#noticed the makeup remover mod only removed her eye makeup

[justanotherignot]

[anjelicawrites]

Pierced Through

Paring: modern!Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Synopsis: a late night between two lovers

Warnings: switch!Feyd, switch!reader, more dominant reader, kissing, oral (m and f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, biting, scratching, overstimulation, edging, fingering, titty pinching, titty sucking, sharing the same piercings as a form of love, getting pierced as a form of foreplay, loads of piercings, reader being called “good girl” a couple of times.

A/N 1: reader is AFAB, the only descriptor is that they have long hair, for plot reasons. Where needed, they/them pronouns used. 

A/N 2: this is a modern AU with random bits of our pop culture thrown in it. 

Squinting your eyes you start to remove the makeup from your face. It has been a sweet night out, you and Feyd finally alone, eating a nice meal and just walking around town to enjoy the soft spring, after a harsh, snowy winter, reconnecting after he’s been away for work.

You ignore the chiming of your phone, it’s either the group chat with the girls, or the one you have with Feyd’s exes, the self called Harpies.

“Is What If I Were Your Mother buzzing tonight?” 

“Oh, you need to keep yourself up to date baby, it’s Pick Me, Choose Me, Love Me now.”

“Am I supposed to get the reference?” Even without eyebrows you can see the muscles lift in silent judgment.

“Grey’s Anatomy baby. You watched it with me.”

“I dissociated most of the times.”

“Asshole.”

“You’re beautiful.” 

Feyd’s hands travel slowly up the silk of your nightgown and stop under your breasts, the whiteness of his skin contrasts with the black material hugging your curves; you love wearing colorful clothes and decorate your shared apartment had been a push and pull between his monochrome austerity and your explosive personality, you’ve only folded to his request that you wear black lingerie for him (that you use truly ridiculous stuff when he’s not around it’s a secret between you and the two group chats).

You lean against his naked chest, letting your head brush against the long column of his neck, reveling in the smoothness of his skin; you miss having beard burns between your legs, your Feyd makes up for it with the bite marks he leaves on your skin when he hungers for your taste, which is always.

“I know you’ve been a bad girl.” He drawls in your ear, part of his face hidden by your hair.

“You need to be more specific than that, ah!”

Feyd’s long fingers pinch your pierced nipples through your nightgown; he was with you when you had both done, he had kept his forehead against yours while the nice lady piercer did her part. 

He had kept the low rumble of his voice to a minimum, describing how he was going to pleasure you as a reward for your courage; you were so torn between fear and excitement that you didn’t really listen to him and if the lady piercer did, she ignored him. 

Now you two match and it drives you crazy that under the expensive clothes he wears at work, Feyd hides similar body mods to yours; you haven’t gotten used to yours yet and even if your nipples have healed nicely, they’ve become more sensitive, and Feyd loves using this against you.

“I’ve noticed the new books on your beside table, little dove.” 

His hands cup your breasts, chocking the answer in your throat.

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You try to keep hold of his stare through the mirror. “I’ve moved some old books I want to read ouch! Ah! Feyd please!”

Feyd’s fingers pinch the small barbells on your nipples, only to pull at them until you start whining pathetically.

“Do you really think I don’t know all the titles on you bookshelf, little dove? Britney Spears’s biography? Really?”

You don’t answer immediately, needing to catch your breath and he takes advantage of your silence to run the piercing on his tongue up your neck, his sharp eyes not missing the way your body trembles against his.

“Par condicio baby.” You finally manage to answer. “I have read her sister’s, now hers. I want to know every detail. All the tea, as the kids say.”

“You’re truly going to become the epitome of an old busybody.” He says, with genuine affection in his voice.

“And I will share everything with you. Because you are as curious as I am, my love.”

Gently, Feyd lets his hands run up your chest until he’s reached your head of hair. 

Not only the Harkonnens, but all the natives of Geidi Prime have been genetically modified to not grow any sort of hair on their body and yours still fascinate him after all this time together. Whenever he can, he braids them before you two have to leave for work and he makes a point of undoing all your hairstyles when you are finally home, just so that he can feel the texture of your hair against his hands and the smell of your shampoo in his nostrils.

Painstakingly slowly Feyd removes all the pins from your hair, freeing each lock until they all cascade down your back and he can grab your roots, reveling in the feeling against his hands; you moan at the way he massages your scalp, slightly pulling to make you moan at his leisure. 

Under the too bright bathroom lights he can absorb all your facial expressions, he can see your nipples push against the silk of your nightgown and his mouth waters at the thought that you must be wet already, for him.

Quick, so quick that your head spins, Feyd turns you around and sits you on the bathroom counter, back to the big mirror, the hem of your nightgown already brunched around your hips.

You don’t have the chance to realize what he’s doing that two of his fingers are already under your panties, playing with the wetness there; he can’t wait to accompany you to have your clit and labia pierced, this way you two will truly match (even though you can’t have your tongue done); you two will have to stop vaginal sex for a little while, but to the greater purpose of him torturing your pretty cunt for your shared pleasure.

“Up!” He orders and you comply, lifting your arse so that he can remove your lacy panties. “Good girl.” He drawls when you spread your legs for him even wider, to accommodate his huge frame.

“Are you going to take care of me, Feyd?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, electing to suck on the delicate skin of your tight, until he’s sure a nice mark will blossom; he loves keeping you on edge: perhaps he will torment you for his own pleasure, perhaps he will give it all to you, until the lines blur.

“Don’t I always, little dove?”

“I missed you, so much.” You say with a small voice, your hand cupping his smooth cheek.

“So I did you.”

There’s a dark smirk tinging his lips as he kneels between your parted tights, his big hands on your knees in a show of ownership that has your head spin and fall back against the cold mirror.

Feyd lips are so warm against your skin, and so soft as he kisses a slow path to your cunt, up, up he goes, until his hands can grab at your hips to still your movements and open your labia with his thumbs to make way for his long tongue.

His movements are slow, the barbell on his tongue cold against your clit as he slowly massages it, writing nonsense that has you keen already. He can’t help himself but suck gently when your ankles cross behind his head to keep him in place. Over the lecherous sounds of your pleasure he can her your nails scrape against the mirror in the vain attempt to gain control: not yet, now you are for him to torment.

His tongue slowly runs down to your hole and he moans at the honey he finds there: so much and all for him! 

Hungry his tongue fucks you, the piercing stimulating all your nerves all the more, his big hands clench on your hips when you try to squirm away from his nose; on instinct you arch against his intrusion, your ankles pull him tighter against you as you wail your pleasure, small sobs like pain that spur him on all the more.

You come all over his face and keen when he starts sucking on your clit again, overstimulated and delirious you try to push him away, only for him to growl against your sensitive skin, triggering a smaller orgasm that shakes you.

Feyd stares at you with enlarged pupils, his face drenched in your sweetness, his cock torture against the cotton of his bottoms.

“Feyd, please.” You say breathless.

With a fluid motion he stands up and carries you bridal style to the bed, where he sits you to help you out of your nightgown, before discarding his soiled pajama trousers.

His pierced cock stands proud, leaking from the head; you were scared the first time you’ve seen it, imagining how painful it must have been for him, now you’ve come to love every single piece of jewelry adorning his manhood. From the Magic Cross on the head, to the small Frenulum ring, down to all the beadings on his shaft and the small ring on his perineum, you’ve kissed and played with all of them, tormenting Feyd, until he couldn’t understand if it was pleasure, or pain that triggered his orgasm.

You can’t wait to go with him, have your own privates worked on, while he adds the last beadings to complete the whole shaft: you know that sharing this will bind you tighter than the ring he will soon put on your finger, and it both excites and scares you to your core.

Feyd lays next to you to lazily kiss you, his soft lips on yours unhurriedly share your heady taste with you. His hands are in your hair, your nails are scratch down his back: you’re so hungry!

The ping of the received message interrupts you two.

“Ah shit! I think I need to answer this one.”

Feyd doesn’t say a word, he simply stares at you, his non existed brows raised.

“Baby this might be important. It’s Alia.”

Of all his Atreides relations, his little cousin is the only one he can truly stomach; he’s not happy that Chani is one of your oldest friends and that you hang out with her and Paul so much, yet he accepts your friendship with weird and off putting Alia.

“What happened with her?” He asks, curious.

“Let me check my phone and I will be able to tell you.”

With a huff Feyd goes to retrieve your phone and kneels between your splayed legs as you unlock your screen.

“There! I knew it!”

“What did she do?”

“Not her, the guy she was messaging with. He seemed so nice, too nice, if you know what I mean: he sent her a dick pick and us girls are discussing how to retaliate.”

“A dick pic?” Feyd looks sincerely puzzled. “Why?”

“You should ask your male friends. I know I hit the jackpot with you, but most of the guys out there are useless pieces of shit. Hang on, let me send this quick voice memo.” You say locking your ankles against his back to pull yourself up and kiss his nose. 

“Girls, I say that the old fashioned guillotine gif is the best way to go. My favorite is the small one chopping off the wurst but I stand with whichever you want to send. Now I am going to disappear because I’m getting laid. Cheers girls!” 

For the hundredth time, Feyd wonders what horrors that chat contains; he is not sure his Harkonnen upbringing has prepared him to face them. A whole host of women let loose without any sort of filter? No thank you!

Using his own lack of concentration, you roll the two of you, straddling his still erect cock; you raise your eyebrow at him and he just shrugs: horrified or not, you’re still naked and he hasn’t come yet.

“Fuck yourself on my cock, little dove.” He drawls.

“Not so fast, baby. You had your fun.”

When he tries to roll the two of you again, you grab his wrist and push them against the mattress and ground your naked cunt against the ridges of his cock. From your vantage point you stare at Feyd: you know he can easily manhandle you, he has done so many times, the fact that he’s letting you dominate him, that he is willingly submitting to you, drives you as dizzy and wild pleasure, as his pierced cock is.

Feyd hips kick under yours, the jewels on his manhood only enhancing the torment you’re subjecting him to, your wet, warm lips envelop his erection and he fancies he can feel your hole clench around nothing.

You straighten your back and grab at your own hair with a long moan of pleasure, Feyd’s hands grab your hips in retaliation, forcing you to move even faster on his erection; he only wished he had put weights on your nipples, just to hear you cry out in pain.

Abruptly you plant your hands on his chest to rub your engorged clit on one of the beads on his cock; the pleasure you feel makes all your muscles tremble with the effort to move, your orgasm so close, so close!

You come with a scream, your nails stabbing Feyd’s pectoral, triggering his own release between your lower lips and his muscled abdomen; he growls at the pleasure and at the frustration of not spending himself inside of you, feeling his balls draw up with the force if his orgasm.

You fall in his arms, breathing fast as you kiss all the available skin your lips can reach.

“I’m not done with you, Feyd-Rautha.” You growl in his ear.

The sound that escapes his mouth is a mix between a whine and a groan, his cock still hard and pressed between your bodies; under you his long back arches when you start making your way down the planes of his muscles, your lips finding the small rings on his nipples, your teeth pull at the metal until he keens, the small pain exploding in his engorged cock.

“Little dove.” He groans.

“None of that, my love. I’ve missed you so much.”

Feyd moans at the heath in your words: physically he’s the stronger one, yet he knows you could destroy him with a snap of your fingers.

A long litany of moans spill from his parted lips with every lick and small bite, he feels his balls draw up again, ready to spill.

“Not yet, Feyd. I want you to come inside of me.”

He growls when your hand curls around his base, your teeth pulling cruelly at the ring on his perineum as he writes on the black sheets: he’s so ready to explode for you, paint your insides with his thick cum.

You can feel his long legs scramble against the mattress when your lips find his frenulum ring, your tongue plays with the small piece of metal and the small strip of oversensitive skin; despite your cruel hold, small beads of precome bubble and slide from his cock, meeting your curious tongue.

His taste explodes in your mouth, making you ravenous as you suck on his pierced head with thirst, your teeth playing with the delicate skin; he tries to call your name when your nails rake down the skin of his tights, tortured sounds escape instead, pulled forth by your teeth pulling on one of the beads of the Magic Cross.

With a lewd pop you let his erection fall against his clenching abs, to give him a modicum of respite before attacking him again.

You rise to your knees, your body framed by his trembling legs, simply to observe your handiwork: the marks blooming on his delicate skin, his pupils completely expanded and fixed on the patch of hair between your legs and on the wetness he can see.

“Shall I sit on your face, or use your cock for all it’s worth?”

For a second Feyd can’t answer, his eyes mesmerized by your hands caressing your body and massaging your breasts: he needs to suck on your nipples, or he’ll go mad!

With disconnected movements he pats his hip and you laugh at the way need robs him of his preternatural coordination.

“Say it. I want to hear it!” You command, your fingers still pinching your nipples.

Feyd licks his lips; the room is so saturated with the smell of sex that he fancies he can still taste you on his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, Feyd growls low in his throat.

“Come and use your cock, little dove. I bet your cunt missed it.”

“I think it’s you who missed me more.” You say, crawling towards him. “What are you going to do while my new piercings will need to heal? Go mad with need?”

