

“Fuck you, Dennis!” she yells, though her voice comes out choked with emotion. She shoulders her purse and whirls around before there’s any chance of him seeing her tearing up. She hurries for the back door that leads out to the alleyway. It's heavy and metal, and she shoulders it open with a grunt, stepping out. “Jealous prick,” she says, only to hear him laugh meanly and call out from inside,

“Jealous? Of you? An alcoholic pervert?”

The heavy back door slams shut before she can answer, and there’s no handle on the outside. It takes approximately two point five seconds for her to burst out crying.

Steve

“Fuck, Honey, ugh.”

Steve digs his fingers into the meat of Bucky’s ass and shuffles closer on his knees. On the couch (whose cushions have since been put back into place), Bucky parts his legs even farther and Steve takes him in deeper. His other hand keeps nudging the toy that’s buried in his husband’s ass—the glass p-spot toy, because unlike Steve, Bucky loves firmness but hates vibrations up there. Steve’s been gently fucking him with it, nudging it against his prostate again and again, having found the perfect angle. Every grunt and moan that he gets out of Bucky has his own cock throbbing in his underwear, but he isn’t touching himself, is devoting every ounce of his attention to resolving the “problem” that Mary’s massage left Bucky with. 

“You know,” Bucky says, voice a little breathy as he speaks between groans. “I’m never gonna—nnh. Never gonna look at this couch again without thinking of her oily hands sliding all over my back."

Steve hums in agreement, the sound reverberating around Bucky’s cock and pulling another hiss from him. Steve pops off to glance upwards. “Me too,” he says, and they share a look of heated yearning, before he shakes it off and sinks his mouth back down on Bucky’s throbbing length.

He’s been dragging it out, having fun with it. But now it’s gotten sloppy and wet, and Steve’s jaw aches, and he really wants to make Bucky come so he can finally get a hand around himself. He hums around Bucky’s cock once more while he still can, then takes him all the way to the hilt, nose pressing into his pubes and throat spasming around the head.

“Oh! shit …” Bucky’s fingers dig sharply into Steve's scalp. His hips stutter up of their own accord, making Steve choke a little, but he soldiers on. Bucky makes a helpless little sound that is very close to a whimper, and which has Steve’s belly pulling tight with arousal. “Close, Baby. So close, fuck …”

Steve purposefully chokes himself, letting it hit the back of his throat again and again, swallowing compulsively. It gets him what he wants, which is for this blowjob to be over.

Above him, Bucky slumps further on the cushions and groans long and low, the tortured moan letting Steve know that he’s cresting that edge. He pulls back to suck hard on the head, abandoning the toy to the clenching of Bucky's ass so he can stroke him through it. He hums happily when he feels the pulse of Bucky’s cock on his tongue, the hot spurts of cum, the clenching of thighs muscle beneath his hands. Fuck, it’s sexy. 

Having been with the man for so long, Steve knows exactly when to ease off. He gentles his touch and stops sucking. He waits with Bucky’s softening cock in his mouth, not pulling off until the hands that were gripping him desperately a moment ago smooth gently through his hair in gratitude. Steve pulls off, keeps his mouth closed, doesn’t swallow. Bucky’s flushed and wet cock falls onto his belly, gorgeously swollen and spent. Steve’s staring at it covetously when Bucky gives a long, shaky exhale from above, tapering off in a satisfied groan. “Stevie,” he sighs happily. “Mmhh. Fuck. C’mere.” 

He pulls Steve up onto the couch, not satisfied until he’s got him in his lap. Steve straddles him and smiles with his mouth still closed. “Good boy,” Bucky whispers, reaching up to gently cup the front of his neck. His eyes are heavy lidded but still heated as he strokes his thumb over Steve’s windpipe. He loves to watch Steve swallow his cum, and that’s why Steve hasn’t yet, is waiting for his signal. He’s very good at making a show of it: dragging it out, eye contact, showing the load on his tongue if Bucky wants, swallowing slowly and obviously; really turning it into an act of obedience for his husband.

He’s surprised when Bucky doesn’t tell him to swallow. “Hold it,” he says instead, confusing Steve. Bucky grins devilishly and reaches down between their bodies. He returns with the glass toy in hand and holds it up. “Get it wet," he purrs.

And Steve’s entire body goes stiff as he re-remembers that he’s married to the filthiest man on the fucking planet.

Steve must be filthy too, though, because a massive wave of arousal sweeps through him as Bucky holds up the toy with a dirty smirk and commands him to wet it up—with his own cum. Steve almost feels lightheaded from how all the blood rushes to his cock and away from his brain. He groans through his mouthful of cum, and Bucky’s lips curl. “You heard me. Do it.”

He looks down and aims, letting his mouthful of cum slide out onto the tip of the glass toy that was buried in Bucky’s ass not ten seconds ago. It’s obscene, filthy, and that only makes his belly swirl that much harder as Bucky uses his flesh fingertips to spread the cum around lazily, coating the clear glass with his own sticky cum. “Good,” he praises, still smirking at Steve through half lidded eyes. “Now, put it in.” 

Steve groans and takes the toy from him. They haven’t done prep, but it’s a small, slim toy, and he knows it’ll slide in easily with the help of his husband’s own jizz slicking the way. Jesus Christ. He starts to move, intending to take his underwear off, but Bucky stops him with an amused shake of the head.

“Uh uh. Just pull ‘em aside and put it in. Keep your briefs on.”

“Fuck.” He listens, reaching back to pull his underwear to the side and press the head of the toy to his rim. He works it inside, eyelids fluttering when it pops past the muscle and glides in smoothly. “Oh,” he sighs, letting his underwear snap back and shifting his hips to feel the stretch against his rim, the heavy curve of it settling into place against his prostate. “Fuck.” He starts rocking his hips in tiny motions to work it inside him, barely-there sounds of pleasure escaping him each time it does. “Ooh, Buck,” he breathes. He doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until Bucky startles him with a kiss, growling and tugging him in close by the back of the neck. “Mmph!”

Their lips clash in a harsh, demanding kiss, Bucky taking possession of it and gripping the back of his neck hard to keep him still. Steve pants and whines and takes it, hips juddering forward to grind his aching dick against Bucky’s stomach. Each dominating swipe of Bucky’s tongue into his mouth makes him ache for more. “Buck,” he pants, right against Bucky's lips, where he's shamelessly kissing his messy mouth. “Baby, oh, please?”

“Yeah?” His hand cups Steve from over his underwear, squeezing the line of his erection. “You’re so fucking amazing, you know that?” he husks, dipping under the waistband to curl his fingers around him. “Make me feel so good, fuck, I love you.”

Steve moans and rests his forehead on Bucky's naked shoulder, looking down to watch. He whines when he sees that it’s the metal hand—which he already knew by feel, but the sight of it is a whole other level of hot. Steve thinks of it like a knife kink, or a gun kink: seeing something so steely and dangerous that close to him, wrapped around and working him, giving him pleasure. The sight of all that black and gold metal on his cock makes his belly clamp down hard in need. “Oh fuck, ” he breathes. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah, Sweetheart.” Bucky kisses his ear and breathes hotly against him as he pumps and twists his hand, going tight just the way Steve likes. It’s messy from the precum that Steve’s dick keeps blurting out, and he whimpers at the soft, wet sounds it begins making. “I know,” Bucky whispers. “You get so worked up. I love that. Big fat cock n’ balls, but you wet up for me just like a girl, dontcha' Sweetheart? Bet you started right down there on your knees, too. Hard and leaking just from sucking me off, making a mess in your panties.” Steve groans in embarrassment and Bucky snickers. “Aw, don’t try to deny it. I saw that boner when you crawled on up here. Saw the wet spot on those tighty-whities, too.” Playfully, he snaps the elastic band of Steve’s underwear against his hip. “You get off on it. Pretty little cocksucker.”

Steve humps into his fist, which between how slick it is and how tightly Bucky’s gripping him, feels fucking amazing. “Nnuhh,” he moans, “I get off on you. You were so—fuck, mmph—so hard when she left. I f-felt bad for you.”

Bucky growls and strokes faster. “Don’t be patronizing, baby. I saw the state she left you in. At least I had the excuse of getting rubbed down.” He snickers lowly and presses another kiss to Steve's ear. “She wasn’t even touching you.”

“Fuck,” Steve says tightly, as he recalls the image of Mary sitting on the bed with Bucky, rubbing his naked back with her oiled hands—Her tiny oiled hands, that would look so good on their cocks. Fuck, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast. He pants, trying to get words out. “I—nuhh, oh. I wanted to—mmm …”

Bucky bites his earlobe. “Wanted to what? Tell me.”

“Wanted to watch her give you a happy ending,” he grunts. “Tell you to turn over n’ watch her jerk you off.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, voice dark and interested. “Mm. You miss women.” Steve whines and nods in lieu of an answer. “Well maybe we’ll get a third sometime. A special treat. Only this time we'll get a girl, take turns fucking her. Maybe I’ll even have her fuck you with a strap-on.” Steve moans and kisses him dirtily, and Bucky reciprocates, hand leaving Steve’s cock so he can hold his jaw with both hands. 

Steve whimpers and his hips keep moving, chasing the friction that isn’t there anymore. “Buck,” he breaks off from the kiss to beg. “Please. Please. I need to cum.”

Bucky smiles and takes pity on him, but he switches up his hands, using the flesh one on Steve’s cock so that he can squeeze even more, really wringing up hard and thumbing under the head on every stroke. Steve sobs and sits back, bracing on Bucky’s shoulders and watching himself fuck into clench of his fist. “Yeah,” he moans. “Oh, God. Fuck yeah, just like that.”

“How’s that toy feel?” Bucky reaches his other hand underneath and taps against the glass toy’s base a few times— ‘tap, tap, tap,’ —humming in satisfaction when Steve cries out and ruts desperately into his fist. “Ooh,” he goads. “It feels that good, huh?” Tap, tap, tap. “It that gonna make you cum?”

