#the end of this year has been so fucking hard mentally and its been taking a toll on my creativity so 🙃

[blackskorpi0n]

my 23 faves of 2023🤸🏾‍♀️ in no particular order

tysm for the tag @sikoi 🫶🏾!!! I wanna tag @wldestluv-rs @crsentfairy @nepotisim @yngblkarawak @missatan @veone @gleamer @skaterboisims @salemsimss and anyone else who wants to do this 💗

[alphacrone]

this is your reminder that 99.9% of employers care more about money than you and even if they are kind and fair now they WILL at the end of the day put profits over your well being so absolutely do not sacrifice your life for them.

[iwillneverforgiveyousunghanbin]

bully⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

tuesday, zhang hao— string ensemble

⋆˙⟡ zbully1 smut series masterlist! hanbin, jiwoong, hao, matthew, and taerae included. game day (group) chapter here. all 7 endings here. ⋆˙⟡ wc: 2.8k ⋆˙⟡ reader: femme afab (listed first, she/her are used a couple times) // gender neutral (alternate version listed second, no pronouns used at all to describe reader— scroll down) ⋆˙⟡ series summary: five bullies. six days. it's gonna be a hell of a week, babe. stay hydrated. ⋆˙⟡ tuesday summary: happy tuesday, you know what that means: two straight hours of wind ensemble. and it's made even more enjoyable by first chair, zhang hao, chewing you out for every mistake you make. he's been quiet today though. it's making your skin crawl. can you manage to get out unscathed?

⋆˙⟡ warnings: explicit smut. 18+. minors do not interact. please read specific smut warnings under the cut! swearing. angst. dub-con. bullying. stuck up, tattletale hao. this is a doozy. you'll be glad we took it easy monday. smut in gn and fem versions are substantially different due to logistics/circumstance. also i clearly know nothing about playing the violin so just 🤓☝️ pipe down over there, k? ily. actually would love to hear real violinists thoughts on this so hmu. ⋆˙⟡ bully scale: ★★★☆☆ (3.5)

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: foreign object and finger insertion (reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dub-con: hao doesn't have consent before sexually touching reader but reader is turned on by it, cum play, bullying.

DO NOT PUT ROSIN UP YOUR HOO HA YA DINGUS!! purely for entertainment purposes, this fic exists in a world where there aren't consequences for that okay? DON'T. I REPEAT DON'T. DO THIS IRL. okay thank you, love you.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

you take a deep breath, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet at the south campus entrance. you’d barely gotten any sleep last night after your encounter with jiwoong, too busy tossing and turning as you pictured the dirty looks you’d be getting all over campus the next day. but as you walk across the main courtyard to the music building this afternoon, you’re surprised and elated to hear no frantic whispers in response to your presence.

had jiwoong really kept what happened yesterday a secret? you find it hard to believe he’d want to protect your reputation and mental well-being. still, the proof was in the pudding and, so far, the pudding seemed entirely unaware of who you are. just how you like it.

on tuesday afternoons, you had string ensemble in place of advanced drama. although it was a relief to have jiwoong out of sight and out of mind, there was another force at play to deal with.

as you enter the orchestra room, you spot that force immediately— already seated and delicately coating the hairs of his bow with the lifetime supply of premium rosin he’d won for first place violinist at the chinese international music competition three years ago. you know this fact because he never lets you forget it.

with your violin case in your hand, you make your way to your seat: second chair, of course. first chair is eternally occupied by your conductor’s most favorite student.

you sit down in your black music chair, smoothing your skirt so that it doesn’t ride up while you play. opening your violin case, you carefully pull out your instrument and begin quietly tuning it as the rest of the string ensemble files in. you place your bow to the strings, playing a note to assess the sound. the note comes out airy and weak and it makes you inherently wince. 