The idea of holding you while you get your clit pierced forces a shudder through his body: soon, it is going to be so soon!

“I can always play your arse.” He answers, burning with the need to breach you. 

“You’ll have to beg better than that.” You say, flicking his engorged head and earning a lovely yelp of pain.

You position yourself on his cock, you are both so wet you don’t need any more preparation and your cunt welcomes him with a slight tremble.

Feyd’s hands clench on your hips to help you ride with gentle movements that have your clenching muscles slowly relax around his cock, sucking him in until you’re sitting fully on him, feeling every ridge and modification against the velvet of your walls.

To give him a full view, you put your hands on his raised knees and use him for leverage. Slowly you lift yourself up and down, making sure he sees his cock, drenched in your juices, disappear where you two meet with lewd squelching sounds. 

You’ve thrown your head back, letting your hair touch his legs, and miss the way he looks at your body, how ravenous the sight of your combined comes around his base makes him. 

He groans when you bounce faster on him, beads of sweat roll between your lush breasts and he tries to sit up to suck on them, but a tight squeeze of your hole deprives him of all strength. 

“Tell me what you need, my love”. You ask, sitting firmly on his hips. 

Feyd's hands clench on your hips, your cunt is strangling him so perfectly his eyes cross. 

“You nipples…” He groans, almost in pain. “Let me suck on them!” 

Nonchalant you cup your breasts and lightly pull on the rings, not missing the way Feyd's cock twitches inside of you. 

“Do you want to suck on them? Cover all my skin with your marks?”

Feyd's body shakes under you, the wires in his head crossing with the need to taste you, and to come inside of you. 

“Yes!” He manages to groan, as desperate as a drowning man. 

Taking your sweet time to torment him, you push your weight forward and on your arms, your tits millimeters away from his hungry mouth; before he can latch his lips around one areola, you stop him. 

“What if I make you choose between my breasts and coming, tonight? What's your priority?”

Feyd's fingers stab your hips with the desperation he feels: he needs both! 

“You love my mouth on you, you never come as fast as when I fuck your cunt and pull on your rings.”

Desperate times need desperate moves. 

Pensively you cup your breasts again and start moving slowly, the cacophony of moans and sobs spurring you on. 

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the powerful heir to his family fortune, reduced to a bitch in heat under you, begging for your body, beautiful in his need of you and of your guidance. 

“I think you’re right, baby. There's nothing better than your cock in my cunt and your lips on my tits.”

You lay on him again, letting his mouth latch around one pert nipple as his hips piston desperately inside of you; as much as you’re trying to control yourself, the precipice of another orgasms is closer and closer, aided by the delicious mods on Feyd's cock against your quivering walls, hitting everywhere all at once, battering all your nerves without mercy while his teeth worry and pull at your pierced nipple: pain and pleasure a blur in your mind and in his. 

Feyd's hips ram faster and faster against your G spot, spurred as he is by your show of dominance and control over him; he can barely contain himself when you squeeze tighter than ever. You haven't ordered him, yet: he can't come without your permission. 

“Now Feyd!” 

Your barked order dissolves any control he has on himself: grabs you and pulls you tight against his hips and comes, triggering your own orgasm. 

You grind against him, prolonging your shared pleasure until it hurts and you have to let his softened cock slip from your cunt. 

You can feel his thick cum slide from your overused cunt and you shudder on him, he simply cages you against his strong body until he feels your body relax. 

His hand goes to your head to knead the long tresses, one of his favorite post sex rituals as you leave butterfly kisses all over the marks on his neck. 

“You OK baby?” You whisper gently against his skin. 

“Yes, stay.” He adds when you try to go to the bathroom. 

“We're sticky, baby.”

“You smell like me. Let me enjoy it.”

You recognize his tone, he needs to be held more to ground himself back into control. 

“I'm not going anywhere. Come here.”

You tell him and he simply puts his head against your chest, letting himself be cradled by you. 

“Let's chill, OK? I missed you.”

He doesn't answer but you can detect how heavy his breathing is: he's going to fall asleep soon and you let yourself follow him. 

[werenotadulting]

Routine Procedure - Finale

Author's note - Hope you enjoyed!

Part 7 - Kate

If you'd asked her, Kate wouldn't have been able to tell what exactly had gotten her interested in it.

Maybe it was the idea of the power dynamic. She had always been one of those girls labeled as 'bossy' growing up, which was a misogynistic way of saying that she wasn't afraid to speak up and speak her mind.

Or maybe it was the subversion of expectations of a traditional relationship that did it for her. The idea that she was the one in control, the one making all the decisions.

Maybe it was the fact that it was so taboo and kinky that appealed to her. It didnt really matter, whatever the reason.

Kate was into being a Mommy Domme, and Kate found nothing hotter than having a diapered little bitch boy to call her own.

The ultimate fantasy was teaching the boy to love and trust his diapers. Make him associate orgasming with wet diapers and diaper changes. Create a leaking "accident" in public so he learns that while thicker diapers might increase the risk of being noticed, they save you from the embarrassment of wet pants.

Of course, she had considered bringing up her desires to Mike, but based off of past experiences, she didn't want to chance it. Mike was just too perfect of a guy to risk blowing it like that.

She had always been the dominant one in bed, with Mike eagerly submitting to her every whim, so she knew they were sexually compatible. It had never gone past light bondage though, and Kate was starting to get an itch that handcuffs and blindfolds just wouldn't scratch.

────────

It had come up entirely by chance, one day while she was scrolling through an obscure ABDL forum.

The post read: "Biomedical engineer here, and I think I've figured out a way to induce instant, semi-permanent incontinence."

The post was over 3 days old, and only had two comments on it. The first was from a mod, basically saying to take everyone's posts with a grain of salt. The second was from the OP, about 24 hours after the original post.

"I know it sounds like a fantasy, but I'm pretty confident it will work. I've had a career in medical devices for the last 8 years, specializing in the urology space. I don't want to get too deep into the details on here, so just PM me of you're interested."

Kate rolled her eyes.

Everyone in this community is so hooked on the 'I want to be instantly incontinent' thing, and all it ever ends up being is some silly fap content, she thought to herself.

"You know what, let's feed the troll and see what bites," she muttered.

Liv2DomU: ok spill, what's your magical method?

PrinceOfPadding: this for you, or someone else?

Liv: hypothetically, let's say it's for a boyfriend

Prince: Ahh okay. Very interesting. Well, like I said, I've worked in med device for awhile, and I've recently started my own company. I primarily work in the urology space, catheters, scopes, that kind of stuff.

Liv: hmm hate to break it to u bud, but catheters kinda already exist

Prince: oh sure, catheters exist, but my idea is to bridge the catheter world with the stent world

Liv: sounds idk...sketchy? illegal?

As she read more, Kate was beginning to think that this guy might not be as full of crap as she had initially thought. He had his own start-up, which had already launched a Foley catheter to the market. It was all above-board and legit.

Prince: so, for the aspiring incontinent-person-to-be, the ring is positioned with a catheter, and stays in place once the Foley is removed. Then overtime, probably a month at minimum, depending on the chemical makeup and customer desire, the ring breaks down and is naturally absorbed into the body. And they all sign a consent form saying they accept the risks of such a procedure.

Liv: so then once it's dissolved they are back to being being able to control their bladder?

Prince: that's the theory, yes

Liv: theory?

Prince: well, dissolvable stent technology present state takes like 18 months to break down, and the manufacturing of it is patented and kept under lock and key

Liv: so basically all you have to offer is a catheter lol

Prince: well no. I've got some good leads on dissolvable compounds, but I've got to do trials of the rings first to see if it would even work. I've promised free diapers for the first few months if people sign up, but it's been hard to get subjects

Liv: so these trial rings wouldn't dissolve?

Prince: nope

Liv: meaning my hypothetical boyfriend would be....?

Prince: permanently diaper dependent, yeah

────────

In the end Kate was curious enough that she was willing to hear the guy out.

He'd asked for a mailing address and her phone number. The first was to send proof that his company was real, and the second was just to keep in contact should she decide to proceed.

It all made sense, at least in theory. Foley catheters were safe, provided they were inserted by a trained healthcare professional. A normal person would get a normal catheter just like everyone else. But an ABDL would be signing up for what was essentially an intentionally faulty catheter.

Assuming they knew they were willingly signing up for it.

When asked about 'accidental' ring implants, Prince had basically said, hey, people really need to learn to read the fine print.

────────

I walked out to the mailbox. I've been expecting test results back from the scan I'd had a few weeks back. Opening up the box, I noticed a large envelope with my hospital's address on the front.

About time, I thought, grabbing the envelope and the rest of the mail.

I walked back into the house, where Kate was making herself a cup of tea.

"Anything good in the mail?" she asked, taking a sip from her mug.

I listed them aloud as I started to flip though the mail, "Looks like some junk mail, an internet bill, a brochure for some UroVention medical thing, and last but not least, my test results."

I dropped the rest of the mail on the counter and started to open up my scan results. As I was reading, Kate walked over and began sorting through the other mail.

"Oh good, they said it's benign, but they're still worried about the location. They're recommending removal, just to be on the safe side."

"Removal for something benign? That sounds odd, but whatever," Kate said, tucking something into her back pocket.

"I'm not too worried. It sounds like it should be a pretty routine procedure."

────────

Part 8 - Mike

I sat down on the couch, my diaper squishing underneath me. Kate had taken to putting two stuffers in my diaper, even though these Tykables could already hold a lot. The warm, comforting feeling of my wet diaper started to turn me on, just like it did every time I realized how wet I was or if I was about to get a change. Not that I could do anything about it, though.

I flipped open the laptop and signed in. It would probably be a good hour before Kate got back from the store. Apparently I was being downgraded from sippy cups to bottles.

Once logged in, I noticed that the screen was still up to the site where Kate had last been. It was another diaper order, this time a case of Megamaxes. I felt my cheeks start to heat up, seeing that Kate had chosen the pink color for the whole case.

I opened up a private window, and navigated to KinkLink. My profile on here was pretty bare. It always had been, just containing my age, gender, and some basic interests. I hadn't even bothered to post a picture when I set it up. I preferred to look at other people's profiles rather than post things of my own.

I was always intrigued by people's locations and how close they were to where I lived. One such person who I came back to check the posts of daily was a mommy domme, who it happened lived in my town. Her first posts, from nearly three years ago, were what had first caught my attention.

'Every night I dream about finding my perfect diaper slut. He will wake up to me rubbing his thick, soggy padding, the little bedwetter that I turned him into.'

'Picture this: You, in a wet diaper and nothing else. Me, in my black lingerie with a strap on. Do I have any volunteers?'

'Have no doubt, if you date me, it's diapers forever. There's no "only at home" or "but my parents are coming over". Maybe I'll just find a way to make you incontinent. Then you won't have an excuse.'

And then there were the pictures. She never would show her face, but she didn't need to.. She wasn't lying about the black lingerie. It left very little to the imagination. Then the next picture, where the bra came off, and she was just in her lacy panties, her pierced nipples and tattoos on display. Maybe it was the octopus tattoo on her arm, my favorite animal, that made her stick out to me.

But there was one post that I always came back to and was entranced by. It was a picture of her holding an ABU Kiddo, right below her breasts. She wasn't wearing any clothing.

'Aww baby, did you wet the bed? I think we should probably put you in some protection.'

────────

I stood in line at the coffee shop. It wasn't too busy for a Tuesday at 9 a.m., only two people were ahead of me. As the first person in line got her coffee and the second lady stepped up to place her order, I checked my phone. Still a half hour before I needed to be at work, I had some time to sit and enjoy my drink. I got my usual and went off to a booth in the corner.

"Excuse me, but do you happen to know what the Wi-Fi password is here?"

I looked up to see the woman who had been in front of me in line.

"Oh um, yeah it's....oh I think they just changed it. Try 'PINTO'. They always pick some sort of bean, I think they find it amusing, but it's never a coffee bean..." I trailed off.

She smiled, "Oh thank you so much, yeah I'll try that."

My mouth fell open is shock.

"I uhhh...I like your tattoo," I said. "They're my, um, favorite animal."

"Oh mine too! Isn't the octopus, like, the coolest animal?"

"D-definitely. Hey, would you like to sit with me? I'm just hanging out while I wait for work. My name is Mike by the way."

"That sounds really nice. Thank you, Mike. I'm Kate."

[unholyplumpprincess]

Clever Little Fox

For @hurtled-into-chaos-you-fight featuring his beautiful Bloodhound design that you can see on his pinned post! I have also written them in here for those who do better with Written descriptions! LOVE U BITCH

Summary: Mirage decides today is the day he will decide to get one on over Hound. He's always been their prey in the arena, but it wouldn't hurt to switch it up, right? Lure them in only to humiliate them in front of aaalll the cameras? Shouldn't hurt anything, right? Not like he's expecting to get punished or anything. Haha...ha....

Reblogs > Likes. Must have your age (18+ only) in your bio before interaction or you will be blocked.