“Nnnh.” Steve nods tightly, hips working hard. “Yeah, oh. Yeah. M’gonna. Ohgn…”” 

His balls draw up tight and his cock jerks when Bucky takes hold of the toy’s base and starts slowly pulling it out. That feeling against his rim is what does it, pushing him over the edge and making the pleasure coalesce and snap.

He cries out sharply as he shoots, his body straining and hips pulsing, ribbons of white cum striping over Bucky’s naked stomach, one after another.

“Fuck, Honey. So beautiful. Fuck that’s a lot. Fuck. Lookit’ you, big boy.”

His cooing praise drags it out longer, and by the time Steve’s dick is spent and softening again, he’s collapsed forward against Bucky, mess of cum between them be damned. He rests his head on his shoulder and hugs him while he recovers. “Fuck,”  pants, closing his eyes and enjoying the sheer relief of it all. “That was good. I needed that.”

Bucky hums and rubs his back. “Me too.”

When they finally peel themselves off each other, they’re faced with two wet, spent dicks, and the mess of cum that did not magically disappear just because Steve wanted it to. He sighs and climbs off the couch.

“Shower,” Bucky decides, and goes into the bathroom with Steve following behind. He starts the water running and shucks his joggers that he'd only just pulled back up. “Feel like we were just doin’ this,” he complains.

“That’s cause we were.” Steve pads over and stands against him, leaning in, chest to chest.

Bucky leans against the wall and wraps his arms around Steve’s lower back while they wait for the water to warm up. “Do you really want a threesome?” he asks. “Like we used to do?" 

Steve sighs and presses his forehead into Bucky’s chest. His first inclination is to say yes. They used to sleep with men, have threesomes a few times a year, for fun. They’d only stopped because they’d mutually fallen into contentment with married life. But Steve realizes it’s the way Bucky’s framed it: does he want to have threesomes again. With a girl. And the answer is no. Steve doesn’t want to have 'a threesome' anymore, with 'a girl', or 'a guy'. He doesn’t want anything casual. He says as much, and groans into Bucky’s skin. “I just want her,” he says. “I want it to be serious, and I want it with her.”

Bucky strokes his back, not saying anything for a long minute. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. “Me too.” 

Steve makes a mournful sound in his throat. “Can’t we try? Maybe ask her out on a date? She might come around if she doesn’t feel like we’re just trying to jump her bones straight away, y’know? We’ve never really had that time with her. It went straight from ‘how do you do’ to moving her in here with us.” Bucky’s chest rises and falls with a deep inhale, and his hands have stopped moving on Steve’s back, which is how Steve knows he's really thinking about it. “Buck?” he tries. “C’mon. Let’s just give it a shot. Linda said she needs sex anyways, and I know you don’t like the idea of her with another man.”

Against him, bucky growls grumpily.

“Just one more try,” Steve pleads. “Let’s just tell her upfront we have feelings for her and that we’d like to court her.”

Bucky snorts. "'Court’?”

Steve whaps him and pulls his head back. “You know what I mean. Nice stuff. Take her out, buy her flowers.” 

“I know what you mean.”

They stare in each other's eyes as Steve reaches over to feel the shower water. It's warm. “It’ll be her choice," he says. "We won’t be bossy.”

“Kind of hard not to be bossy when she thrives on that.”

Steve gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “Yeah I know what you mean.” He pulls the curtain and goes to step into the shower, but Steve stops him from behind with a hand on his arm—his left one. “And this,” he says, looking at him with authority. “Let me take this off. And you keep it it off around the house like you used to do.” He watches the brief reluctance that plays out on Bucky’s face, but is relieved when his husband doesn’t turn it into a fight. “Thank you, babe,” he says, taking the arm off and setting it out on their bed before returning to the bathroom. Bucky’s in the shower, so he steps in and stands with him under the spray. He wraps his arms around Bucky from behind, letting his left hand drag up over his stomach and chest, up to the anchor site where it meets his pec. “You can be a good Dom without it, you know,” he murmurs. 

“... I know. It was silly.”

He kisses Bucky’s shoulder. “Not silly. I love you.” In his arms, Bucky’s body bleeds all its tension and he lets a little bit of his weight come back through Steve, who kisses his neck again. “Tonight?” he asks, knowing that Bucky will know what he means. 

Bucky nods. “Tonight.”

Bucky

“A bar?!”

"Yeah. Leave me alone."

Bucky stares helplessly as Mary kicks off her shoes and walks (stumbles, is more like it) through the apartment and back towards her bedroom. The conversation they've just had was short and completely non-productive, other than that it's got Bucky feeling like he's on the verge of blowing up. “Mare, stop! Come back here.”

She throws him the finger over her shoulder and pushes into her bedroom, shutting the door harshly behind her. Bucky growls and starts for the hallway, but Steve stops him with a hand to his shoulder, pulling him back. “Hang on, Babe.”

“She’s drunk!” Bucky hisses, turning furious eyes to Steve. “Been missing for hours and now this?! How did she even get it?”

“I know, I know.”

Bucky snarls, mad at Steve for being so fucking calm. “Did you give her her ID back?!”

“No! Don’t be stupid, babe.”

His eyes cut over, sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “She’s thirty Hon. I’m sure there are plenty of bartenders who’d serve her without checking.”

“Well that’s just, just …” Bucky sputters, struggling to find the words. “There have to be consequences!” He starts for the hall again but Steve grabs him and pulls him back and into a restraining hug. Bucky kind of wants to hit him. “Steve!”

“Shh,” Steve says. “Sh sh, just hang on a second. Take a deep breath.” He holds him tightly, rubbing his back and nosing at his neck, and Bucky realizes that Steve is employing some of the things he’s learned at the CDP, trying to calm him down.

He blinks, noticing how hot his face feels, how fast his pulse is thrumming underneath his skin. He exhales shakily, feeling bad. “Fuck. I'm ..."

"Yeah."

"Sorry.” 

“S’okay,” Steve whispers. “Maybe today’s not the best day, after all.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over in the direction of the kitchen table. “Better get rid of those, then,” he grunts, referring to the flowers Steve had picked up at the bodega for Mary.

“I will. And we’ll figure this out, find out what happened, and talk to her another day, okay? We'll get new flowers.” 

“No, not okay,” Bucky insists, his anxiety ratcheting up again as he thinks of the state Mary just came home in. “We need to deal with her.” 

Steve pulls back and meets his eyes, and Bucky feels like an asshole all over again. “What do you need?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky grits his teeth. To spank the ever loving shit outta that girl, he thinks but doesn’t say. He knows better than that, even on the verge of an episode, he can tell that he’s not being logical. He closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths, pulls away from Steve because he’s embarrassed. “Nothin’.”

“Hey, it’s okay to need—”

“It’s not,” Bucky snaps, walking over to the couch and dumping himself onto it. He feels kind of sick—likely his blood pressure making him nauseous. “How am I supposed to be a good Dom for her when I can’t even keep myself in check? Christ.” He shoves his face into his hand. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

Steve takes a minute, and when he approaches Bucky it’s with a gentle, careful expression that Bucky hates. “Babe, you know that makes no sense, right?” Bucky just grunts and Steve says, “That's like a diabetic saying they should have better willpower to control their insulin levels.”

Bucky glares at him for the trite comparison, wants to snap at his husband to stop quoting CDP literature at him. But that’d be nasty, and he bites his tongue. “No,” he grunts.

“You got told by Linda that you’re not giving her enough, not doing enough to meet her needs, and it’s been days since you really went up. You think I can't see that her drops aren't doing it for you now? You're too in tune with her. You both need more. And I should’ve seen this coming.” Steve sinks down to the carpet in front of him and kneels there reaching to rub his palms over the tops of Bucky’s thighs.

Bucky scowls at the gesture. “That’s not your job,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m your husband,” Steve says, almost authoritatively, even though he’s keeping his voice soft and calm like the Center professionals taught him. “It’s my job to take care of you, always.” He rubs Bucky’s tense muscles from over his jeans. “Babe, c’mon. Let me help you.”

Bucky closes his eyes and counts to twenty. When he opens them again, Steve’s still there, waiting. Bucky reaches out and cups his face.

Steve presses into it. “Sir,” he whispers, eyes lowered.

Bucky feels so guilty at that, even as he can feel his blood pressure lowering from the small display of subservience. “I love you,” he says.

Steve smiles softly and squeezes his hands over Bucky’s knees. “I know.”

Bucky sighs. He releases Steve and slumps back into the couch cushions, feeling like the biggest burden. “I should call and book someone,” he says. Steve’s not a submissive and he shouldn’t have to play that role just to fulfill Bucky’s medical needs. Linda’s helped him come to terms with that over the years. Steve, the self-sacrificing punk, would do it anyway, but Bucky knows when he needs to ask for outside help. “Nathan can usually take me last minute.” Steve nods and stands up, brings Bucky his cellphone to make the call. He sits on the couch with him and pulls Bucky to lie with his head in his lap as he calls the Center and makes an appointment. “Okay,” he says when he’s done, tossing the phone aside. “Six-thirty. He’s coming in after hours just for little old me.”

“Good.”

Bucky’s eyes cut sideways towards the bedroom hallway. Their plans for the night are ruined, and if he didn’t have himself to deal with right now, he’d be hard pressed to keep himself from going in Mary’s room, trying to scold her. “What about her?” he asks glumly.

Steve snorts. “Little miss drunk? She’s probably passed out. Don’t worry about it. Besides,” he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair.  “Can’t reason with someone when they’re like that. Discussion, punishment, scening? That’ll all have to wait until tomorrow, at least.”

Bucky makes a face and tries not to let his dominance start spiraling out of control again. “She’s going to AA.” Steve hums, and when Bucky looks up and catches his expression, Steve looks like he’s worrying for his safety. “Tomorrow,” he insists, obstinate. “I’ll take the day from work if I have to. Drag her there myself.”

“Maybe no dragging."

"Steve,"

"Linda first,” Steve suggests gently. “That’s a better first step, hm?” Bucky grunts, grumpy about it but knowing Steve’s right. He nods, and Steve runs kind hands through his hair. “Okay, good. That’s settled. Don’t have to think about it any more tonight.” He bends down and pecks a quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “So, six-thirty?”

“Mmhm.”

“An hour. … You want to help me get dinner started before you go?”

Bucky nods, turning and pressing his face into Steve’s lower belly, rubbing his cheek against his soft tee shirt and warm body. “Love you,” he mumbles, feeling sheepish from his outburst before. He knows it’s not his fault, but he still feels inordinately grateful to have Steve supporting him. “You ever get tired of all this drama?”

“Shuddup,” Steve chuckles.

“Mm. You should leave me for a normie." He’s got his eyes closed against Steve’s stomach, but feels the reproachful pinch on his neck. “Ow.”

“If I’d wanted a normie, I’d have married a normie,” Steve scolds. He pets over where he pinched. “And apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, cause I’ve got my sights set on another one’a you jerks. This is just a setback. We’ll let her sober up, you’ll go see the Pro, and then when everybody’s in the right frame of mind, we’ll deal with it. Now come on.” He pats Bucky on the back. “Mary's not the only one who can navigate a kitchen. I’ve got a recipe for chicken piccata we can try.”

Bucky sighs. He’s so fucking in love with Steve, and he’s never got any good way to say it. There's nothing. Wedding vows barely scratched the surface. “Okay,” he says, because what else is there to do but agree? Like most times, Bucky knows his more level-headed husband is right about this.

They get up and go into the kitchen to start pulling the ingredients for chicken piccata, and Bucky is able to keep his mouth shut for a full five minutes before his anxiety ratchets back up and he returns to haranguing Steve about confronting Mary—possibly later that night.

*Next chapter starts out IMMEDIATELY with the big confrontation and beginning of their romantic and sexual relationship, so I promise y'all won't have to wait much longer!

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[luffyvace]

Tanjiro x male reader<3

Tanjiro x male reader won second place in the poll!! :) enjoy tanjiro stans<3

Starting back at the final selection let’s say that’s when you met

just to clear things up

and you two started dating some time after that

of course eventually making it official

tanjiro was quite flustered when he realized his sexuality might be different from tradition

but he wasn’t afraid to be bi/gay/pan or anything

he just thought- ..! Actually he never really thought of that type of thing..

I mean he was kinda too young

but now that your together!

he has time to figure it all out :)

tanjiro is such a sweet lover!

and helpful!

and caring!

(Really he’s a ball of love)

if you feel tired he carries you

(Even if your both beat up after a mission)

if you need water he’ll spare you some of his or go fetch some

And he’s always down to spar at any type of day!

I will say he’s not thinking about you in that way when you take your shirt off

but when you do he definitely admires you!

you might have abs seeing as though the demon slayer corps has………...harsh (brutal) training 😅

if you do then he sees it as a result of your hard work!

same with scars!

especially with scars<3

he can 100% relate and you two share stories about each one

if you have any—you probably trauma bond

you guys just end up talking all night long about your past, everything that happened, your pain, whether you want revenge or not and so on!

It strengthens your trust and relationship with each other

btw if anyone asks why your together as two males or how you know you actually like men..

tanjiro will humbly and politely educate (lecture) them on how important you are to each other, how you met, why/when you started dating and even if they don’t like it, it’s simple to walk away instead of disrespecting your relationship!

I hope y’all don’t run into uzui..

(y’all do)

that man has THREE wives why wouldn’t he question when he sees you two?? 😬🧍‍♀️

tanjiro had to hit em with the quick fix cuz when I tell you he did not let that slide 😂

especially with how slick uzui mouth be gettin..😒

Tanjiro also has learned to adjust to scavenging for food (he grew crops with his mom)

as well as inosuke (he grew up in the wild) and zenitsu (he used to have crops with his sensei)

so if you can too, great!

if not the 3 of them work together to make the 4 of you meals

and after they learn how to stop burning them

theyre pretty tasty too!!

don’t expect inosuke to share.

do expect inosuke to take

-note to self, m/n.

zenitsu doesn’t see the attraction to males instead of females

he won’t judge but will ask you two if your sure your into males

and after tanjiro gives him that lecture about being respectful-

he doesn’t question it again

LOL

inosuke straight up don’t care

he doesn’t really view relationships in a romantic way

its more so between “they’re beneath me” , “they’re above me, I must beat them”

so no worries about him judging either 😋

if nezuko doesn’t like you

it’s not to say tanjiro won’t date you because of it

but I’ll honestly say it plays a factor

If sweet nezuko doesn’t like you it prob means something..🤨

she has good instincts so tanjiro might start to assume you have ill intent or smth 😬

he’ll try to get her to like you and if she warms up to you he assumes it might’ve been personal 😂🤷‍♀️

but if she doesn’t..

he finds you like 30% less attractive🧍‍♀️

if she does like you from jump, she starts to protect you as well

and loves to spend time with you when she’s outside her box

tanjiro adores this and you three cuddle or play in each other’s hair whenever you have the time

It also makes him happy if you accept nezuko as a demon quickly

after missions tanjiro finds you, nezuko, zenitsu and inosuke

then cries

like your all just a crying mess tbh

i mean unless your like emotionally unavailable..

BC I DON’T SEE HOW YOU COULD NOT CRY AS A MINOR WHO HAS TO KILL LITERAL HORRIFYING BEASTS FOR A LIVING?!?!?!?

Tanjiro will help you achieve your goals as you likely help him achieve his

even more so after that night you had where you opened up to each other about your past

(again, only if you have truama)

tanjiro is really grateful for you

before all he had was nezuko

and aside from zenitsu and inosuke

now he has you!! 💗

tanjiro’s love languages are acts of service, quality time, words of affirmation and (shy) physical touch

actually maybe some gift giving when he can too!!

so all?!

such a green flag 💖

for acts of service as I said he’ll genuinely do any sane thing you ask of him

he cares about you that much

he won’t bother to complain about being tired either

he automatically assumes your either doing worse or he’s fine

as for quality time he gets really relieved when he gets sent on missions with you

at least he can be there to see and protect you

(or maybe vice versa 😂)

he’d beat himself up about not being able to protect you more if you get serious injures

tends to your wounds everyday then trains vigorously

to get stronger and protect you as you fight along side him when he fights muzan

if your gonna fight along side him in that battle? He’s gonna need to be strong enough to protect you.

he doesn’t want to loose you.

especially not to that man.

he lost everything to him.

he won’t let it happen again.

💗💕💖🍡♥︎

for quality time outside of missions ✌︎('ω')✌︎

tanjiro likes to train, cuddle, go on walks, go shopping, chit chat :)

All that good stuff <3

with words of affirmation he really just praises you all the time

”you did your best today in training! I could tell! :D”

“You look great today m/n!! I’m glad your wearing the (favorite men’s jewelry piece) I got you!”

”I can definitely tell your getting stronger, m/n!!!”

c:

it can also be

“get a good nights sleep, m/n! I love you!”

”be careful on your mission okay? I love you, m/n!”

“thank goodness we surviveeeeed!!! I love you m/n!! I love you so much!!”

now lastly for (shy) physical touch

he is nervous to touch you

he doesn’t wanna make you uncomfortable, yes that’s the last thing he wants

he doesn’t know how to execute it so he ends up either asking or making it very obvious of what he’s trying to do

that way you can shut him down early on just in case

and you won’t feel pressured to let him if you dislike affection

which mind you he does asks if your okay with it first

so that’s likely not the case

if you did mention your distaste for physical affection, however, it’s duly noted in his mind and will keep it to a minimum

your gonna have to discuss boundaries or else he’s gonna act like you have the plague trying not to upset you 🤦‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Tanjiro doesn’t dislike pda or anything

he’s just a bit embarrassed about it

maybe if it’s more subtle like resting your head on his shoulder, then yeah that’s okay!

hugging too!!

but direct kissing or hand holding?

his face is a cherry and he’s apologizing to the passerbyers for disturbing them

even if they don’t mind

he’s self aware when it comes to not disturbing others

tanjiro can be a little flustered/shy about things but he’s certainly isn’t embarrassed about your relationship!

he’s quite proud, actually!

will happily tell/correct anyone that asks or misjudges♡♡♡

It’ll make me happy if you enjoyed this, so hopes to you did!

(apologies for the procrastination, and thank you for your patience lovelies!)