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Mirage/Bloodhound

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Bloodhound has a penis, Mirage has a vulva, gender fluid Mirage who goes by she/her and Ellie/Elliott, both have body mods, Bloodhound is briefly called Daddy as a title but NOT a daddy kink, biting, denial + overstimulation, aaaand Elliott in a cute collar and being called prey!

Words: 8.7k

_________

King’s Canyon had felt almost eerie with its adjustments these last seasons.  

Bloodhound missed the Leviathans’ calls, their large feet stomping down creating craters across the lands and sweeping the area free of any greedy or bold enemy teams. More adjustments being made reminded them of the sight of their own home planet, being mangled now by Hammond. It could bring painful memories if they thought too hard about it.  

Thankfully, with the coming season, Bloodhound had been able to focus more on the games. Namely because just a few seasons ago, they’d gotten into a relationship. Elliott had finally, bravely come up to them instead of looking from afar, his tongue tripping himself up as he rubbed the back of his head and said, “Would you  maybe  like to go to the afterparty? With uh- with me, I mean. Like. You know. Like we go together? Like as a...as a couple- or er, duo? You know? Two pals in a pod- er, peas? Peas in a pod.” While doing that little pretend two punch towards them with his face burning and clearly losing the  bravery  he must have built on the way over to them.  

Cute.  

Bloodhound couldn’t help but smile, towering over him by a good head as they peer down at him through their dark goggles. “I would love to accompany you.” To which Elliott’s beautiful hazel eyes had lit up, a bright smile crossing his face and dimples creasing his cheeks. It had been worth it alone just to agree to go to see him so delighted, but then along the way, they’d grown close.  

~Rest under the cut~

Accompanying him to afterparties soon became accompanying him elsewhere. To get coffee, to just sitting in the lounge area to bring Elliott company. Sometimes, Bloodhound found that they’d fall asleep quite often with him, their head nodding off in the blissful quiet only to awaken frightened and confused at first. Elliott, who’d quickly gotten used to that, would always gently tell them that they were alright. Reminding them where they were and how they got there until the hunter had settled.  

Bloodhound’s narcolepsy was...odd. In order to be triggered, they had to be completely calm- rather than when it would normally happen for others when a huge overwhelming emotion passed. It seemed to happen when they were at their calmest, happening more and more frequent the longer they were around Elliott. To the point that eventually Elliott had slyly offered his room instead so they could lie down ‘just in case’.  

Ellie had been the one to make the first move for a kiss, and for that Bloodhound is eternally grateful. They had been longing to, going so far as to cup her cheek and smooth their thumb over her lower lip and hearing her breath hitch- but never proceeding. But one day, on a date where they were in the woods on a picnic (Ellie’s idea, Bloodhound had to stop from grinning at how sweet it was), she’d leaned over. Gently cupping their cheek and asking permission quietly, Bloodhound hadn’t trusted their voice so they had nodded, and then her glossy maroon lips had pressed to theirs. So softly, so gently that they thought they would lose their breath.  

Bloodhound had ended up with their lips and cheeks covered in her makeup, dizzy and hungry all the same. Watching her clean up around her mouth and reapply the lip gloss had been a sin in itself. A divine temptation.  

She was, in herself, a divine temptation. And together, they both looked so different next to each other- a small thing that brought Bloodhound joy. And even then, they were clearly an attractive couple.  

Bloodhound stood at 6’4”, built broad and fit with a body looking almost to be carved from the gods- something they were particularly proud of. Their skin is a deep, warm olive tone, discolored from dark coolant scarring that’s prominent on their forehead down to their thick, sharp brows. More stretching from their shoulders, down towards their collar bones.  

Bloodhound’s face is just the same, seemingly carved from marble with a hooked nose. With age, now at 46, their age had slightly started to show with crow’s feet nearing their sharp eyes, as well as laugh lines on their cheeks, only really noticeable if they snarled or smiled. Their lips are full, split near the center across from five diagonal scars going across their face starting at the right side of their scalp, going through their ear and down to their left side jawline. Their sharp eyes are deep set, looking predatory near constantly. Ellie had called them out for having a ‘resting bitch face’ for it before. With their left eye a vibrant and unnatural deep crimson, and the right a blinded milky pink, both with diamond shaped pupils with their right being paler.  

Their hair had to be another thing they were particularly proud of. Long, deep ginger hair in coiling, wild waves with a few gray streaks through their hair. The boldest streak of gray found at their bang and temple line. Falling well past their ass to about mid-thigh, normally pulled into a messy ponytail or varied braids throughout their hair. Their body hair is kept trimmed, save for their thick happy trail leading down below their pant line.  

Bloodhound was also covered head to toe in body mods. Gauges in their ears appearing like large, swirled bones, their left ear having an industrial with varied hoops and two smaller gauges. Their right covered in the same hoops with a single stud at their helix with the same gauges. In their mouth, with their sharp upper and lower long canines, a tongue web piercing rested as well as a smiley piercing.  

Nipple piercings, hip  dermals , and a full  jacob’s  ladder with a prince albert through the head of their cock completed their piercings. Modifications done to their tongue to be split and forked at the tip, and their ears modified to be pointed. Tattoos covered up half of their flesh, a majority being black out tattoos. Swirling around their biceps and curling down their forearm partially, up to their neck where a helm of awe rested on their throat just above two ravens extending their talons out on their pecs.  

Black out, swirled tattoos curl all the way down from their hips all the way to the center of their feet where the runes for Speed rested. Runes in a prayer for ‘the 13 th  warrior prayer’ etched into their flesh through the areas the swirls did not cover on their legs.  Over their hands they had runes on their left for justice, and on their right for death. Lines and black outs all along their hands as well.  

And finally, along the base of their shaft encompassed black ink, a double band on either side are two  runes  for lovers/sacrificial sex. Both runes encompassing fertility.  

They were huge, completely modded up behind that armor they wore. It had been a treat to see Elliott’s jaw drop open, entirely flattering them when he’d sputtered out and turned red, trying to find the words. It had been before they were in a relationship, Bloodhound having no shame in revealing their body to their fellow teammates. It had certainly been an ego booster to watch him trip over himself when they had removed their upper armor and helmet in the showers, making eye contact with the poor thing as he near tripped over his change of clothes he was dragging.  

Such cute prey he made when he was flustered.  

And yet, in turn, Elliott was similar yet different to their own self. Elliott had mentioned his adoration of Egyptian gods and the symbolism behind them whilst describing all his tattoos. Symbols in ink littered across his arms for Sobek, Osiris, and on both his shoulders being the eyes of Ra and Horus. On his torso being symbols for Isis as an  underbust  tattoo, an ankh over his left breast, a scarab over his throat and dual stars on the dips of his hips. And on his legs, symbols for Amun-Ra of a sun on his right thigh, the moon on his left, the bird-like head on his right calf, and Anubis on his left calf  

His own mods were kept pretty hidden under his own uniform. More of piercings like gold barbells through his nipples, several ear piercings, a triple vertical tongue piercing, and a navel piercing.  

His own body was fit, but he had a slight tummy that Bloodhound would admit they were obsessed with. His breasts were rounded, C cup they would assume and made him look rather broad in a compression bra in the arena, and his curves sharp and falling down to equally wide hips. He had a strong body, biceps well defined and his tummy equally defined, just with that small amount of softness to it that made Bloodhound want to squish it as much as his hips did. Without his boots, he stood at about 5’9”. Perfect chin resting height.  

Oh, he was always such a taunting creature, wasn’t he? The tease of having Isis’ symbol upon his flesh, for fertility and motherhood. It wasn’t as if he had not had it before he had met Bloodhound, they knew that. But how their own runes on their shaft matched Her meaning- oh, he was so tempting to sink their teeth into at a constant. So inviting with his flirtatious remarks, his wits, and how beautifully he keened in their arms, murmuring their chosen name of ‘Rune’ with desperation in his voice.  

That’s what had been running through Bloodhound’s head when they were in the arena today. Normally so focused and able to aid their teammates better, but something about Elliott was so distracting today.  

Perhaps it was how he had smiled at them on the dropship, eyes bright and delighted at seeing them. Bloodhound had met his gaze from across the way through their goggles, watching as he held his index finger and thumbs together to form a heart and playfully blowing them a kiss. They had, in turn, delighted in seeing his pout when they drew their thumb across their throat in warning.  

However, he had that look in his eye. As clever and as full of tricks as a fox, Bloodhound did not trust that look. His eyes had a gleam in them, his full lips quirking into a crooked grin before leaning back to the side to seemingly talk to Wraith, his partner in this duo match. Whilst Bloodhound found themself with a newbie, one who was talking a big game about how they were going to solo this, that they wanted to win a match on their own without a legend by their side. Bloodhound could respect that, in theory, but in practice of a blood sport that involved being in partnerships or trios? That was a mistake.  

The newbie had been picked off early in the round, going so far as to split upon drop from them so Bloodhound couldn’t even respawn them and grab them by their collar like an idiotic kitten to scold. It had put them at a disadvantage- but the winds called them forward and they would answer those calls. They manage pretty well, at first, a duo is taken down by a stray spitfire they had picked up and their hatchet, another single person taken out with their longbow at a long-distance shot. A bit sloppy, but it got the job done.  

They had been doing fairly well until they had caught sight of their beloved. At least, they thought they had, until they pulled the trigger on their longbow from afar and watched it crack clear through his head. Watching it dissipate with a robotic voice gleefully cackling, “Bamboozled!” But he must have been  close by . He knew where they were looking. He was toying with them.  

And so, the hunter becomes the hunted.  

Bloodhound could grin at the idea. Their sweet little prey, always such an event with him. What would he be pulling out of his sleeve today? Would he roll over once caught and beg for their forgiveness? Bloodhound quite likes that idea, that he would bare his throat even in the arena if caught in their hands. Or would he perhaps have a new trick to pull, find a way to push their buttons until they thought of having him in the shower by his throat and sinking their teeth satisfyingly into the crook--  

They’re shaken from their thoughts only when they catch that familiar yellow jumpsuit turning around a building. After quiet observation, it seems he’s alone. Perhaps a quick reminder what pretty prey he made was in order.  

Their longbow shot hits next to his boot, watching through their scope as Elliott jumps and darts down into the valley left between The Cage and Market. Seeming to head towards the loot bunker below. Elliott is no fool, despite how he can come off, he should know that was a close quarters area. Bloodhound knew way better by now than to underestimate him, even if their instincts said to charge in. If not to secure a kill in their corner, but just to see what he had to say.  

Wraith does not seem to be nearby; She doesn’t follow if that is the case. Bloodhound narrows their gaze, huffing to themself as they slide down from their position to edge the bunker’s mouth, slinging their mastiff from over their shoulder instead. Yet, when they drop down, they curiously note his footprints seem to be...not there?  

Yet he is at the charge tower’s activation controls, his back turned to them. Their eyes narrow instantly as they approach, a hiss falling from their lips even before their  fist  makes contact with the hologram. “I am not playing your games today, Mirage.” They call out as the static voice fills the air with the same taunt. They know it would alert their location, draw him out of hiding of wherever he was. They expect him to follow the same path they did, drop down to their level with his hands up and that swagger in his step that his wide hips gave him.  

What they don’t expect is to hear the sound of his ultimate being triggered and suddenly being surrounded by multiple of him aiming his wingman directly at them. Bloodhound is also acutely aware of the humming of two drone cameras circling the room to get in on the action of the two legends.  

What a clever little trickster. They can’t help but be proud of his little parlor trick.  

Bloodhound is quick to whip to the right, blasting their mastiff straight through what they hoped was the real Mirage. Only for it to dissipate into static with a taunt left behind gracing their ears of ‘bamboozled!’. Bloodhound hardly gets to take another guess when Elliott takes a well-aimed shot, shattering their armor with the loud crack of skullpiercer. Their second shot is incorrect, and their ultimate downfall when the real Mirage kicks the backs of their knees, sending them forward as another hologram kicks their chest to send them flat on their back and their mastiff skidding across the ground.  

“Sooo, the  hunter the gods have sent,” Elliott croons out in a sarcastic tone as he presses his boot to their chest to keep them down to the ground. Bloodhound grunts, snarling behind their respirator as he leans down on his thigh, applying more pressure. His wingman is tapping their helm, the only thing keeping them from lunging forward and tripping him up. “Tricked by lil ole me? Why, Houndie, I’m  flattered ! Really, I am.”  

His voice is a taunt and Bloodhound can’t help but look to his full lips quirking into that crooked grin they loved so much. Dimples crease his cheeks, his eyes sparkling with mischief in that way that always got Bloodhound to croon his fond nickname of ‘little fox’. But now, they bare their sharp teeth behind their respirator, fingers clenched into fists and their body starting to move to maybe lunge at him.  

The click of his wingman cocking and those lips crooning, “Ah, ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, pup.” as if chiding a  pet  makes Bloodhound stay put, only propped up on their elbows and huffing at the humiliation. Elliott was playing a dangerous game, he knew that, always so clever and calculating. This taunt must have been for the last time Bloodhound had the upper hand and made that pretty little bird under them  sing  his pleads before they’d claimed Champion by a well-aimed hatchet.  

A slight that Elliott did not seem to forget. Nor did videos  scouring  the various planets.  

“Ah, well! Ya know, I won’t waste your time. Know you got better things to do than win like I do. Say hello to the ole’ chewing bone for me, will ya?” Elliott’s voice is that same crooning taunt, confidence rolling off him and each word another press into Bloodhound’s buttons. They go to lunge, and the last thing they hear is the loud crack. Placing Bloodhound third, with one last squad to go for Mirage and Wraith.  

Elliott and Wraith claim champion not long after Bloodhound awakens in the medical bay with a frustrated growl. It doesn’t help that Elliott’s cockiness stirred something in them, something that hungered to see that look wiped off his face. Wanting to see that pretty face he made underneath them instead, except Bloodhound can’t find sympathy within them for what they have planned for him.   

Humiliated. They were humiliated in front of the cameras. This would be talked about, Bloodhound could accept a loss, could accept even their beloved’s hand ending them in the arena. But, oh, they knew this would be talked about in interviews to come. That Ellie’s sweet smile would twist upon her features as she recalled the events, with that sparkle in her eye as she glanced at the camera’s lens and knew Bloodhound was watching not far.  

No. Bloodhound does not find mercy within them for the thoughts that curl inside their mind. Predatory- hungry. Their little bird would sing until Bloodhound had their fill, until they felt that Elliott had accepted the punishment that he must have known was approaching. He should have, or else he wouldn’t have pressed and taunted like that. Normally if he caught the upper hand on them, he’d beam all proud of himself and Bloodhound’s heart would flutter at his pride.  

This?  

This was intentional. And Bloodhound would give him what he desired. Intensely.  

Bloodhound considers this as they go to the showers, the sting of the humiliation lighter but not in the slightest eliminated. It still hangs fresh in their mind as they pull their respirator off to hang around their neck, about to start working on the rest of their heavier gear when humming reaches their ears. Cocking their head to the side, they turn towards the sound, watching Elliott joyfully humming to himself and swaying his body as he comes into the locker room area. Smelling strong of sweat and gun smoke.  

Elliott must be high off his own win, not paying attention to his surroundings when he bumps right into Bloodhound. He jumps, taking a step back and his eyes landing on their chest where they must expect someone else, quickly flicking his gaze up to their face and offering a nervous smile.  

“Elliott...” Bloodhound’s voice is a growl, that low rumble that makes Elliott bubble out a nervous laugh. He goes to take a step back, hands up and defensive and his back hitting a locker as they approach like a slinking predator. But at least he doesn’t look hurt, so they must have gotten the name correctly today. A male day, then.  

Elliott gulps harshly when they come closer, another nervous laugh coming out. “H- Houndie !  Baby, I uh- I didn’t see you th --” He yelps when a hand fists into his curls, yanking his head back and their other gloved hand coming up to grip his jaw. Their thumb presses to his cheek, forcing his gaze to remain on them with a tight hold on his jaw. He can see the way their crimson eye glows behind their goggles, hungry and predatory.  

“Quiet.” Bloodhound’s voice is a low snarl to stop his words and Elliott clicks his mouth shut. His breath hitches as they come closer, pressing their bodies together and Elliott can’t help but reach up. His hands land on both their forearms, squeezing them lightly but without intent to move them. He’s rewarded with a thick thigh shoving its way between his own, forcing them apart as a shaky breath inhales past his full lips. You really can’t blame the way his eyes flutter with anticipation, honeyed eyes flickering down to Bloodhound’s full lips and the sharpness of their teeth. So pretty.  

Yeah. He was such a lucky person.  

“You know what you have done, lítill refur.”  

Maaaybe not that lucky.  

“Who- me? Why, what did  lil  ole’ me d— ah !”  

Not Elliott’s smartest move to back talk and play innocent when he’s being held by them. Their thigh comes up against him through the thin fabric of his holosuit, making sure to put enough pressure to make him stand on his tiptoes. They force him still, forcing his body to rock across their thigh until his hips start to do it automatically with a faint whimper building up from his throat.  

“Do not play a fool, Elliott Witt. You knew exactly what you were doing to get what you wanted- and what is it that you want, hm?” Bloodhound’s voice is low, leaning close to his face until Elliott can see the reflection of his eyes in their goggles. How widely blown his pupils are and how he’s already got his lips parted and facial expression  wanting.  “Do you wish for me to take you here where anyone can find you? Where the cameras shall pick up on your pathetic whining?”  

As if on cue, Elliott whines when Bloodhound’s hand moves from his jaw, keeping his hair still firmly in their grip as they trace down his body with their free hand. Their hand goes straight downwards, moving their thigh to cup his crotch and running their thumb over the seam of his cunt through his holosuit. Applying just the right amount of pressure to make his hips twitch into their grasp with a harsh gasp leaving his lips. They keep that pressure, rubbing across him until they feel wetness start to seep through the fabric. And only then does Bloodhound draw their hand way much to his dismay.  

In fact, they let him go, getting completely off him as they swipe their split tongue over their thumb with a satisfied hum just to watch Elliott tremble. “Get cleaned up. Come to your room when you are finished.” Their eyes sweep over his frame, watching as he nods quickly as if all that fight and trickery has left his body. Bloodhound can’t help the smirk that graces their lips.  

“Oh, and Elliott?” They call as Elliott starts to gather his civilian clothing, only able to get around the corner when they speak. They get the pleasure of watching him stop near instantly, shooting a look over his shoulder with those big puppy dog eyes of his as if begging them not to be too cruel.  ”Be  sure not to touch yourself. I will know. I do so hate when someone else touches my meal.”  

Bloodhound does not miss the quiet ‘fuck’ Elliott whines out when he turns the corner, his feet hurrying across the floor.  

Poor thing. However, Bloodhound has no sympathy for him. Not today.  

--  

Bloodhound had set up in Elliott’s room while he showered. They had recently gotten him a collar that they hoped he would enjoy- it was meant to be a gift, but now was as good of a time as any. A yellow and black lace, thick ribbon collar with a black and yellow bow on the front. A small silver O-ring was on the front with a little silver raven charm hanging off, the collar itself able to be tied in the back with a thin black ribbon. It wasn’t made to be tugged or yanked, but it was certainly a quiet marking of what they intended. Possessive. Theirs.  

Lubrication was set to the side on his nightstand, his bed made politely to be comfortable for him. It was tempting to lie out rope, to be able to bind him and use him like a toy until he sobbed out.  But, they knew that’s what he wanted, to be able to be fucked until he was made to not think.  

However, Elliott was notoriously whiny when it came to edging. That was a true punishment for him.  

Speaking of the devilish fox, they hear the beep of the lock before the door slides open. Elliott sneaks in quietly, refusing to lift his head and look at Bloodhound. How cute. His curls are freshly styled, fluffy and cleaned. A loose gray t-shirt is on his frame with matching sweatpants and his striped black and white socks, his shoes toed off at the door. Bloodhound had taken the time to strip in Elliott’s room. Their uniform gone sans for their tactical pants now hanging low on their hips without a belt, revealing their fit upper torso and all of their mods. Their long, long hair was pulled up into a ponytail, a few braids framing their face.  

“Bloodh--”  

“My name, little one. We are safe alone.”  

“Rune -” Elliott breathes out as if he’d been holding it in all day. Finally raising his gaze from the floor to see them. He’s always shameless in the way he looks over their form, making Bloodhound’s chest swell with pride as they sit up taller for him to take in their form. They beckon him closer with their finger, watching that earlier fighting  look  in his eyes melt away as he approaches. “Is. ..Is  it too late to say sorry?”  

“Very.” Bloodhound replies, a smirk on their lips once he reaches them. Elliott whines low in his throat, but quickly stops when Bloodhound begins to stand. Towering over him, but they twirl their finger for him to turn around. He quickly obeys, making their heart swell, but they must keep their mind focused. He had humiliated them in the arena and had done so without abandon, that shall not be forgotten.  

At first, they gently tug at the bottom of his shirt, waiting to hear him protest. But his arms go up, allowing them to pull off the shirt with ease. Running their hands down his curves and down to his hips with a sigh. “To hide such a beautiful form is a crying shame, my love. The gods have blessed you with their beauty, and yet tonight you try to hide that from me?” They can’t help but tut their tongue, their voice playful, yet honest.  

They lean down to nuzzle into his hair to inhale his scent only briefly, moving to his sports bra, once again checking before they pull it up and over his head. They understood what dysphoria could do, thankfully Elliott had explained most days he didn’t experience it, whilst Bloodhound had the blessing of confidence in their own form.   

The entire time, Elliott’s breathing is getting heavier as their heated hands slide down his form, taking the time to feel up his chest like he likes. Bloodhound leans their head down to trail their split tongue down his neck, pressing a heated kiss to the crook of his neck as their hand slides under his pants’ waistband. They growl when they find no underwear, feeling the trimmed hair between his thighs as they tuck their hand between his parted thighs. Tracing over his already wet cunt and sliding two fingers through his lower lips, tracing upwards towards his clit to part his lower lips just to make him whine out, “Rune, baby, please-”  

Bloodhound helps him out of his pants then. Leaving Elliott in his socks only before they reach back to grab the collar. They pull it around Elliott’s neck, tying it in the back and checking to make sure they could fit two fingers underneath so he could wear it comfortably. It’s worth the reveal just to hear how Elliott whimpers, his hips twitching into nothing and his head tipping back on their shoulder to look up at them. “You got me a collar, pup?” Spoken in a shaky, almost amused tone that makes Bloodhound smirk.  

“It is to mark what is mine. You complained the last time I tried to mark you and said a collar would be easier- I merely took your advice.”  

“Because you left me BLOODY and covered in BITE MARKS!” Elliott stresses out as if he didn’t enjoy every second of it, moving with Bloodhound as they spin him around. They walk back until they can sit back on the edge of the bed, guiding Elliott onto one of their thighs. He straddles it with ease, momentarily focused more on proving his point as he tips his head to the side, showing the pink scar on the crook of his neck and jutting an accusing finger at it. It’s partially hidden by the collar, and Bloodhound can’t help but groan at the sight, whilst Elliott whines. “Look! You’ve bitten me so many times it’s scarred!”  

Calloused hands slide up Elliott’s curves, squeezing his breasts and teasing his nipples with their thumbs just to make his mouth shut. Feeling his hips jerk as his hands grip their broad shoulders with a low sound leaving his throat. “Mmh. I believe your last words to that was ‘you can bite harder than that’.” Bloodhound cheekily replies, being sure to show off their sharp teeth as they tug one of his pierced nipples, making his hips twitch again. Able to flick their gaze down to see the wet spot he’s put on their pants.  

Bloodhound abandons his sensitive nipples to grip his hips instead in a bruising embrace. Pressing their nails to his flesh just as he liked and tugging him forward to make his hips twitch backwards, forcing his large clit to peek out from his lower lips. Their mouth waters at the thought of getting their mouth on him, but they had to pace their actions. Elliott would easily get over excited and cum if they weren’t careful at monitoring his body.  

With the goal easily in mind, they allow Elliott to cling to them as they grab his hips and start rocking him, forcing him to hump their thigh. His breathing is quick to pick up, pressing his face into their neck and clinging around them with a soft swear exhaling from his lips. Bloodhound releases his hips, getting joy in the fact that he’s already canting his own hips against their thigh and whimpering into their neck. “Fuck, baby, I could probably c-cum like this.”  

“You won’t.” Bloodhound assures, curling one hand into the back of Elliott’s curls, the other gripping his hip to set the pace to something quicker when Elliott slows down with that sputtering little ‘wait wha -’ coming out of his mouth. It’s as if he realizes their plans, his nails pressing into their back and a whine erupting past his soft panting.   

“God, Rune- sweetheart, that- that isn’t fair.” He tries to whine out, rolling his hips into their thigh and leaving a bigger wet mark. His fat clit that Bloodhound loved so much made it easy to grind against any object. Some days Bloodhound couldn’t help but wonder what else he could just get off on. If he liked humping them like a dog so much.   

“Not fair?” Bloodhound parrots back in the same whine he does, mocking him. They steady their thigh, setting his pace harsher until his body is rocking quicker, trembling with more swears tumbling from his lips into their shoulder. “Oh, my love, this is justice. To humiliate me in the arena is one thing, but to humiliate me in front of the gods?” They  tut  their tongue, yanking his hips forward to force him harder against them to make him sob out.  

Elliott can’t even come up with a response, his breathing already so heavy and his hips grinding downwards on their own accord. But the second his breathing hitches and he whimpers out a ‘fuck!’, Bloodhound drops their thigh, their hand leaving his curls and both hands grabbing his hips. Forcing him to hover just above their lap without him tumbling to the floor. Elliott still tries to grind into nothing, his mouth moving and singing out just like they thought he would. “Fuck- baby, sweetheart —Rune-  Rune, come on, that isn’t-  ah - funny! Can’t you just overs—overt—make me cum until I cry?!”  