[marc--chilton]

house md warrior cats au. house is unaffiliated with clan cats, claiming he prefers loner life due to his kittypet heritage that leaves him open for clan-typical prejudices. still, sometimes he can be persuaded to be a hired cat for clans swept through with surprise illness or those without a medicine cat -- he's fickle but he bores easily, too, so he can bear some jeering in exchange for something to do. the only clan leader that seems to like him somewhat is codstar (cuddy) (cudstar is too unfortunate a name for her she's too pretty to be named president barf)

i'm thinking...... house used to be in plainsclan [codstar's clan, before she was leader] until his leg. maybe it wasn't an infarction, maybe a snake bite, maybe an infected wound?? either way he was out of commission and his judgment on his own treatment was not trusted (despite literally being a medicine cat) and instead deferred to those closest to him -- his best friend, codstar, and his mate, stillsight (stacy. like 'stay-see'. i thought actually saying 'staysee' but that looks awful like incredibly caucasian take on the name stacy)

as he was the only medicine cat at the time, no one's actually sure if them doing as house said while fevered and ill would have given him a better outcome than he got, but as it is, he's left with a lame leg that never stops hurting and the sick feeling of betrayal in his fur. he leaves the clan and stillsight steps down from her position as deputy. at least they remembered poppy seeds were for pain and had set some aside for him.

the little area house claims for his territory he uses to tend to his own personal poppy garden at the cost of not being able to stray too far from it. over time, though he takes more than he replants, flowers are ruined by bugs or disease, and he needs new seeds. how convenient that he remembers seeing some poppies in one of these yards.... all he has to do is swipe some before the twolegs or pets of the place catch him.

well that's how he met wilson. pretty as a showkitty and meowing through the mesh covering the patio -- a catio, ha. "hey, careful with those, too many of them can knock you out." which isn't really how house thought that would go but okay.

because like. duh. i know medicine, just look at me (house, looking haggard as hell from chronic pain + withdrawal)

"(sarcastically) yes, thank you.... (pretends to read wilson's collar tag from an entire backyard away, yes they're just meowing from like 20 ft away) princess, but i know my way around medicine. it's kinda my thing."

and wilson, unfazed, just. "that's not my name. you look like you know your way around medicine. if you didn't have that edge of desperation i'd assume you're overdosing, so i guess you're leaning the other way? withdrawal? so if you take as many as i think you have right now, you're gonna overdose since your resistance is down, and i'd really not want the kid of this house to find a dead kitty cat in the flowerbed."

and house just blinks. because holy fuck that sounded?? intelligent???? he's heard countless kittypets cry about the wild cats eating kittypet bones when the notion is downright stupid, because when has a cat even been able to digest other cat bones

needless to say house doesn't just hang around that yard for the poppy flowers.

[puckpocketed]

i just hate when players do this and people call them “warriors” i know you wanna play in the playoffs to help your team but YOUR FINGERS ARE LITERALLY BROKEN MY GUY THEY COULD NEVER GROW BACK TOGETHER THE RIGHT WAY im crying

my poor cringefail wifes i love them all so much i hope they all take the rest they need

GOD I hope they get rest too :((

breaking soooo much character right now to give my fullest take, and it’s that we can hold multiple ideas in our minds and i don’t think they conflict

playing through injuries is terrible.

They are whole adult human beings and professional athletes who have resources to keep them informed about long term consequences, and they still get to make those choices even if we hate the choices they make. Even if those choices drastically reduce the length of their career. Even if those choices end with long term heath complications.

i might lose some people on this one but i don’t care!! it’s what I believe: being disabled or chronically ill/injured/in pain is not a death sentence. it is not the worst thing in the world. people live full and happy lives whilst also being disabled. can it suck for the person living through it? yes. absolutely. but to me, people are not and never will be defined by how able-bodied they are!!!

All of this is true (to me) and also we can still condemn the circumstances that cause them to make these choices. (culture of not wanting to be seen as soft, the normalisation/valorisation of playing through injury, all the other [gestures wildly] forces at play that set athletes up to make these decisions) Like i’m sorry to get political but choices do not exist in vacuums. sports does not exist separated from hegemonic models of masculinity or capitalism. there are so so so many reasons a player might choose to harm themselves by playing through injury and not all of them are noble or valid, some of them are stupid and informed by bullshit!!! and we should be mad at that bullshit!! because it’s awful!!!!

these are their jobs, and i’m talking in the sense that they are performing labour and i think labour laws and workplace health and safety must apply here too. I think we have to start talking about these things in terms of workers rights, in amongst all of the compassion we have for them as players. there’s the pressure to perform due to contract status and salary bonus milestones; there’s team doctors having direct conflicts of interest, a monetary and cultural incentive to look the other way when clearing people to play; there’s the plain fact of the best possible safety equipment (cages/bowls, neck guards, cut resistant protective gear) not being mandatory; the blatant denial of CTE coming from the league itself. there’s a lot. and it’s a workers rights issue, not just a moral one. someone will play through xyz because of the culture, because of the pressure, and they will die from it.

EVEN STILL. there is beauty and narrative resonance and something compelling about it all, and I don’t want to deny that. as someone looking from the outside in, sports captures people’s hearts because of these narratives. sacrifice and teamwork and triumph — we have an appetite for these things. I am never going to sit here and deny that I feel compelled by it (which is simultaneous to the anger, the fear, the deep deep well of “i’m sorry you have feel you have to do this”) This appetite I/we as a society have for pain — unpacking it and addressing it is a whole other conversation and I am not qualified to have it. I’m just going to acknowledge it exists because I think pretending it doesn’t would be dishonest of me.

we are allowed to feel fucked up about all of this. call it parasocial, call it entitled, call it inappropriate, i don’t know!! we are people and knowing other people are in pain tends to fuck us up — and as much as I try to keep a healthy distance from these celebrities, as much as I remind myself they’re strangers, I care when they’re hurt because I’m human.

anyway. YES OUR POOR CRINGEFAIL WIVES 😭🤲

[pinkgy]

Hello, a new writing blog with great writing!

How about some NSFW headcanons for the paradise lost demons (whb)? I'm not sure if you write for them since the request rules don't really specify it, so feel free to just ignore this if you don't.

Have a nice day!

Hi Anon !

Yes, I do write for every character from every of the fandoms listed in my request post.

I’m sorry if my headcanons might lack a bit of accuracy or are not as specific as the ones I wrote for the kings, we don’t know much yet about the Paradise lost demons so I’m writing this based of on my opinion, some investigation and the little content we’ve seen in the game so far about them.

Hope you like it and thank you so much for your request♡

𝗪𝗛𝗕 !

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗧

𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

GN!Reader + Reader has a pussy + Slight mentions of She/Her pronouns in Buer’s.

𝗖𝗪: Overstimulation, Edging, Dacryphilia, Shibari, Toys (Vibrators), Praising, Degradation, Blowjobs, Handjobs, Lingerie, Somnophilia.

𝗟𝗨𝗖𝗜𝗙𝗘𝗥

⇒ He's a Top without a doubt, there's no debating in this, he would get mad at you if you dared to suggest the idea of him being a sub.

⇒ Lucifer is actually pretty sweet, yes, he does a lot of questionable things while "pleasuring you" but he never does anything that hurt you too much, you have a safe word and many other ways where you can communicate to him any discomfort you might have and he Iso gives the best aftercare.

⇒ He's into shibari, this mostly because this way he can have you all to his mercy so he can toy with you for hours until your face is covered in tears.

⇒ He's the worst when he overstimulates you or when he edges you, by doing that he forgets any kind of limits you have set for him, you can beg him to stop, he won't, the more you cry, the more he does it. If he is eating your pussy while he aggressively thrusts his fingers in and out and you are sobbing and telling him to stop, he is going to do it faster, harder and way for aggresively.

⇒ There's no such a thing as normal sex with him, he's into a lot of shit, one crazier than the other, and he's also pretty good at analyzing you and he can figure out pretty quickly the things you like, and Lucifer will also be into those things.

⇒ "You say that it's too much ? Well, this cunt tells me overwise, and those beautiful tears all over your face don't seem to be out of pain, so don't lie to me and give me one more

𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗔𝗦

⇒ Marbas confuses me, he technically cant be freed from his restraints without Lucifers permission because his libido and violence are to dangerous for EVERYONE, but for the sake of this headcanon, lets say that he's not that bad when he's free. (ill include some headcanons where he's tied up tho, thats literally his kink)

⇒ Marbas is a Top, the fact that he's into being tied up does not means he subs, he definitely doesn't.

⇒ He would tie you up if you begged enough or as a punishment, but you better appreciate it, it doesn’t happen as often as you’d think.

⇒ He loves when you use toys on him while hes tied up, specially those wired bullet vibrators, he's soooo into being defenseless in front of you.

⇒ When he's tied up he loves being overstimulated, suck his dick nonstop or furiously rub it it up and down or play with his dick head, the sight of your face covered in his cum makes him go crazy.

⇒ But in spite of this headcanons, he tops, a l w a y s, you can have him tied up and ruining him with a bunch of bullet vibrators attached to his dick, he's dominating you somehow.

⇒ "Do i look that weak to you ? speed up that vibrator right fucking now or else im not fucking you"

𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗔𝗫

⇒ I don’t know why, but he gives switch vibes, but is leaning towards subbing.

⇒ Morax likes to be taken care of but not to the point of being a pillow prince.

⇒ Omg praise him please, he’ll become the whiniest boy out there, tell him how beautiful he is when he cums or how cute his moans are.

⇒ He’ll do anything for you, if you want him to completely submit to you, he will, and if you want him to fuck you senseless and completely rail you, he will, Morax is the definition of being into what you’re into.

⇒ As his kink says, he’s into body modifications, if you have one, he’ll go crazy, and if you don’t, that’s fine for him. But if you wanted to get one, even if it’s temporary, just to please him, you’ll drive him crazy, not because of the modification, but because of the intention.

⇒ “Just tell me, whatever you want me to do, just tell me, I’m yours, every part of me is your property, I’m here to please you and only you”

𝗕𝗨𝗘𝗥

⇒ He’s neither a dom nor a sub, but he’s not a switch, he just likes to feel good and likes to make you feel good, but he tends to get a bit dominant sometimes.

⇒ Wear fluffy lingerie, bonus points if it’s animal themed. (I don’t see him being into pet play tho, but who knows)

⇒ Buer is a box full of surprises, you never know his next move, he can be kissing you in the most romantic way possible, and then suddenly he’s spitting in your mouth.

⇒ Buer has something that makes me believe that he’s into somnophilia, but receiving it, he likes to challenge you to make him cum without waking him up, and the feeling of having his pants wet with his cum makes him go crazy.

⇒ He would love a pillow princess, to just please her and only her for hours, that’s a big fantasy of his.