All the while they can smell him. That deep, musky scent that makes them want to growl, so they do, low in their throat and causing Elliott to sob into their neck from his own denial. It was one of his most hated things, so he claimed, and yet he always was a mess after. Dripping and drooling and begging for them. Bloodhound certainly enjoyed it. Especially with how he whines into their neck and his hips twitch in their hands as if he humping air could solve his problems.  

“Perhaps if you were a good little pup, I would make use of your fertile little cunt right now,” They pause there to hold him up with one hand under his ass, the other tucking between his trembling, spread thighs to run their thumb from his hole to his clit. Delighting in the breathy noise he releases, watching Elliott lean back with heavy eyes to watch Bloodhound’s promising tongue lick over the slick with a low groan. “Instead, you had to be bratty and cocky.”  

Elliott, however, has always been a good persuader to get what he wanted.  

Bloodhound lets his hips drop back down to their thigh that they pull back up to give him pressure. Elliott looks so pretty already, completely bare, a flush edging over his chest and face, that pretty collar around his throat, and not to mention when their eyes  drop  they can see the way his clit sits on their thigh. They almost want to drag their thumb down to touch him again, but judging by his half-lidded eyes and his hitched breath, that might just set him off too early.  

However, Elliott was ever quick with his silver tongue, licking over his lips with his own pierced tongue that made Bloodhound’s breath catch, knowing just the dangers of how it could work their cock. “Please,” He whines out, low in his throat as their hands flex on his hips, a growl building in their own throat in warning when Elliott’s hands slide down their chest. “Please, please, I’ll be so good, baby, I’ll be your good dog. Any way you want me, I’ll do it- you  wanna  breed me? I know you do, I’ll be so good for you, you’ll see, come on just bend me over, forget this whole thing and we can--”   

He’s cut off when one of their hands comes up to grab his hair again, causing a cry to erupt from his lips mid-sentence as his head is yanked back. Bloodhound would be the first to admit that they were hard- the whole situation with him could drive them to this point of hunger. Only this clever little fox could make them want to lose control so badly, their plan almost swayed by the idea of bending him over and taking him raw and hard how he liked.  

“You will take your punishment with honor, Elliott. Do not babble and beg, you deserve this and you know it. I dare say you wanted this to happen. Such a masochist.” Bloodhound near about snarls out, raising their lips to show their sharp teeth, their other hand on his hip starting to force him to move again. But this time, they keep the hold on his hair, tugging it until his throat is bare and they can see the way his eyes flutter and try to roll into the back of his head.  

The second he’s close, they stop him again, much to his dismay judging by how he sobs out. They wait for him to settle down again, letting him frantically hump their thigh this time, until they pull him away a third time. Elliott reacts with a sob, tears welling in his eyes and his body trembling. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his hips squirming in a way that tells Bloodhound he’d probably be stomping for not being able to get his way by now, if his feet could touch the ground.  

“You may cum this time, little one.” Bloodhound assures him, setting him gently back down on their lap once his breathing settles. They ease on his hair, grabbing his jaw and tilting his blurry gaze up to them, swiping their thumb on his lower lip sweetly. “What is your color?”  

“Green! Green, so green, very green.” Elliott breathily replies quickly, earning a small smile from Bloodhound as they lean to kiss his forehead softly with a ‘good’.  

It’s a break in the scene, they both know it, but it was to ensure both of their safety. Bloodhound feared of crossing a line despite Elliott constantly telling them that they could ‘fuck him up’ and he’d be happy, and Elliott liked the pause to know that they weren’t actually angry with him but it was more of a scene to play.  

There’s that brief moment shared where they go from his forehead, to his nose in a peck, and then to his lips the same way before they’re moving back into their role. Keeping a grip on his jaw to make sure that their eyes meet as Elliott starts humping their thigh again. More frantic and earnest in his desires, like a dog humping a leg. Soaking through their pants as repetitive moans leave his lips of ‘ah, ah, ah’ the closer he gets.  

“Say thank you.” Bloodhound reminds him, pressing their thigh up harder against him.  

It takes not five seconds after before his body is seizing beautiful, muscles taut and tears spilling down his cheeks finally as Elliott cries out, “ Thankyouthankyouthankyou -  hnnh —thank you, fuck , oh thank you, Daddy -” Like the good boy he was, each twitch of his hips making a shuddery breath leave him and a spasm rock his frame from his orgasm.  

However, he doesn’t get a break. Not when he uses that title. It’s like a band snaps within Bloodhound and they need their tongue on him. Now.  

Near instantly, while he’s still twitching and contracting, Bloodhound moves their position. Slamming Elliott down onto the bed to crawl between his thighs like they were starving for him this entire time. And they were. His legs go over their shoulders, their hands clasping his inked thighs tightly and forcing them apart so their tongue could lick up his drooling mess.  

They moan at the same time Elliott sobs out, his hands slamming down into their beautiful mess of amber waves to clutch tightly at the root and pulling just like they liked. It only drives them to quicken their tongue, licking up his mess and wetly getting their mouth around his clit to suckle and trace over the shape of it in eager licks.  

Bloodhound can’t help but rut into the bed when they finally get his taste and smell on their tongue and nose. Slick smears across their lips, down their chin and over their nose from how wet he is, but they never minded a messy meal. Elliott’s so delirious and still riding that high of his orgasm, over sensitive from his denial as his back arches off the bed and he’s making such pretty sounds.  

Bloodhound lets their gaze look up to him, seeing his head thrown back and exposing the collar around his throat. How his chest rises and falls quick with each pant and his body twitches and trembles to each lick over his clit. When they introduce two fingers into his pliant pussy to work in tandem, it doesn’t take long before his mouth is going a mile a minute, “Yes, yes, yes- God your tongue is my favorite—f-favorite thing. Ah - wish you’d just fuck me— hhh ! Just fuck me already! Oh - you sounded so angry in the arena- fuck, you looked so good, wanted to- to just shove my wingman in your fucking mouth and make you my  dog right there-”  

Bloodhound can only growl against him, rutting their hips harder against the bed at the mental image he’s providing. Elliott was always better at the dirty talk, not even thinking as his mouth ran. Twisting his fingers into their amber locks to press their head down and they follow so eagerly, burying their face between his thighs with a deeper hunger at the idea of Elliott making them his dog.  

Another time, they tell themself, because tonight they needed inside him.  

When Elliott  cums  again with a loud cry, Bloodhound moans against him, messily licking up the mess he’s spilling onto their tongue. They pull back to pant heavily against him, their fingers still pounding into him and curling upwards, keeping him still on that high. They get the pleasure of seeing him arch off the bed, his hips trying to thrust upwards and dropping back down in little twitches like his body can’t decide to get away from their fingers or fuck himself on them.  

“Is this not what you wanted?” Bloodhound can’t help but tease, fucking their fingers upwards and introducing a third. “To cum until you cry, little one? You were just begging for it earlier.”  

Their point is driven home by their lips sealing back over his clit. Elliott screams out, twisting his fingers back into their hair and slamming them down against them. Bucking up against their face as they curl all three fingers into him and let him hump their face desperately. A string of ‘yes, yes, yes’ falling from his lips until a third orgasm rocks his body.  

That should be plenty of prep.  

It’s a bit of a move to get Elliott’s hands out of their hair, especially when Bloodhound could spend hours just licking him clean and feeling their hair pulled. Gently, they manage to move his twitching body, whimpers erupting from his lips and his headspace long gone.  

So cute when he was just a little doll for them. Little prey all caught up in their arms.  

Bloodhound sits back on the edge of the bed, dropping Elliott into their lap and undoing their pants. Hardly having the patience to remove them as they tug them down enough to pull out their pierced cock. They catch the way Elliott looks down at their own hand stroking themself to pull back the foreskin. Pausing to slide fingers between his lower lips to gather the slick and cheekily, lightly pinching his clit to make his hips jerk with a yelp. Smearing his slick over their own cock as lubricant and letting their own groan bubble from their lips, one that Elliott matches.  

“Come here, litli kanína, spread your legs.” Bloodhound encourages him, watching just how Elliott splays across their lap, arms dropping around Bloodhound’s shoulders as he pulls himself up. They can’t help the growl that leaves them, dragging their cock through his lower lips, letting the head catch over his hole and up to his clit with each slide. “This is mine. You  are mine. You are my prey to do with as I please, am I understood?”  

“Y-yes, Boss.” Elliott chokes out, his clit giving an obvious jerk and his cunt contracting with his own arousal and drooling more slick onto them. Bloodhound swears under their breath when their eyes meet, Elliott’s honeyed gaze half lidded and tears pricking his eyes. He had to be so sensitive, and yet still was oh so willing to spread his legs and do as they wished. That was as good of an apology as any.  

Bloodhound eases Elliott down onto their cock, a swear erupting from their own lips at how tight and wet he is. They can feel each barbell on their cock slip into him, like a milestone marker with each inch added. Their cock wasn’t exactly small either, thick enough you couldn’t wrap your fingers around to meet each other on it, uncut and seven inches. There was nothing to be ashamed of on their body, they were very confident in it, and even more so when Elliott seemed to appreciate every inch of them.  

They can still feel how he squeezes down on them, probably still sensitive and every twitch making Elliott clench down. He looks every bit the role he plays of prey, so sweet with his eyes fluttering and his arms clinging around them. They brush their hands up his sides, squeezing the soft bit of abdomen he had and causing him to squirm with a whimpered, “H-hey-”  

“I plan to fill your womb with my pups, little one,” Bloodhound starts, smoothing their hand over the front of Elliott’s abdomen, dropping their hand down so they could use their thumb to swirl over his clit. Elliott gasps out, hips twitching over them and making Bloodhound grunt softly. “Such a pretty mama you shall make. Swollen with our child, and these,” They pause there, bringing their hands up to squeeze his chest and thumbing his nipples.  ”So  full and swollen. How beautiful you will be.”  

Elliott’s moans of agreement could be enough to make them spill inside of him. Sounding so sweet when he whimpers out, “Yes, yes, yes-” Like he can’t get enough of the idea. It was something they had talked about- both kink wise and a future. Ellie had mentioned wanting to be a stay at home parent, proudly saying she would play the role of papa and mama with glee in her eyes. That she wanted a little homestead, a dog, a few kiddos running around. The look on her face when Bloodhound had agreed and said that was something they wished as well stayed in their mind for ages. Her big dimpled smile, the tears in her eyes in excitement. So sweet.  

And in turn, it became a discussion where Bloodhound had mentioned their little kink with a red face and playing with their hair to avoid eye contact. Ellie had been eager to agree- despite birth control being very well in place, it was still a little thing they indulged in. The terminology never bothered her either, whether it was an Ellie or Elliott day, though it did seem she gravitated towards Mama the most rather than Papa.  

Elliott’s hips have started to move now on their own, eager to ride Bloodhound it seems, and they don’t mind. Not when they can focus on wrapping their arms around him in turn, holding him close and tucking their head down to his neck. They lick and suck at the flesh there, teasing over the pink scar they had left ages ago. Their own noises are limited, soft grunts and pants with each slide and squeeze of Elliott’s cunt around them.  

Elliott’s mouth isn’t helping either, crooning into their ear absolute filth. “Want you to cum in me, baby, want to feel how your cock empties in me. C-cum in me as many times as you like until I’m full for you and- a-ah-” His mouth can only do so much when one of their hands reaches down, cupping his mound and working his clit with their thumb. It’s a distraction when their teeth sink into his neck, delighting in how his pussy contracts and a pained ’nghk!’ leaves him.  

They don’t stop there, leaving bruises and bite marks over his neck and shoulders, their other hand pressing to his lower back to press every time his hips come down to force him to grind forward into their hand. Bloodhound can’t help their own hips from thrusting up into him, his moans and whines like music to their ears.  

It’s only when his body tenses and another orgasm  comes  crashing down through his body do their teeth sink into that familiar scar, their arms tightening around him and holding him still on their cock.  

Elliott’s body jerks, swears tumbling from his lips as his hands fist into their hair. A symphony of, “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” Whining from his throat as Bloodhound growls when they cum. Exhaling from their nose shakily and parting from his neck to pant against him with each jerk of their cock spilling  their  cum deep within him.   

“Fuck, Rune.” Elliott breathes out, his voice hoarse and tears having spilled down his face at some point. Bloodhound takes a moment to blink their own haziness away, sitting up with a tremble in their movement as they cup his cheeks. Swiping their thumbs over his tear stained cheeks but Elliott only laughs softly, breathless. ”Yeah , yeah, don’t whine about it, pup, I’m okay. Would have told you if I was hurt, yeah?”  

Bloodhound can’t even find their voice at first, just drawing him close to rest their foreheads together in a comforting gesture. It’s with utter care and gentleness they help Elliott off their lap to lie in the bed they had made earlier. Murmuring that they’d be right back as they slide out of bed, tucking their cock away and fixing their pants- much to Elliott’s disappointment.  