⇒ “We have all the time in the world, so for this night and every night you want, so let me be the one that makes you feel the best you’ve ever felt”

[fatuismooches]

I've written a few pieces about Dottore with a fragile! reader which you can see here, here, and here. I wanted to expand on this concept a bit because the brainrot is real.

You befriended Dottore at the Akademiya (I think the same reader from this piece too) and life was good. Those 20-page papers were a pain but dorming with your lover made it all better.

Until you begin to feel a bit off. Headaches become more frequent, and you start to feel a bit more dizzy than usual, but you chalk it up to just stress. Being a scholar is no easy task, after all. At first, Dottore seems to believe this as well too. (He has forced you to down the most disgusting medicine to make you feel better after all.)

Only this time, the medicine seems to have no effect. All you can hear during the lectures is the pounding of your head and ringing of your ears. After classes, the only thing you can manage to do is flop down onto your bed while you listen to Dottore fiddle with some parts. He doesn’t let you leave until you feel better. It may be some kind of new bug going around, he hypothesizes.

Even after a while, you don’t feel better. It feels like your whole body aches if you even move a muscle. The food tastes like nothing and you struggle to hold your hand still to even write a sentence. The worst part is that you can’t hide your predicament from your lover. You two literally live together in the Akademiya after all. The only thing that baffles your lover, is that he can’t seem to understand your sudden condition. He makes you stay in the room and forbids you from doing anything extraneous. 

The only problem is, you have missed dozens of classes already. And whenever you go, the professor always ends up calling you out in front of the whole class for your dropping eyelids. The less-than-polite words of your fellow scholars ring in your ears.

So it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when the higher-ups tell you that they’re kicking you out of the school. If only the Akademiya actually cared about their students. You’re very, very, very tired on the way back from the office, holding onto the walls for support. As much as you want to stay with Dot, since you were kicked out, you can’t live in the dorms anymore. You feel far too ill to live by yourself much less get a job, so your only choice is the local hospital.

Perhaps this is where the more… illegal activities begin. Hospital fees are no joke, you know. Someone had to pay to keep you there, and neither you nor Dottore had that kind of money. So really, no one would notice if a few people started disappearing, right? Dottore’s always wanted to dissect a human body. It would be quite educational as well as worth the money. And the classmates who made fun of you? They’d meet a similar fate.

But the doctors there aren’t much help either. So you just spend your days either by yourself, maybe passing the time with a book he lent you, or with Dottore whenever he visits. Runs tests on you without the staff knowing because there’s no way he’s trusting them, but it was to no avail. You let Zandik do what he wants because it was hard for you to care much anymore.

Also - you bawling your eyes out about how miserable you feel because of this stupid sickness. It ruined your life. You can’t do anything by yourself anymore. Your smile is virtually gone. What if he leaves you, you cry. You’re useless to him. It’s at this point, that Dottore swears that he would cure whatever illness you were afflicted with. No matter the process or the atrocities that he would need to commit. No matter who gets hurt. No matter the insults that get hurled at him. He would see to it that you were back on your two feet, cooking, fighting, studying, whatever you wanted.

Also - Dottore bringing you to Snezhnaya after Pierro recruits him. Only thing is that you’re in a coma at this point so you don’t wake up until a few years later. Waking up to the sight of three other Dottores’ in the room almost shocked you back to sleep. At this point with all the fancy technology and funds he has, your health has been better than your school days.

Also - the clones kind of being in awe of you. All they’ve seen of you is your sleeping form. Only Prime actually knew you. So that’s why you always have at least one of them following you around wherever you go. Prime is amused at this. Okay, and remember when the Omega Dot said that he was the most selfish clone of them all?? Him hogging you from the other clones. Nah because I don’t think he likes the other clones very much. Wants to keep you to himself so the clones absolutely dread whenever Prime leaves them alone. He hates when you ask the other clones for things. Smirk drops rather quickly.

[camlovesjace]

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her.

Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!fem Targtower. Part two, -part one, here:

https://www.tumblr.com/camlovesjace/747473041907449856/no-grave-can-hold-my-body-down-ill-crawl-home-to?source=share

WARNING: war stuff, violence, grief, etc. SINOPSIS: Cellys thinks Jacaerys is dead, the whole kingdom mourns the crowned prince while the war pushes everyone and everything apart. All must choose.

The days were a torture, the nights even more. His face seemed to haunt her anywhere she could look at, his honey eyes, those who capture her whole heart and tempted her to worship him until her last breathe. The lords were ashamed, like if the biggest burden were resting on theirs shoulders, and how could they not feel like that? Even the white haired girl felt ashamed, ashamed of being alive while Jace wasn´t. It felt totally wrong...to be in a world without his presence, to know that her name will never come out of his mouth, that his hands will never touch her again, that his gaze will never find her own in this lifetime once again.

Aegon and her mother moved from forced to stay into her bechambers to force her to get out of them, but Cellys wasn't really interested in keep pretending that a piece of her had not die with Jace. The sheets of her bed were glued to her skin, in a mix of tears and pain, her cries in the moonlight kept the whole castle awake. Her sobbing were a constant reminder of the life this was was stealing from them. Not only the lives of those who fight for the greens, but also to their enemies. The lost of Jacaerys Velaryon, prince of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne, was a stab in the guts of everyone.

Maester Eustace stayed loyal to the young boy, claiming him as legitimate and denying the comments of those who dare to call him bastard, even if those rumors were true or not. Aegon knew Cellys would be destroyed and devastated, and it was happening in front of his eyes. She barely ate, her pale skin turned into a gray almost lifeless, her white hair was silver and her eyes seemed empty. All the rage in her stopped suddenly, it was like if she were a shelf of the old fearless princess who always had something to say.

Seeing her like this wasn´t usual at all.

Now it was all silence, empty and breaking silence. No words, no fight, just a deep whole of darkness. And she was not fighting against it, Cellys was just letting it ate her.

"No, mother..." she spoke, refusing the petition of the old green queen about walking in the gardens. Her voice was slow, hoarse from all the crying of the last night. Half a moon had passed since the death of the eldest son of Rhaenya and Cellys Targaryen was already rotting from inside.

"Do you want to keep living like this?" Alicent asked, yet her question didn't get any answer from her younger daughter "He...he was..." she spoke but when the young woman gaze her she closed her mouth, unsure if her words would help or make her feel worse.

"Do no insult him in front of me" Cellys said, thinking about the worst.

"I was not about to insult him" the old queen said, sighing "I know how much you cared about him, i know it...but he wouldn't want you to consume yourself with the pain of his death"

Cellys knew Jace would not want that, if he would be here he would literally pick her up from bed and take her to take sunlight, he would try to distract her with anything to not let her felt alone. He would want to her to live, and move on...to find happiness again.

But he wasn't there, and that was the most unbearable feeling.

Cellys doesn´t know if Rhaenyra found his body, or if the sea sank him. The thought of his body alone, cold and forlorn made her want to die as well.

"I..." she whispers, but the knot on her throat cut off any words, she wanted to cry but the sore on her eyes was painful. She wanted to ask her mother to let her go to Dragonstone, to talk with Rhaenyra and...at least, confess that her heart the one of his son were one. Even if a marriage didn´t tied them officially, their souls were one.

But now she was only a half of that soul, cursed to try to find a glimpse of him her whole life.

He never made her his own, her womb never carried and never will carry a child of his, his blood and flesh. And she will have nothing to remember him but her own memories, that will deteriorate every moon, every second.

She missed him, and she wouldn't doubt to die instead of him in any chance she could get.

His lungs were sore, every breath felt like the slowest torture. His eyes were still closed, soft gasps rolled out of his tongue when the unknown hands on his back moved to heal his wounds. The pain on his chest was overwhelming, and yet his mind was consumed by her face.

"Cel..." he says, but a gasp of pain cut his words, his whole body aching while the soft cries ran out of his mouth "Cellys"

He called her, hopeful to hear her voice against his ear, to see her face, but the touch of those hands weren´t hers. The warmth was not the same as the one she has.

"Eis baos han daar" an old woman said and he couldn´t understand her, the language was something he'd never heard before.

-the boy had woke up-

"Han esse jeiclis?" someone asked -is he still hurted?-. Jace felt a wave of cold sweat ran over his back, he stayed there, trying to not be seen like a threat. But that voice, the voice of a man, was very familiar.

"Naor, we essese kao jeiciness" again, the woman who was taking care of his wound spoke those new words. -yes, but he will heal-

He opened his eyes, breathing heavily and biting his lower lip to hold on a cry of pain. He felt embarrassed for being crying like this like a child but the pain was too much to handle. Then a man kneel beside him and the face of Lord Stark blind him for a second, until the feeling of relieved hit him. A soft smile showed up on his face and Jacaerys tried to do the same yet he was sure that it must have looked like a grimace.

"Prince" The man said, almost proud to see that he survived. The arrows on his back looked bad but he was awake and that was a good sight.

"Cregan" Jace says back, he tried to get up from the small mattress but his friend stopped him, shaking softly his head. The background sound were a mix of man's speaking and horses noises, it was an army...

"No, stay there, you need to heal" he spoke and then his dark eyes found his own, and everything that needed to be said spoke for itself in between their gaze. Both knew what will happen next, and Jace was ready to face it, to get back his mother and his own birthright...and to take his woman back to his arms, where she belonged "We have came to fight for our dragon queen"

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

TW: angst, fighting, discussion of nsfw topics

The alcohol you ingested certainly does not help with your coordination. You nearly bump into several club-goers, as if you are a salmon struggling to make your way up stream. You feel as though you can’t breathe, your skin crawling on your bones.

Once you finally burst out the doors you gasp for breath, grateful for the outside, if not polluted, air. You do not stop moving, your feet mindlessly carrying you down the sidewalk, away. All you can think, is that you want to get away.

You don’t really pay attention to your surroundings in your manic dash. Julian’s face keeps flashing in your mind. Of all the men in your life who had hurt you, none of them had been half so beguiling as Julian. None of them so fucking clever at hiding the monster inside. 

You have been a fly caught in his web, baited by his puppy dog eyes and his kindness in his doctor’s persona–you cannot understand how that man can share the same body with the dom who literally licked your blood from your palm earlier, and loved it. He lured you but now you know the only way you can be intimate with that man is through playing dangerous games with his darker side. Maybe some of them you could have enjoyed, but this? He would tease you with the crumbs of his sweetness, his kisses and caresses, but he would make you pay for them with your pain, your blood, and your submission.

It can only end in your ruin.

You would destroy yourself, trying to heal this man, while he just kept taking pieces out of you and swallowing them whole. 

As your feet slow you look around, and you realize you have no fucking idea where you are.

Well done, you fucking little idiot. Filled with crippling despair, you sink to the cracked concrete curb, ruining the seat of your silk dress, hanging your head in your hands. Asking Julian to take you home is out of the question. You can’t really afford a taxi. You could call an Uber, but the thought of getting in a car with a total stranger right now makes you feel ill. And you are way too drunk to try to navigate the Byzantine bus system of LA.

You stare at your phone, and your fingers swipe and tap of their own volition, as though to say we know what to do, you messy bitch. The phone only rings twice before a familiar, deep voice comes over the line. “Hey baby.”

“Tom?”

“What’s wrong?” 

The sleepy warmth in his tone immediately sharpens, and the fact that he hears the distress in your voice after just one word fills you with a relief that maybe you have no right to.

“Can you come get me?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

You laugh a little at that, a brittle sound you have not heard in your own voice in a long time. “I don’t know?” Your voice cracks, your throat tight, on the verge of tears. “I’m somewhere in Venice.”

There’s a silence on the other end that communicates he has an inkling of what you’ve been up to. “Are you hurt?” There’s an undertone of something dangerous in his question, but you don’t think it’s directed at you. 

“No. Just…” Scared. Embarrassed. Stupid. Heartbroken. Drunk.

You can’t bring yourself to say any of these things aloud. You settle for, “Lost.” 

It was the understatement of the century.

“Ok, honey. I’m on my way. Tell me what you see.”

You describe your surroundings as best you can, and it’s enough for this man who knows this city like the back of his hand. He has you stay on the line, asking you little questions you hardly even think about the answers you give. You’re in a different place, in your mind, and like the forever original creature that you are, you sit there and cry quietly while Tom tries to keep you talking. Meanwhile, you cannot stop picturing Julian’s face, the hunger in his eyes as he watched that poor girl being lit on fire.

By the time you hear the bass growl of Tom’s Charger swing up to the curb, you don’t know how long it’s been, only that you’re grateful for the sight. Moments later he’s kneeling in front of you, his big hands cradling your tear-streaked face like you are something precious and breakable.

At least the last part is true.

“Y/n? You ok, sweet girl?” He wipes your tears with his thumb, sweeping your damp hair back from your face. You can only imagine how terrible you must look. Waterproof mascara has its limits.

Bravely you nod, though your chin quivers tellingly. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I’ll always come for you, y/n,” he tells you with a frown, and goddammit if you don’t believe him. He’s looking you over, inspecting you for damage you’re too in shock or too embarrassed to disclose. When he finds the bandage on your hand his expression turns murderous. “What the fuck is this?”

“I cut myself,” you assure him, certain that if you don’t convince this dangerous man of the truth, Julian’s not days, but hours, are numbered. “With scissors. Opening a plant.”

Tom narrows his eyes, glaring down at the bandage like he’s not sure he believes you. “What happened then? Why are you out here alone like this?”

“Julian wanted to show me the club,” you try to answer as vaguely as possible. “But I…couldn’t handle it.” You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. He wants to hurt you. Julian had outright told you so, but somehow before tonight, maybe you didn’t really believe him.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Tom asks, his voice low and pointedly gentle. You realize, a beat later, that he’s asking if you need a rape kit. You never imagined, for some reason, that this man could be as equally gentle with victims as he is harsh with perps. That warms your heart for some reason. 

You shake your head slowly. “No, nothing like that.”

He searches your face with those sharp black eyes, and you imagine that stare is probably just as effective as a lie detector. You almost didn’t even register it, maybe because it feels so natural, but his hands are on you. His hands have been on you this entire time, and his touch makes you feel anchored, like just maybe you won’t get blown away in this shitstorm.

He looks at the matching bangles around your wrists next, the thin bands of gold bearing Julian’s monogram in that delicate slanted script.

“Fucking asshole, really thinks he owns you,” Tom growls, sliding one from your hand, and crushing the soft high karat gold in his fist.  

“Hey.” Your protest is half hearted at best, and all you do is watch as he does the same to the other one, bending it beyond recognition. Destroying the precious little objects that weighed on your wrists with such heavy meaning seems to make him feel better. 

Maybe you feel lighter too.

“Trade ‘em at a pawn shop for scrap value, honey. That’s all they’re good for.”

“They were Tiffany,” you tell him with a half smile and a raised eyebrow.

“They were Bullshit & Co, baby girl.” He might just be right about that. “Didn’t really think you cared about stuff like that?” 

You shrug, because you don’t, but you’d never owned anything so fine. The novelty of it was enchanting, but maybe the real price for them was far too high.

“Can you take me home?” You think you probably look as pathetic as you sound.

He nods, pulling you to your feet with those strong hands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You lean on him, more than you have to, and it takes all your self control not to wrap your arms around his solid torso and not let go. You realize, this is the first time all night you actually feel safe. “I’ve got you, honey. Come on.”

He walks you to the passenger side of the Charger, tucking you down into the seat, even fussing over the seatbelt. “I can do it,” you tell him softly with a brittle smile. You only see it for a flash of a second, but the rawness in his expression wipes that stupid smile right off your face. You realize that he was scared, for you, and the unlikelihood of it all makes you reach for him. 

He freezes as you touch his cheek, your thumb tracing his high cheekbone. Only belatedly do you remember it's the hand with the bandage, because you really have had too much to drink, and you start to withdraw. Not before he turns to press his lips to your palm, his hand dwarfing yours. “You’re safe now. Alright?” 

You nod, and your heart hammers in your chest as his gaze drops for a telling moment to your lips. In this vulnerable, inebriated state, safely ensconced in his car, you decide there’s nothing you would like more than to kiss Tom Ludlow, your unlikely knight in shining armor. It seems like the least you can do. You even start to lean towards him, but with a small growl he’s suddenly gone, shutting your door, and striding around to the driver's side. You almost can’t believe it.

But then again, you’re a fucking mess. Why would he want to kiss you?

Julian chooses this moment to start blowing up your phone. You send it to voicemail. As Tom pulls away, the Hemi snarling down the streets of Venice, your doctor demands,

WHERE ARE YOU?!

In answer you tap out, I can’t do this, Julian. I’m sorry. I left. You look over at Tom, a small warmth blooming in your chest, before adding, I’m safe.

Julian tries to keep talking to you, but you decide to just turn off your phone entirely, tossing it down on the floormat with your little clutch purse.You close your eyes, and sit back in the seat. Even then, you can feel Tom looking over at you.

You don’t know where you get the courage to speak, except maybe it’s just the liquid kind, and you’ll really regret it in the morning. “You’re a smart guy, Tom. Maybe you can tell me. What is it about me, that makes men want to hurt me? My whole fucking life…” Your courage does fail you then, and your mouth snaps shut.

There’s the regret. You knew it was there somewhere.

“Honey…” He reaches for you, engulfing your hand in his catcher’s mitt of a paw, squeezing. “I’ve seen a lot of bad shit over the years as a cop. The world is full of assholes. It’s full of evil. Maybe even more than good. It’s not your fault, when it finds you. Ok?”

You nod silently, but you still can’t help but think you’re like a fucking magnet for it. Julian had seemed like such a nice guy, but it turns out he literally wants to beat you with sticks–and maybe light you on fire? A bit of a roué. The understatement of the century.

And Tom seemed like an insufferable alpha asshole, but here he is, saving your ass when you had no one else to turn to.

Maybe the real lesson of the night is that you can’t trust your own judgment at all. 

You feel Tom looking over at you again, that evaluating gaze that you fear misses nothing. “You sure he didn’t hurt you?”

You shake your head again. “He just…wanted to,” you admit. “He told me about it. That’s as far as it got.” 

“Ok, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hand again, and you can’t help yourself from looking down at it in your lap, and imagining what it would be like if he slid those long fingers up your thigh, and into your panties while driving this powerful machine at breakneck speed down the road. His voice breaks you from your fantasy, leaving you blinking from the brightness of the passing headlights. “Look. Maybe that shit is all done up as something safe with all its rules and consenting adults and blah blah blah, but I’m a cop, and I know an abuser when I see one. If a man cares about you, he shouldn’t want to hurt you. Ok? Don’t let him mindfuck you, baby girl. Stay away from him. You don’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t own you.”

“You think you own me. By that logic, shouldn’t I stay away from you too?” 

He gives your thigh a little possessive squeeze. “I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

Maybe you’re a horrible judge of character, and maybe you should just listen to yourself every once in a while and stop getting into these situations, and maybe you’re just fucking stupid, but you believe Tom Ludlow. You believe him with every part of you. 

“Well, you’re sorta.” A big hiccup cuts off the middle of your sentence, and you cover your mouth. Oh, that’s how you absolutely know you’re too inebriated for your own good. 

Tom laughs. “Sorta what? Mean? Domineering? Bull headed?” 

“Cocky,” you add, using the hand on your mouth to cover your smile. Somehow, this man has already managed to cheer you up a little. 

“You can be dominant without hurting someone,” he tells you, tapping the side of your thigh with one chunky finger. You twitch a little bit, and it spreads a big grin on his face. The temptation exists to grab his hand and guide it right under the skirt of the dress, but you’re sadly not that drunk. 