They leave the room and return with a few wet wash cloths, salve, and water for him. Seeing the sight of him elevating his hips, legs pulled up to either side of his head and exposing himself entirely. Bloodhound can’t help the groan when Elliott only grins up at them cheekily. “Hey, baby. Just wanted to make sure it takes.”  

“Elliott Witt you are a menace.” They can’t help but whine out, their  mouth watering  at the tempting sight of his cunt, still swollen from sex and some cum leaking down towards his ass. They almost lick it up, but refrain and bat his arms to let his legs go. Cleaning him up first with one wash cloth over his cunt, resting the coldness of it over him to help reduce the swelling in his clit. The other is taken gently to his neck, cleaning up the blood from their bite marks and cooling salve applied.  

Bloodhound then goes to the floor to find his clean clothes. Helping him back into his shirt and sweatpants with a little help from Elliott. Bloodhound works out of the rest of their gear, grabbing a pair of their own lounge pants they’d left here before. Elliott’s already got his arms up, eagerly bringing them into an embrace until they both can arrange in bed, facing each other and legs tangled, Bloodhound’s hands cupping his cheeks softly. They admire him, eyes flickering down to his lips that are pulled into a small smile.  

Light of their life. They would kill for him, die for him, they would do anything he asked if it meant he would still stay smiling like he is. How they loved to have him in their arms, safe and warmed, knowing he was comfortable and at peace. The gods have gifted him to them, and they would not quell that flame within them ever for him. How they compared his eyes to the sun and his smile to--  

“Hey, does this mean you aren’t mad about earlier?”   

Bloodhound huffs through their nose, squishing his face to make his lips push out and making his brows furrow in a pout. “You are a menace.” They repeat. Laughing at his face softly when he tries to grin and it ends up smooshed in their hands.  

“So that’s a yes?”  

They can only groan at him, pushing a pillow into his face instead to muffle his teasing of them being ‘whipped’ and ‘wrapped around his finger’. Perhaps they were.  

But, wouldn’t you if you were sent such a beautiful gift as him?  

[shadoedseptmbr]

For Work In Progress Wednesday:

I am fooling around with a framing device for a few ME2-pre ME3 sketch fics I’ve been piling up but it’s still rough.  Wouldn’t mind a little feedback from the peanut gallery.

Case Files

Not immediately. 

Major Alenko absolutely does not run to the SPECTRE office with his new authorizations to view files he honestly has no business seeing.

The second Human SPECTRE nods and smiles and shakes hands during the small party the Council insists upon.  He does an interview with a shockingly meek Al-Jilani. He has a cup of tea with the drell, Tannor Nuara, though he’s pretty sure that’s not his name and checks in with Dr. Michel to remind her to keep him updated on the hospital’s needs.It’s no problem, he assures her. He used up enough of the resources, himself.

Kaidan goes to his quarters and changes into his fatigues and opens a beer he probably shouldn’t. He sends another message to his mother and makes a few replies to friends.  He starts in on the endless pile of paperwork.  He considers dinner, a shower, hitting the training facility. He drinks his beer.

An hour after that, he’s in the elevator, in the hallway, avoiding an ambassador’s aide.

It’s probably a violation of privacy.  It’s absolutely taking advantage of privileged information.  But he needs a few answers, if he’s ever going to sleep at night without wondering if he did the right thing.

Her file is...staggeringly long.  He scans a few others, for comparison.  His is almost nothing but his BaAt file, his service record, and the three debrief interviews he did after Alchera. After Horizon. After Earth and Mars. Others are thicker and thinner.  Saren’s is heavily redacted even with Kaidan’s authorizations and the affirmation of the Reapers and ends with “Status: Revoked. Terminated.”

Shepard’s starts with a few files from an orphanage that he just glances through, most of which are nothing but “Fostered: Date. Returned: not much later.” There’s one black and white holoscan of a little girl with tight braids, freckles, big eyes and a gap tooth grin.  It’s labeled: Eden Magdalene Shepard 

No other record found matching available data. Possible id not confirmed.

But it’s her.  He can see the woman in those clear, direct eyes.

There’s a stack of arrests for an Ace Shepard 

Possible alias. Matches available data. Records sealed for age 

And one mugshot.  Definitely Aedan Shepard, the scar under her eye still fresh and stark. Red hair, though unnaturally crayon bright, half shaved and shaggy on the other.  Those eyes lined in red, staring at the camera like murder from a pale, bone thin face. Black lipstick smeared across her sneer. One arm long and dangling, the other in a cast, strapped to her side.  A sketchy green tattoo on her neck in the side view of a knife, a slash of purple make up stark across a nose too big for her pixie face. No age listed but she can’t be 14 by the date.  

An Academy admissions form for Aedan Shepard with an accompanying note from one Commander Anderson that he skims to land on a final line. “I know she isn’t what you usually look for. She’s going to need some remedial work. Trust me on this one, Mira.”

Her Academy file shows grades gradually improving to higher marks. Her physical improves faster, doctor notes indicating that between regular meals and gene mods she’s going to make the height/weight requirement by the end of her first year. Her marksmanship punts her into the stratosphere.

Another picture in familiar Academy togs. There’s his...there’s the Shepard he knew. No visible tats, Dark red hair, short but neat. Seven freckles across her leonine nose not quite hidden by regulation makeup.  The scar is faded, but still raised. Eyes level and cool, mouth firm.  Baby professional.

He knows her service record almost as well as his own.

There’s the one holonet picture from Elysium, Aedan in her black bikini and flip flops, dogtags flying, pistol steady, directing someone (a teenage girl, she told him later) to fill a hole in the defense. There’s the picture from a little later, chin high and firm in her dress uniform: an admiral pinning the Star of Terra to her chest.  He can see Anderson leaning over to Hackett in the background.

There’s a cross reference to her N file.

Commendation after commendation. One flag for disrespect to a superior officer.

SPECTRE CANDIDATE

There’s the file on the Normandy SR1, the holo of her SPECTRE induction, and the Saren mission.

Her Alliance report on the mission, the letter to Ashley’s mother. A few interview files.

A debrief they’d called her to Arcturus to give.  She’d shrugged it off as routine and they’d run to the Citadel for shore leave.  

There’s the official Alchera report cross referenced with his. Joker’s. Chakwas’.

He slows down. There’s a termination flag that wasn’t removed.

Attached to that is an addendum from another SPECTRE, Tela Vasir, cross referenced with the Shadow Broker file three weeks after the Collector attack on the SR1.

Situation to be reviewed. Shepard and/or remains possibly recovered. Check all Cerberus contacts.

The next data is a bioscan from the security checkpoint on Zakera, two years and a few weeks after Shepard had been declared dead. An alert notice. Three grainy stills from the security chief’s office. Not quite clear enough to make out details beyond hair and height. And two figures in Cerberus gear behind her.  

He’d just left the Citadel posting for Horizon the week before. 

The next file is video only, fuzzy. Clearly from a planted device. Kaidan rubs his eyes before he hits play on grainy footage with biometric data rolling on the outside edge. 

A red haired, slender, short figure in black and red N7 armor strides into Anderson’s Citadel office.  She walks like Aedan, that rolling ship gait.  She draws up short in front of his desk.  He speaks, she answers, he speaks again.  And he watches her whole body jerk as if she’s been shot.

All formality lost, her hands spread.  She’s yelling and Anderson isn’t meeting her eyes as he replies.  That square posture droops and hers matches. 

She slaps a data drive on his desk, turns on her heel and marches to the door.  The bug must be by the doorframe, Kaidan can see details now.  She turns her head and there they are, the scars that shocked him, glowing along her jawline pulled open and raw by the awkward position. They look like they hurt. He almost misses the word she asks over her shoulder. “Kaidan?”

Anderson shakes his head and Kaidan can lip read well enough to get, “Classified.”

Her hand clenches on the doorframe. “Two years, Boss?”

“Yeah, kid.”

She jerks a nod, says something else as she turns to go. Her shoulders square before she walks through the sliding door. He catches a glimpse of white and black on a figure just outside. Anderson leans against his desk, head down.

A holo of a Normandy; the SR2. Flying Cerberus colors in the Citadel docking bay.

Biometrics confirmed. SPECTRE Status: Reinstated. 

Kaidan closes the file and staggers back to the elevator.

00000

It’s a week of small potato missions before he can trust himself to reopen the file.

Every two weeks, there’s a data dump to Anderson/Hackett, copied and crossreferenced to SPECTRE files. About half include encrypted data that still hasn’t been decoded The Alliance version carries a note dating from nine months ago: Speculation: Code specific to Anderson/Shepard.

The dumps usually come from Illium, shunted through a source with an address he recognizes.  Liara.  

There’s a pile of data from Omega and then a list of files for her crew: Miranda Lawson. Jacob Taylor. Kasumi Goto (notations from Spectre Jondam Bau). Garrus. Mordin Solus. Zaeed Misoni. Urdnot Grunt. Justicar Samara. Jack. Tali. Thane Krios. He recognizes Tannor Nuara and shuts the file down.

Over a cup of tea in the bustle of Huerta’s lobby, Thane blinks but then smiles.  “You were more observant than I expected, Spectre Alenko.”

“It wasn’t my business.”

“No.  But I promised her I would look out for you and I clearly revealed more than I intended.”

“You promised Shepard?”

He nods.  “You were still bedridden at the time. It seemed a reasonable precaution.”

Well, thanks, I guess.

“It was my privilege. She helped me save my son, once.  I was glad to return the favor with her...friend.”

“Can you.  Look, I don’t want to put you in a corner.  I’m just trying to reconcile the Shepard I knew with what happened last year.  Can you tell me...anything?”

“When I met her on Illium, I used her to distract a target.”

A target?  You were there to kill someone?  

You said you read my file?

You were an assassin.  

Yes. 

You used Shepard?

She was...a very good distraction.  My target assumed Shepard was the assassin, tearing through her guard and the tower like fire through dry tinder.  It allowed me to quietly get into position. Shepard got her information and I made my hit.

And Shepard hired you?  It wasn’t that far out of character.  Wrex came to mind.

We came to an agreement.  I was not expecting to be able to work much longer and the Cerberus contract allowed me to set aside money for my son.

Right.  How was it?  On the ship.

Antagonistic.  At first.  There was a line drawn between the Cerberus crew and Shepard.  It was crossed very rarely.  She was.  Not warm.  

Unfriendly?  

Angry.  She drank more than I expect was good for her.  She spoke rarely, to Garrus most of all.  She put her armor on in the morning and we rarely saw her in anything else.

What changed? 

We aided Tali, the quarian?  Kaidan managed not to snap that he knew her.

Yes.  We found her and Shepard made a visible effort to change, Kasumi asked a favor and they dealt with it. She came back...you’ve seen the scarring? 

Yeah.

They were almost closed.  They’d been healing, reopening, healing.  

Garrus needed her help and while we were on the Citadel, she aided me with my son.  He was...about to follow in my footsteps but without my training it was...she saved him.  She helped me stop him.  When she came back to the ship, she went up to speak with Joker and I heard her laughing.  I had not. Before.  

The drell went stiff before him, his dark eyes revealing stark pupils.  “Eyes like ice frozen on the shore, she stands between Kolyat and the ambassador.  She speaks with steady conviction and he listens.  Eyes like the storms on a sea, she shadow steps between the turian and the bullet waiting for him. “He’s as good as dead, can’t you see that.” Garrus drops his rifle.  Eyes like smoke, she laughs like rusty bells on a chain.  Joker tells her he’s missed her.”

His eyes darken to see Kaidan before him, scanning him with an omnitool about to wave over a doctor.  “Forgive me.  Drell have...our memories are revealing.  It seemed the best way to answer your question.”

“What just happened? No...nevermind.  It got better then?”

“Yes.  Until then...She was always a sniper, I assume? “ 

“Yeah, before I met her”.  

“There is a...one has to put oneself in a certain state and a healthy being can slip in and out.  She did not.  Before that.  She was just in the cold, stark place one must be in to pull the trigger.  And then, the wind changed.  It was Garrus and Tali, who made the most difference.  Kasumi mentioned once that Shepard barely spoke before he came aboard, other than mission briefs.  After.  She would visit.  It was…”  Thane broke off in a coughing fit. “Forgive me, I need to…”

“No, I kept you too long. I”m sorry.” 

Thane stood, his hand not quite clutching the chair for support. “I will...try to write down some things for you.  If you’d like.”

“Only if you’re up to it.  I got...I got the gist.  Thank you.”

[thedreadvampy]

I just remembered the weirdest fucking show

It was on BBC 3 in like 2010, and it was a 2000s makeover show in the mould of What Not To Wear or How To Look Good Naked or 10 Years Younger or Queer Eye or whatever. You know the format - we meet a schlebby sad person who never dresses nice because they are lacking confidence and feel ugly, some glamorous people empower them by finding out what they're scared of and covering it up through the medium of personal styling (you're afraid you're ugly because you're fat? Wear this cut of clothes and you'll look thinner. You're afraid you look old? Dress younger by doing x y z. You're embarrassed about scars you have? Wear this one piece bathing suit to look sexy without showing scars), and then we follow up a month or so later and find the subject happier and more empowered by their new style.