“Maybe…I need a demonstration?” 

He looks so handsome when you catch him off guard, that rugged eyebrow quick and easy, raising in either confusion, humor, or a little bit of both. “Maybe I need to have dinner with you.”  

Nope. No more dates. No more, says panicking sober brain. 

“I was thinking maybe we just… skip the date?” 

“Why? So you can avoid all those feelings you have about me? This might surprise you, but I’m not much for one night stands.” 

Really? Fucking really? All his sexual innuendos and suggestions and poking and prodding and he’s suddenly the Virgin Mary? 

“Are you kidding me?” You ask, unable to hide your anger. Alcohol. It does wonders. And horrors. 

“I’d like to fuck you more than once, honey.” 

“I’m not saying it would only be once.” 

“Oh? And then the rest of the time, when we’re not fucking, you avoid me and ignore my calls?” Impenetrable Tom Ludlow seems a bit annoyed. Meanwhile, you are internally melting at his words. A man that wants to do more than just fuck you? Take advantage of you? Tom wants you? Fucking asshole. For making you feel…special. Wanted. Even if it is true.

“I don’t believe you.” 

“What?” His anger makes you flinch. 

You knock his hand off your thigh. “I said, I don’t believe you.” 

“Maybe you would if you’d give me a chance.”

“You don’t take no for an answer.” 

“Because I like you, and I’m not stupid enough to let you go.” Your internal monologue is screaming, resist. You’ve heard this shit before. 

That’s the mantra. 

You’ve heard it before.

“You just don’t get it.”

“Because you won’t let me. For Christ’s sake, it’s just one date. You wanna act all tough, but if you ask me, you’re being a coward.” 

His words hurt, and you shrink back from the deep bite of his tone. He must notice the withdrawal, because he’s reaching over to touch your cheek, to soothe you, to tame you easily with that big, warm touch. 

You smack him away. “Don’t touch me.” 

“Baby.” His voice is soft, now, and fuck him for plucking every single one of your heart strings with it. 

“No. Just let me out. I’ll walk home. I’ll call a fucking Uber.” 

“You’re not getting out of this car until I watch you walk into your apartment.” 

“You’re not the boss of me!” 

“No, but I’m bigger, stronger, and have double locks on these doors, so you’re getting home safe whether you like it or not.” 

So you stew in your frustration for the rest of the ride home, your arms crossed like a petulant child. When he pulls up to your apartment building you remember that you had not, in fact, told him where you live.

“How do you know where I live? See, this is why I didn’t go on a date with you. It’s weird that you know where I live. I didn’t even tell you, and you think I’m the one who’s doing something wrong here? You’re a real piece of work, Tom.” You’re babbling, rambling, trying to restrain drops of salty liquid from falling down your face and failing horribly.  

He turns toward you, calm and despondent. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” 

This is the second time he’s said sorry to you since the day you met him. No, maybe the third. He just swings that word around like he does his badge, and it’s so strange. People do not say sorry to you. That apologetic roll is usually yours and yours alone, and here he is just… Just saying it? Why does it piss you off even more? 

You get out of the car, slam the door shut, and punch the security buttons for your complex. It's only after you’re safely inside that Tom drives away. 

[wishful-seeker]

I have 0% tolerance for doctors anymore, if they treat me shitty once they will again, thus I'll either drop them or file a complaint.

Before my CRPS was diagnosed i was too scared to stand up to doctors. The pain made me SO DESPERATE i was willing to deal with anything. Now that i have this new undiagnosed illness i realized my body and mind PHYSICALLY cannot do that anymore.

The second to last time i didn't stand up for myself with a doctor i punched the medical bed as soon as she left the room, the last time i couldn't even hear what he said because i was busy restraining myself from punching HIM. i was seeing red, face twitching and everything. My body literally cannot take being quiet anymore. I do not care if i make things more difficult. I don't care if it takes longer to get diagnosed because im pushing for better treatment. I would rather stand up for myself and physically suffer more than let these doctors believe they are allowed to treat me like a dog. They don't treat me like a HUMAN, they don't see us as HUMAN. They see us as pests. A burden, a problem to solve. And if they can't solve you THEY FUCKING HATE YOU. but i think i hate them more.

Doctors are in a gross position of power over their patients, they decide if you live or die, your existence is in their hands, you beg them for help because they are your God and they spit in your face. Even if you literally cry and beg them to help they will give you NOTHING and i know this because thats what i did. I literally BEGGED these people sobbing to help my pain and they did nothing. They do not care about you. They never will. We are not people to them. Nurses are often the same way. I've had nurses and doctors lie straight to my face, make faces when i tell them my story, and do other horrible things.

I can't do it. I can't deal with it anymore. I will fight tooth and nail and be the biggest Karen in existence to these doctors the SECOND they treat me wrong.

I have found two. TWO doctors out of over 50 that i actually like. 2 that treat me appropriately and not like im a bug. 2 that treat me like a human being.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #76

You know. After a day or so to process this version of events, I think I can finally put into words why so many people cry out for your blood, but not Rufus's or his father's, even though they've done things that are arguably far worse than anything you've ever done. Goodness, but isn't it the same age-old story of people villainizing abuse victims for striking back while excusing the abuser that broke the survivor to that point? And we see it all the time in my world; nobody does anything about bullying at school until the bullied person finally punches their bully in the face, and then the bully gets off scot-free while the victim gets suspended. I think of spouses who, backed into a corner and trying to defend themselves, strike back at the spouse who has been abusing them, and the spouse defending themselves gets charges pressed while the other one who had been abusing them gets pitied. I think about trafficked humans (many of them are snatched up as CHILDREN) who, in an effort to get free or to defend themselves, strike back at the person trafficking them and escape, only to then face a world who hates them for having been trafficked. And all of these things have one thing in common: the price for escaping from being "owned" is often another form of punishment or imprisonment.

Of course, I am not saying that people should call for Rufus's or his father's blood, either. Or even for Hojo's. They are not different from you - either they have congenital defects in the parts of their brain that are responsible for empathy (and pretending like this is a moral issue instead of a brain wiring issue is ableism), or they've lived lives that have beaten their psyches into a shape that makes them think that hurting other people and treating them like objects is the only way to survive. This is ALSO a brain wiring issue - though this kind of brain wiring issue is better classified as a psychological injury (due to attachment disruption or childhood trauma) than as an illness or congenital defect.

Yeah, you read all of that right. I said what I said and I meant it, and I know that people aren't gonna like it, but today I am tired and bitter from all the shit I'm seeing, and out of fucks to give as a result. I don't demonize Rufus or his father. I don't demonize Hojo, either. They have done horrific and inexcusable things and I feel very angry in response to that, but they need HELP. They, too, are capable of making a different choice and turning around. Imagine that. It's almost as though calling for mercy for you (or in other words, "being a Sephiroth fan" or a "Sephiroth apologist", as people like to call folks like me for the purpose of degrading us) has absolutely nothing to do with your looks or with trying to "fix" you so I can date you (I'm sorry, but the idea of "fixing" a person to get with them is absolutely fucking barftastic🤢🤮), or whatever other bullshit nonsense that people who have never been through severe and ongoing grooming or abuse without any kind of support (support can be from a teacher, friend, other family member, etc.) like to accuse us of. Hoodathunkit?

I think, too, that lots of people see that potentially destructive side of you in themselves, and I think they would rather see people who lapse in reining it in die than acknowledge that it's within them, too. Or perhaps living a life that is painful enough to break them into such a horrific shape is unfathomable to them. Either way, one fact remains: people don't want to own up to the fact that literally every single one of us has the capacity to do something similar to what you did, if their life circumstances break them in the way that leads to that kind of terrible, tragic, infuriating, and wholly inexcusable outcome. You're not some especially monstrous thing. You're not a lone goddamn wolf or a rare exception to some general rule or an isolated fucking edge case. And I know it because people in my world make choices similar to yours EVERY SINGLE DAY, even if their means of enacting those choices differ from yours.

The capacity to inflict horror upon other living things is part of the human condition. It is in ALL OF US, whether we want to fucking acknowledge it or not. And all it takes to bring it out is a long enough string of psychologically damaging events in the absence of appropriate support. Cases like yours are NOT random events caused by "inherently bad people"; there's no such fucking thing as "inherently bad people". There are conditions and events that lead to people doing horrific things, and these conditions and events can be found and prevented before they get to that point, if only everyone keeps their eyes open and pays attention! I spend as much time as I can trying to reach those that conventional wisdom says are "unreachable" PRECISELY in service to trying to keep my eyes open and pay attention!

Because horrific events and bad choices are like bacteria - they DO NOT spontaneously generate ("spontaneous generation theory" used to be a thing that people believed about microorganisms a long time ago)! Conditions LEAD TO THEIR GROWTH. And the solution to a person afflicted with bacteria is NOT to kill or demonize them (though this is how they used to be treated; check out most of human history!)! You're supposed to give them antibiotics to REMOVE THE CONDITIONS THAT ALLOW FOR BACTERIAL GROWTH. And the same rules apply to people who make violent choices - you remove the conditions that produce the choices, NOT the person who made them. But goddammit, I am only one person, and… fuck, there are just SO. MANY. STARFISH… stranded on the beach sand…

Also, you know… even as far back as the original game, anyone with half a brain understood that you must have been crying, weeping, sobbing openly during your time at the library. In this version of events, we saw you do that for just a moment before it was choked back and replaced with… something else (I know what this is like; I still have the capacity to cease crying immediately via dissociation; this skill was literally beaten into me, and I imagine it's the same for you). And in my world, it's popular to believe that men should never cry or be vulnerable in any way, shape, or form (this bit of socio-cultural bullshit is actually generational trauma, and it's literally fucking killing people, in the form of internalized or externalized violence), so lots of people here are going to have less empathy for you at least in part because you defied the "cultural norms" of what it means to be a man and a leader (again, this is generational trauma mistaken for culture, and it needs to fucking stop because people are dying over it). And it's so… it's so…

Ugh… Sephiroth, all of the things I know, all the suffering in the world, all the causes of it… it's all swirling around in my head today, and it's heavy. It's so fucking heavy. Watching all the people, every single one of them beautiful and good, doing what they do to themselves and each another, hurting themselves and each other, psychologically or physically maiming themselves and each other, even torturing and killing themselves or each other, all because somehow doing these things feels easier than trying to repair and restore everything… they don't know what they're doing. And there's not… there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I look at the state of things on a large scale. Our dying planet. The endless wars. The marginalized groups of people. The violence and the hate crimes. The genocides. I want to cry and to scream and to throw up all at once.