This show had two gimmicks. One was that instead of a Gok Wan or a Trinny and Suzannah or a Fab 5, its Glamorous Fashion Person was an extremely snide and sarcastic AI, and the makeover sequence was packaged in the style of computer graphics, so instead of seeing a subject get a haircut we'd see haircuts scroll past until they picked one, that sort of thing. The second gimmick was that instead of taking schlebby people who made no effort to dress up and making them look glam, it would take people who expended a LOT of energy on their look and it would "reveal their natural beauty".

So the format was roughly similar - you meet the subject and all their loved ones tell you how messed up they are, except instead of 'Jim bought one t-shirt in 1988 and it's the only shirt he owns' it's more 'Becca takes 30 years to leave the house and she's basically orange and buys the glitteriest skimpiest things imaginable'. Then they'd do the "makeunder" where they'd have to remove all their piercings and hair extensions and so forth on camera, and there was a little bit where the robot lady would order them to "clean that muck off your face" and they'd have to show the camera the dirty makeup wipes and be shamed for how much makeup was on them. Then we'd see them for a while without any makeup or extensions or jewellery, and they'd scroll through and pick from a range of businesslike natural coloured haircuts and neutral outfits in greys or blacks or blues. Then they'd be *~*magically transformed*~* into that outfit, and there was a cursory attempt to do the 'because Becca has a pear shape, we gave her a detailed neckline, and we used blue eyeliner to highlight her brown eyes' thing. Then the robot lady would say 'how does it feel to be a natural beauty' and the subject would be like 'huuuuuh. Um. It's interesting.'

Then of course at the end, they'd revisit the subject a few weeks later and this is what is brilliant about the show. They made I think 2 or 3 seasons of this and I don't remember ONE subject EVER having stuck with anything done in the show. Sometimes they might say 'I decided I liked the blues with my eyes so I dyed my eyebrows blue and did blue facepaint' but not a one of them toned down their look. And like, the show was brutally rude about these people's styles but fucked if every OTT scene kid and cybergoth I knew wasn't dying to be on it.

Why?

Well, I was describing this show to my mum and it hit me that this show is, intentionally or not, perfectly pitched satire. Every element works to highlight the artificiality of the genre, from the robotic host, to the wigs and makeup required to create the """"natural"""" look (and remember, the transition isn't from original look to new look, it's from bare-faced and naked to "natural", so it's REALLY CLEAR how much of what they've changed is makeup and wigs), to the idea that what's "natural" and healthy is to remove individuality from someone forcefully. Like, it's such a weird concept - these are people happy and comfortable in a style they've made an active effort to choose and cultivate to look and feel unique and noticeable, whether that's spray tan and silicone and hair extensions or neon hair and body mods and facepaint, and the overtly artificial robot lady is here to call them fake and demand that they conform to an artificial idea of naturalism which requires dressing in office clothes in neutral tones, wearing lots of makeup but only of the type designed to pretend it isn't there, and putting a wig over the hair style they chose. And then when the robot fails in forcing conformity, and we see they went back to juggling by the roadside while wearing three live rabbits and a neon headdress or whatever, we're like FUCK YEAH. Individuality can't be crushed by the system and "natural beauty" as marketed to us is fake, actually.

I don't actually know if it's intentional. Either someone set out to make a straight gimmicky makeover show and really did not understand how the genre works, or this is one of the greatest pieces of meta commentary disguised as trash that I've ever seen.

This is some rich fucking artwork if it's intentional, and the thing is, it REALLY works in making you get behind the characters. I was a typical 2000s goth teen, pffft, hate chavs, hate preps or w/e, lol tango skin etc, but I was fucking CHEERING for these girls who happily said 'I want to be Barbie, I want everything to be pink and sparkly and I want to look larger than life and I'm not trying to be a natural beauty, I'm trying to look like what I think is fun' and refused to tone it down or blend in, because that was how I started to realise that fake tan and hoop earrings and boob jobs and fake Valley girl accents were just as much about self-expression as the girls who came on the show with Siouxie Sioux hair or mohawks or surgically created elf ears or full-body tattoos.

Like, if it was created as satire, this is some of the most effective pop art I have ever seen. And there's no chance it was played straight wholly, it's very tongue in cheek and most of BBC 3 stuff was satirical to some degree iirc, I'm just not sure how intentionally it was being social commentary. But it's SUPER good at being social commentary. It really effectively highlights the artificial expectation that women face to work really hard to look unremarkable, without ever actually saying it. It glorified nonconformism and individual selfhood by creating an unlikeable character who tried to tear it down. It was SUCH A WEIRD SHOW and SO GOOD and I CANNOT REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS CALLED so if you remember it please tell me, I am going mad.

[pezerenwe1981-blog]

Make a fine paste out of two tablespoons of gram flour and some rose water. Add in rose water until thick paste is formed. Later rub this all over your face and let it sit for 30 minutes before rinsing off. MAC. Being a teen in the pre youtube/early youtube era, I remember how insanely popular MAC was. It was THE cool place to buy makeup and was considered the highest quality. If you need to be hospitalized, then please reach out.TheShiff 166 points submitted 19 days agoThis guy an ass. He only honking the horn with seconds to react before he plows through groups of people. I get they shouldn be in the bike lane, but maybe some ADVANCE warning would be easier? Some of these people are startled as fuck and stumble into traffic. When strangers looked curiously at the scarlet letter and none ever failed to do so they branded it afresh in Hester's soul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yet always did refrain, from covering the symbol with her hand. But then, again, an accustomed eye had likewise its own anguish to inflict. Its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable. Nearly all of us showed anxiety over being "found out." There no way the admissions committee messed up that badly on my class. I sure you see similar results in your class too. Aryeh Goldberg did an interesting writeup of his own experiences on KevinMD.. Unlike electrolysis, which uses electric energy to destroy follicles, laser hair removal employs 봉화출장안마 pulsating light beams. The light is aimed at the hair follicle where it heats the melanin in the hair. When melanin is heated, it tends to burn; this causes the hair follicle to temporarily stop producing hair. Botox lasts about 4 months, the fat reducing injection about a year depending how I take care of my face from now on. Paid overall 400.000KRW ($350) (minus 50k taxes) and 100% getting it done again if massetter muscle starts getting bigger again. Few people around me got it done too after they saw the results on my face lol. "Dr. King developed a tic," Belafonte said. "And then, I noticed some time after the first discussion of what the problem was, that he had gotten rid of it. He did not dodge the punch, plain and simple. You see Sticky Finger's fist hit Diavolo. The reason why the punch landed was because he couldn't see that far into the future. I was in the same boat with my fiance. I had a mad crush on him and it was tearing me up. I knew that he was in a relationship, which I thought was going well for him (turns out she barely even agreed with "sure, whatever"), so I felt like I had to keep everything bottled up or else I be a homewrecker. I said this a couple times, honestly, I don think enbs are too important for SSE. In the past it was used to make up 봉화출장안마 for LE lack of lighting effects in the vanilla game, but SSE already has a good lighting setup as well as almost all the fancy post processing effects you used to have to inject. And those that it doesn have like subsurface scattering can be added by simple mods and if you want better AO or AA or DOF, which the vanilla solutions for aren the greatest you can still inject them easily through reshade or ENB.. It only been 8 months. If he doing this stuff, get out.Mitzy007 348 points submitted 24 days agoNaked Wasted. Tamra conspired and intentionally encouraged Gretchen to become intoxicated so that her son, Ryan, could have a better opportunity to successfully sexually proposition Gretchen on camera.

[connorcumminsportfolio]

When it comes to challenging who you are, identification is the most prelevant notion that makes us distinguishably different from one another. Identity is made up solely of the person that you are through culture, gender construction, your sex, and the class that you grew up within. However identity is a concept so personal, that it can be difficult to differentiate whether it follows the crowd, or if it sticks out like a sore thumb- and identity that doesn’t follow the norm can sometimes scare people. One key feature of identity is the clothing you choose to wear, and clothing is an unclear boundary which disturbs society (Wilson 2003), therefore making it difficult for people who wish to express themselves, thus setting them apart from the constraints of the dominant culture and in doing so, formulate a subculture. This essay questions the notion that as subcultures move on, the different classes and generations begin to create an even bigger divide between them than there was before, setting apart key subcultures throughout our history, focusing on the mod subculture that rocked 1960’s Britain, but more predominantly, the complex relationship between the mod girl and her mother.

Firstly it is important to consider the difference between the parental generation and their children. Whilst the mod subculture went against everything the previous generation stood for, the generation before them had a completely different idea of what youth was like, especially for women. Through no fault of her own, the mother’s idea of gender construction would have been the polar opposite to her funky mod daughter, because the mother lived in a time when men were the dominant sex. The lines begin to blur when it comes to sex and gender. Craik (1994: 44) observed,

“If sex is determined by biology, then gender is learned.”

For the parents of mod children, especially the mothers that observation rings true. It is no secret that in the early 1900’s there was a strict societal construct when it came to gender, especially through dress wear. Women were seen as devoted to fashion; something that they could not help (Craik 1994), and this resonates with Veblen’s studies who states that the whole point of the middle-class woman was to spend the money of the man who keeps her (Veblen 1899). Whether women enjoyed buying clothes or not, that stereotype was no doubt created by the men who are classically perceived as the dominant sex, thus making the female into whatever they want them to be. However if gender were a social construct, then this ideal would no doubt remain with that generation of women before attempting to enforce that upon their children, which in due course, somewhat failed.

Different from her mod daughter in every way, the mother would of likely looked down upon the attitude of her daughter. Ballaster (1991 89-90) wrote:

‘’A woman’s role was to be beautiful, dressed in clothes which expressed the social status of her husband or father and her own desirability. But the domestic role demanded that her sexuality could only be expressed through maternity.”

Applying this to mod culture, this rings true for the mother who grew up in a time in which women weren’t seen as people, but rather as trophies. Her own desirability was never a notion the mother had created for herself, but rather for the opposite sex. (Ballaster 1991). The mod daughter is different from her mother due to a generational divide. However children have always wanted to rebel against their parents in pursuit of creating a new identity for themselves, resulting in mothers and daughters potentially facing off in an actual rivalry. (Willmott & Young 1960: 68). To the parent, women had always exhibited the preservation of morality; the arbiters of taste. (Windshuttle 1980: 70). Yet mod daughters led a female rebellion against the older generation. They preferred to sit alongside boys on the backs of their mirror-clad motorbikes, wear Mary Quant miniskirts, and cut their hair into boyish bobs.

Furthermore when it came to identity, the mother and daughter did not share the same ideologies due to the generational divide between them. When applying Laver’s theory of the three principles, the hierarchal principle would best suit the mother, for she would have had no choice but to marry a man who she could successfully elevate her own image alongside him. The husband’s social status is the only factor that the woman could use in order to appear respected. (Laver 1950). There therefore the clothing she wore most likely came from her husband’s money. Thus this shaped the woman’s image in the eyes of the man, her entire identity consumed by what a patriarchal society would expect her to wear. The utility principle could be loosely applied to the mother, especially between the late 30’ to the mid 40s’ of World War II. During this period, women took on the jobs of the men whilst they enlisted in the army, and their clothes consisted of easily made utility clothing, fit for work and rationing. However this didn’t guarantee full emancipation because when the men returned home, the women went straight back to fulfilling their traditional roles as a mother, and keeper of the family. The trend here being is that whenever women are given the chance to shape an identity for themselves, the patriarchy removes that freedom almost instantaneously.

Although the attraction principle can be applied to the mother, she would of dressed purely for the attention of men to secure a husband. In Laver’s eyes, men chose their mates by how physically attractive they were, and that female clothing was designed only to make the woman appear beautiful. (Laver 1950). This reinforces the idea that women do not necessarily wear clothes, yet it is the clothing itself that wears them thus caging their freedom. Although it is important to remember that the clothing would have been created from a man’s perspective, and that notion would have been conditioned into the women’s minds at the time.

 However the daughters subverted that principle to create an image for themselves, evolving into an object of desirability. Therefore whilst their mothers dressed to attract men, wiping away any hope of an identity, the daughters dressed so that the men were naturally attracted to them. Laver noted in his book Dress (1950), that clothing is designed to make their wearer as attractive as possible. (Laver 1950). Whilst this is true, the principle now holds two different meanings depending on which generation we are focusing on. The change in that perspective guarantees a slight emancipation for the daughter’s generation, the female no longer having to try to impress the male, as they would already have succeeded in doing so without effort. Despite this, the girls contradict their own emancipation by latching onto the boys.

Figure one depicts a mod boy with two mod girls, their arms linked up with the boy. The female’s poses are relaxed and casual whilst the boy is stood up straight, a serious expression upon his face. The fact that the girls are latching onto the boy is an irony within itself. Whilst the girls are rebelling against their mothers, they are still acting as trophies, elevating the boy’s image. It is not the females that appear cool, but rather the boy which pushes the notion that although the daughters attempt to break the generational barrier between them and their mothers, their only purpose is to make the male look good. Therefore the identity created can come across as ‘cool’ and ‘that girl’; the girl that everyone aspires to be however in reality they are just as oppressed as their mothers were. It provokes the notion of whether dress really does set you apart from the older generation, and does that even matter if the same traditional gender constructs are put in place, even in such an era as the swinging sixties.  

Whilst figure two depicts the utter carefree nature of the mods, the females are sat upon the backs of the bikes, rarely seen riding themselves. Of course it would be easy to observe that once again, the females are acting as trophies for the men, although these girls created an entirely new persona for themselves. They became the girl everyone wanted to be, with her short skirt, leather jacket and cropped hair, becoming one of the boys themselves. A study was shown that in Korea, female politicians adopted a western-style men’s suit, business wear or a hanbok: a garment, which consisted of a traditional skirt and a dress jacket. (Craik 1994). They did this to attain credibility and authority, a tactic in order to strike fear into the hearts of their audience, predominantly men. Soh observed that these women, “tended to avoid wearing bright colours. Makeup was played down. One of them told me she had her shoulder-length hair cut shorter after she began her legislative career to look more dignified.” (Soh 1992: 380). However dignified these women appeared, everything they had done was to gain respect from men. Regarding mod culture, cutting your hair short in order to become one of the boys was a way of gaining respect from not only the men, but to shape a new identity for themselves. Therefore this new identity elevating their reputation not necessarily through fear –unlike the Koreans- but through ‘coolness’. Being ‘cool’ was everything and what was cooler than clinging onto your boyfriend whilst riding across Brighton beach?

Fashion soon noticed the mod trend and just as fashion does, the industry began to extort elements of mod culture, transforming the subculture into a booming business. Despite this, subcultures had originally been created to break out of the mainstream to create a culture that was much more exclusive to the everyday rabble. Media discourse has always existed throughout style magazines, with a notable mention from i-D within the 1980’s, where models were described as “real” however they were just fashions elite dressed as that particular subculture. (Evans 1997). On the other hand, the 1960’s fashion industry shaped an icon for girls of all ages to look up to, known as Twiggy.

The teen phenomenon dominated the 60s’ and was declared the Face of 1966. The difference between Twiggy and fashions elite was that the teen had never attempted to be something she wasn’t, declaring that she’d always been a mod before even becoming a model.

“We used to wear pleated skirts and hushpuppy shoes-flat, lace-up, suede shoes-nylon macs, and little grey jumpers. And the hair, which is what I had, was centre parting, straight, and long.”

Twiggy’s influence sailed across seas where she gained her own American publication “Her Mod Mod Teen World”, a magazine dedicated to the model herself. The content within was designed for girls, highlighting Twiggy’s dos & don’ts as a mod girl along with photographs of the model. It furthers the idea of sisterhood in which girls could come together and clamour over Twiggy’s glossy photographs, acting as an idol for these girls who grew up in a time where their mothers would enforce their conditioned ideals onto their daughters. Bell Hooks wrote:

“Male supremacist ideology encourages women to believe we are valueless and obtain value only by relating to or bonding with men.” - (Hooks 1984: 43)

By bonding with a successful female model in a magazine, girls are reassured that they are valued and worth something. Of course there is no doubt that Twiggy somewhat brought Mod culture into the mainstream, however showing her identity to the world inspired countless girls to shape their own image, through the mod clothes Twiggy wore and the ‘cool girl’ persona that accompanied it.

Another 60s’ icon of her time, Jean Shrimpton was considered one of the first supermodels, and also a pioneer for mod subculture in the fashion industry. Shrimpton however beautiful as she was had her flaws in which she willingly embraced. Despite the pressure for her to get cosmetic surgery, she remained vigilant over her looks and like Twiggy, became an icon for of girls in the 60s’. Shrimpton recalls that her eye bags;

“Were an enormous nuisance all the time I was modelling. Fashion editors and photographers were constantly telling me: ‘You must get to bed earlier.’ But it was nothing to do with lack of sleep or anything else. God had given me bags under my eyes, in the same way he had forgotten to give me a bosom or shoulders.” – (Shrimpton 1990: 63-4)

Here Shrimpton highlights the reluctance to conform to the standard that society expected for women, especially female models at the time. Furthermore we can also presume that these constructs are built from what the older generation used to believe in, and the fact that the younger generation are rebelling against that construct implies the notion that youth constantly evolves, impossible to keep under control.  

When comparing figures 4 & 5, it is evident that the conflicting generations would have had an entirely different perception of self-identity. In figure 4 Mae Murray, the original superstar pouter poses decoratively in ‘The Merry Widow’ (1925). Murray is poised elegantly over a rosebud, an indication of how delicate she is whilst her eyes are closed. Unaware of her surroundings, the man leans over her, noticeably taller and more powerful than she. He wears a military uniform, exhibiting his authority of Murray. Another factor is that Murray’s face is clad in heavy make-up, enhancing her bee-stung lips. Murray’s image was the perception of ultimate beauty to the Mod daughter’s mother would have known and idolised. Despite it’s sinister undertones of the man assuming full control over Murray, the film was directed by Erich von Stroheim, a film star of the silent era. Therefore this furthers the idea that Murray’s character appeared in Stroheim’s vision, and thus the girls of that generation who idolised Murray and many other starlets, began to dress in the way the patriarchy cleverness envisions them.

On the other hand, girls in the 60s’ were looking at mod girls for inspiration, as dress in popular culture remained as the most powerful manifestation. (Gjergji 2000). The reason behind this was because of the introduction of the ‘it girls’ in fashion magazines, once again stating that notion that these girls had someone to help shape their own identities. Additionally mod girls never needed to gain validation from a man, in contrast with Murray’s depiction of gaining the males attention through a delicate and poised position. Mod girls attained a man’s attention on their own terms and when they wanted to, unlike their mothers who had no choice in the matter. However disapproving their mothers were toward these mod cover girls, posing glamorously in shift dresses and beehive hairdos, their would nonetheless teach their daughters the dominating and authorative rules their fathers were conditioned to teach them, even in a family where no male is present. (Hooks 1984: 43). Although due to the dominating movement of the mod subculture, these teachings had failed and children wished to rebel. Even mod supermodels, commonly portrayed as beautiful and glamorous began to adopt a rebellious attitude, an attempt to stay true to their own identities. Figure 5 shows Shrimpton posing with no make-up on in a furry coat, at an anti-war protest. The difference between figures 5 & 4 is astounding, a clear representation of the carefree attitude that came with subculture, and the rebellion against the older generation that came with it.

To conclude, whilst mod girls were seen as trophies, they backlashed against that ideal and created their own emancipation through the aesthetic of the mod subculture itself. They shaped their identities to become polar opposites to their parental figures whether that be through acting as the ‘cool girl’ who hung off the back of her boyfriends motorcycle, a pixie-looking vixen in a Quant miniskirt, or idolising 60’s mod models. Girls have always been attempting to break from the chains of the patriarchal constructs put in place for their gender, condition into their mothers from when they were young. It seems that there will always be a generational divide however through subculture, it appears that the youth can discover exactly who they are alongside others. Despite this, it is clearly evident that subculture was created for avoidance (McRobbie 1994: 71) from the dominant culture. Either way, it appears that subculture, wherever it is found, is here to stay.

[loud-hands]

A Message Sent to Autism/Asperger's Hate Blog

Definite trigger warning, the website left me actually nauseated. Mentions of abuse and death, hate toward those with autism spectrum disorders, and just. Horrible stuff.

I came across heartlessaspergers/.com (seriously) and the neurotypical/.com and it was rather upsetting. Claims that we have no empathy and destroy families and ruin partners' lives. So. Autism S/peaks × 10. I know I probably won't be listened to but I had to say this. I know I probably won't change anyone's mind, open anyone's eyes, but here's my message:

I want to start by saying this isn't meant as an attack and I'm really, really sorry if it comes across that way. I'm an eighteen-year-old with autism. Asperger's Syndrome has been removed from the DSM-5 but were I diagnosed some years ago, I would have been diagnosed with Asperger's.

I know it may sound biased coming from the type of person your page warns against, but I very much disagree with the assumption that we lack empathy. Some of us have lessened empathy, I see this with my autistic brother and my, admittedly, abusive father I speculate may be on the spectrum, but this is not to say we're unemotional and lack empathy. Some autistic people can be downright bad. Some are good, some are neutral, as is the moral spectrum with all. My brother, for example, tends to lecture or make rather callous jokes to lighten the mood at someone's plight. He dislikes animals but when my pet died, he was awkward with it, I think struggling with his contempt and sympathy. He said, very sincerely, that he was sorry for my loss.

 I myself feel overwhelmed with empathy at times, feeling upset when my friend is, and she, also an autistic adult, shares this trait. I've cried to documentaries that show people grieving dead relatives or people suffering, I've cried at fictional books once in a while. Today, one of my neurotypical brothers was upset and I was left distressed when I could only bring him a drink and offer to listen when/if he wanted to talk. 

I know this is just my experience, not documented research, but studies have supported that we're not devoid of empathy:

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/people-with-autism-can-read-emotions-feel-empathy1/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4048168/ (This one discusses lessened affective empathy in ASD, though  it highlights the differences between cognitive and affective empathy.)

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/people-with-autism-can-read-emotions-feel-empathy1/

Many of us show empathy in different ways than our neurotypical peers. I notice that I tend to start spouting what I think is a logical approach and try to give advice instead of offering hugs. I spend the next hour worrying that I seemed unsympathetic or that I was overstepping by offering advice when I wasn't asked for it. We often struggle to recognize emotion by someone's facial expression or tone, which leads to some of us seeming aloof. Even when I can detect it, I never know how to react.

And I won't deny some of us truly ARE unempathetic and/or cruel. But I don't think this is purely genetics - I think this is how the environment shapes and interacts with these traits. I know I keep citing my own experience and I'm sorry for that, but from my own upbringing, I can see how I could have become a very different and much colder person. After about kindergarten my "quirks" stopped being just little kids being little kids. Friendships were difficult, the other kids matured faster than me with some things, and teachers assumed I was deliberately spacey and slow with my work. None of this was helped by a difficult home life (unrelated to my autism). In fifth grade I had a teacher who actually bullied me and ruined my desire to try in school for some time. I was playing imaginary games while the other girls were well past that. I am and have always been a bit of a pushover and I let a group of girls choose what I wore and paint up my face in makeup, all the while calling me ugly and insulting the clothes I wore to school. I thought this was just the way friends were and that they were being kind and helping me. I wound up violent, argumentative, hating everyone for years. It took my home life cooling down and my mother putting me in an online school for me to be able to assess my behavior and what I had become. 

I'm by no means perfect, not a saint. I'm struggling with my mental health and the responsibilities of adulthood. My relationships, I feel, are different from that of neurotypical young adults. For a long time I didn't have any friends and though we're often seen as loners (and we truly can be), I was incredibly lonely. I have a friend now, and for my entire life I could only handle one friend at a time, latching on and driving them away. It worked out well this time around as we're both equally clingy. I feel regular labels can't properly define out friendship, transcending friends but not romantically involved. I can't imagine myself having a romantic relationship and the idea of balancing my best friend and a hypothetical girlfriend overwhelms me. I show my appreciation by knitting and drawing for her, and she's like me and recognizes my affection. I don't like hugs or much touch. I don't know if I could have a romantic relationship or sometimes even a platonic friendship with someone who was neurotypical because I'm not sure how our ways of affection would mesh. Many autistic adults can and do manage happy relationships with neurotypicals but I know that I and others like myself might have an unhealthy relationship because the neurotypical overwhelms them and the neurotypical feels unfulfilled. 

I love the idea of fostering children one day and I'm majoring in special education, and sometimes I really do worry I might be emotionally negligent, but that I truly feel I can handle, and this is where the overwhelming empathy comes in, to the point that I feel an immense sense of duty to help kids in need and those with special needs and daydream about my teaching plan, baking together and other bonding activities with future foster kids. 

I'm sorry for the ramble, but from what I've seen of your page, it seems you mostly hear from neurotypical people. I want to give an autistic voice and try to show that many of us really DO feel empathy, and give experiences of my own. It's often upsetting to see us painted as monsters. I'm sorry for this dark turn but there are so many autistic kids, teenagers, adults that are MURDERED for being a "burden" and such. There are facebook groups where parents feed their kids bleach to try to cure them of autism. I've really cried for these people, especially the children. I feel like I need to be a voice, an advocate, especially for those on the more severe end of the spectrum who often can't or struggle to do it for themselves. Autistics have an increased risk of depression and suicide. I myself am taking a few antidepressants, but I don't think depression is an effect of autism itself. Stigma hurts us. I won't defend autistic abusers, there is no justification for ANY abuse, but we're not all evil. People are born autistic, but autistic people aren't born evil. No one is. 

Thank you for reading,

R.B.

- Mod RB