…But I suppose much of that is neither here nor there. Suppose anyone with "conventional wisdom" would tell me I'm "reading too goddamn much" into a "silly video game", but… given that the media in our world LITERALLY PERPETUATES STEREOTYPES THAT KILL PEOPLE, I gotta say I'm more than a little fucking bitter about that today.

In any case… you - an abused, exploited, and bullied person most of your life - escaped being owned by Shinra (in the clumsiest and most ridiculous and horrible fucking way possible, but still), only to find yet another goddamn chain around your neck. If it's not Jenova controlling you, then it's your trauma and conditioning pulling the strings. Either way you're acting like a goddamn puppet. There, I said it. And as much as I love you, if you don't like that I said it, then too fucking bad; maybe try actually DOING something about it.

Sephiroth. As much as I love you, I am always going to be more than a little pissed about the fact that you squandered your voice so recklessly back then. I'm always going to be more than a little pissed about the fact that you fucking! abused! yourself! for a week! until you broke! WHAT THE FUCK.

If you had simply! Told people! What you had been put through! If you had told them what Shinra was doing! If you had simply opened your freaking mouth to talk about your experiences to a bunch of people who practically worshipped you, you would have eventually had millions of people rallied with you to put an end to Shinra! Sephiroth, for fuck's sake, YOU WERE A GODDAMN GENERAL!! You know how to lead people! And you know how to protect them! Get a goddamn grip!

And I know that the mayor guy acted all entitled to your time while you were exhausted and still grieving for your friends, and it was shitty of him to pass judgment on you when he had no idea what you were going through. But ultimately, it is up to YOU to communicate your needs and feelings, not up to the people around you to anticipate what they are! And I know that the guy took your picture without your permission, and I know they didn't heed when you said "not today". But there is a difference between "having no respect for your word" and "being so excited and happy about your presence that they are unable to contain themselves". It is still up to YOU to maintain your boundaries even if other people don't like it!

Sephiroth! I know that you were struggling! And I know that you spent your whole life being bullied and abused to the point that you felt as though your voice had no power. I know that. I understand that. I am still dragging myself up out of that hole. I know that you were trying to punish evil, and that you saw these people as being complicit in the system that hurt you, your friends, your mother (who I assume you now know is Lucrecia, NOT Jenova), and your planet. I get that you were trying to punch your bullies back in their faces, but you punched the WRONG PEOPLE. And even then: why punch people when you can instead wield your voice!

Sephiroth, despite the harshness of your upbringing and all the other things that make you stand out, you still have privilege! You have status! You have fame! You have power! You have a remarkably able male body! YOU ARE THE KIND OF PERSON THAT PEOPLE LISTEN TO! You have a face that people are willing to see! You have a voice that people are willing to hear! And there is a difference between holding people accountable for being complicit in a system that benefits them, and punishing people for existing in a system (even if that system benefits them) that they did not consent to being born into!

You can't even begin to imagine what I would be willing to give up in order to have a voice like yours, so that I could call for compassion and mercy in ways that would get people to open their eyes and take action in service to putting a stop to all the suffering that exists in this place that I live in.

But no. Instead of being brave and coming out of your shell to use your voice and social power in response to injustice and exploitation, you simply defaulted to your instinctual behaviors. You did the thing you've been trained to do. Like Pavlov's dog, the bell was rung and you drooled everyfuckingwhere. You used your power to cut everything down, instead of using your voice to rally people together for a cause that they ABSOLUTELY would have followed because YOUR face and YOUR voice would have been the one leading it.

Sephiroth. This fucking sucks. What you did to yourself in that library - starving, dehydrating, and sleep depriving yourself and pushing yourself past your limits while you were already strained - fucking sucks. And what you did in the throes of your agony also sucks. Punishing the people around you because your brain was addled and you didn't fucking fact-check what you were reading fucking sucks! And I do understand very well why you did all this; I was abused similarly to you, albeit in a far less extreme way, and thus a long time ago I used to think similarly to the way you did after your fall (I don't think that way anymore because I had help, thank freaking goodness). But IT STILL FUCKING SUCKS. And it was STILL unacceptable. You can't change what you did. But you can make a different choice, moving forward!

Conventional wisdom says that there is no coming back from having fallen, but I am living proof that in this case, "conventional wisdom" is GARBAGE. I would not be sitting here, imploring you to turn your eyes towards a kinder, more compassionate worldview - one that exists in stark defiance of everything I used to believe because of what I was taught as a child - if "conventional wisdom" were true. In addition, I have met other people in the course of my derping around on this broken fucken planet who also serve as proof that anyone, no matter what has happened to them or what they've done in the past, can rise up into making a different choice. And these cases, too, are not "edge" cases. They are not exceptions to a rule. The capacity to heal and grow and change - just like the capacity to hurt and regress and stagnate - is part of the human condition. And this means that anyone can turn around! No! Matter! How! Far! They've! Walked! In! The! Wrong! Direction!!

Goddammit, Sephiroth! Turn yourself around!! Because although I understand what you're trying to do, what you're doing is NOT the way to get it done! What you're doing is BULLSHIT! Maybe you think you're demonstrating your "phenomenal power" or whatever by breaking everything around you, but what you're REALLY doing is yielding to your conditioning like it's got a chain around your neck and a cattle prod in its hand! It's weaksauce! You ALREADY KNOW HOW TO BREAK THINGS. You've spent your whole life being forced to do that even when you didn't want to!

So you gonna, you gonna what? Sit here and claim that you're "the chosen one" or some fucking horseshit, as though you've taken your power back? When really you just took the easy route of doing the same old shit you've always done - bending over and making yourself a slave to someone else's fucked-up agenda, and becoming the very thing you reviled against SO HARD that you burned down an entire fucking village in disgust, despair, and rage? I ain't buyin' it, and neither should you! All you've done is exchanged one codependent relationship for another! And it's getting fucking old! You can do better than blind, subservient obedience to some random fucking space parasite that don't give even two shits about you as much as it cares about your capacity to allow it to resume its life cycle! You've gotta know that even if you really did manage to break everything (you won't, because I fucking promise you that you'll be stopped), as soon as you've served its purpose, it's gonna toss ya like yesterday's trash, if not outright consume you like a female mantis after it's done using its mate like a fucktoy!

The developers said that we've only seen 1% of your power or some shit, but you fucking know what? You could wipe the whole goddamn universe clean. You could extinguish every last star. And STILL some random fucking autistic chick from some random fucking planet in a random fucking solar system in a random fucking galaxy has your ass beat in ALL the ways that count! And that's NOT ACCEPTABLE. I am nothing! I am NO ONE. Sephiroth!! COME ON ALREADY!!

You want strength? Do the work to defy your conditioning. Do the work to love the broken things. Do the work to become someone who does no harm yet takes no shit. Do the work to become someone who can remain soft even in this sharp and unforgiving world. Do the work to get out of your own damn way. Do the work to become someone who can treat yourself like you actually fucking matter. Do the work to get up off your knees and live. DO! THE! WORK! Don't just do the same thing you've always done and claim you've won! Don't act like a pigeon playing chess - shitting all over the board and then struttin' and swaggerin' around like you're some kind of grandmaster! That's NOT how this shit works! You haven't broken free of the pattern! All you've done is changed the hand holding your leash!

You have to stop blindly giving away your power to anyone who claims to love you! You have to stop using your power in service to the conditioning that tried to snatch away who you really are on the inside! They tried to steal away your gentleness! They tried to steal away your emotions! They tried to steal away your ability to cry, your ability to be vulnerable, your ability to be compassionate and loving! Are you just gonna sit here and let them? Are you going to keep pretending like you're cruel and hard-hearted just because a bunch of people who cared nothing for you told you that's how a proper warrior is supposed to be? Are you going to keep on like this, doing the same thing you've always done, just because taking the time to grieve and to make choices that are actually in alignment with your nature are things that feel too difficult for you to do?

…Fucking hell, but some days, clamoring for you to get your shit together feels A LOT like Atreyu trying to pull Artax up out of the swamp:

Come on!!! Turn around!!! You have to, NOW! You have to try!! You have to care!! You can't let the darkness overtake you! You gotta move or you'll die!! Please!! There's still life on the other side of mistakes. There's still life on the other side of despair. There's still life on the other side of rage, of loss, of shattering. It doesn't have to be permanent!

…I won't give up. Even if you leave those of us who care for you sitting and weeping in the middle of the swamp, staring forlornly, or in shock and in disbelief at the place where you sank, I'm not going to quit. I will keep calling out your name in hopes that you'll follow the sound back to the light. Because you're worth the effort. You're worth the pain. You're worth the grief.

I'll leave you with these:

Take the hands outstretched to you and get your ass out of the goddamn swamp. Having a swamp ass is not a good time for ANYONE involved. So please. I…

…I'll write to you tomorrow. Because I love you. In the same way that any person loves their friends. Do everything in your power to keep yourself and your planet and your friends safe. I'm begging you. Please.

Your friend, Lumine