“fucking fix that right now,” a familiar voice to your left suddenly demands. “i won’t ask again.”

your left eyebrow peaks in confusion as you mumble, “you didn’t ask a first time.”

he doesn’t even look at you. and though you already intended to fix the problem without his prompting, you place your violin back in its case and start to fish around in the velvet compartments for some rosin. when you come up empty, you start to panic.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor ahn greets, tapping her conductor’s baton on the frame of her metal music stand. “we have a lot to get to today, so let’s just jump right in.”

shit. you really need rosin.

but there’s no way you can raise your hand and disrupt professor ahn’s flow. she already thinks you’re a second-rate violinist that “hides her lack of talent behind incessant practice”. this was a direct quote you’d received on your evaluation sheet last semester. besides, all professor ahn would probably say was that you should’ve made sure your bow was up to par before you even got to campus.

you couldn’t argue with that. it was the truth. but your little incident with jiwoong had preoccupied you and suddenly every perfectionist task you routinely performed seemed... obsolete. how could you let him get to you like this?

and why did it still feel so good?

professor ahn taps her baton again, signaling for everyone to turn to the first page of your spring concert repertoire. you swallow nervously, opening your sheet music booklet to tippett’s fantasia concertante on a theme of corelli. it’s an extremely difficult piece that an outstanding violinist struggles to play on a good day. and you would be playing it with your bow in a noticeably poor condition. 

you stumble through the piece as quietly as possible, cringing when the sound your instrument produces is less than satisfactory. though your ensemble is still learning the song, others’ mistakes aren’t enough to hide the strange performance coming from the second-chair violinist.

“zhang hao-sshi,” professor ahn suddenly calls. the boy to your left looks up at her in attention, causing your heart to sink to your stomach. “who is responsible for that unsatisfactory sound?”

you were foolish to think you could escape what inevitably always happened during string ensemble: the second of your five jerk-off bullies ratting you out in front of the whole orchestra.

there was a reason professor ahn held such distaste for you and your craft and that reason was zhang hao. each and every rehearsal, your professor would ask the first chair to list any mistakes he’d heard from your section and he apparently only ever noticed yours. you’d sit there, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as hao described every error you made in great detail that day— professor ahn taking note and deducting points from your rehearsal grade as she saw fit.

hao had seemingly made it his mission to single handedly make you quit violin in a sea of unbearable shame.

so you’re shocked when all hao replies is, “i apologize, professor ahn. i was too engrossed in playing to notice where the error was coming from.”

what the fuck? why would he lie? it couldn’t be to help you. hao would throw you to the wolves without a second thought if it meant remaining superior to you.

but his gaze returns to his sheet music, pencil floating across the paper as he quietly adds annotations. you’re honestly freaked out. had he hit his head? had the difficulty of the piece actually thrown him that much?

rehearsal ends shortly thereafter and you stay in your chair, silently tending to your violin next to hao. you’re both usually the last to leave, but hao always makes it a point to stay just a few seconds longer than you. just to prove something.

after your instrument is safely back in its case, you stand up and make your way over to the instrument storage closet. you find your cubby, pulling out your key and unlocking your unit so you can leave your violin there for the remainder of your classes this afternoon. 

as you place your violin case gently inside and lock your cubby, the unexpected sound of footsteps behind you makes you freeze in place. slowly, you turn around to find hao standing in the doorway of the storage closet.

weird. hao would never undermine his unparalleled musicianship by keeping his violin in a public storage unit. he sets his case down next to him, crossing his arms and leaning on the left side of the door frame.

“i’m waiting,” is all he says, brow raised expectantly. 

you look to your left and right, trying to discern what it is hao could be waiting for. you can’t find anything of note. “um... for what?”

“what do you mean, for what?” hao spits, eyes narrowing angrily. “i didn’t tell professor ahn about any of the mistakes you made today. and i don’t know if you noticed, but you made a fuck ton.”

and the shoe drops, you think.

“did you not even notice my act of kindness?” he asks indignantly. “don’t you think i at least deserve a thank you?”

“oh,” you reply, tilting your head in surprise. you swallow the urge to tell him that kindness in demand of a thank you is not exactly kindness and instead, just nod. “yeah. thank you. i guess.”

it must be some weird power play over you. it’s probably best to make a swift exit and not give him the attention he wants, so you turn on your heel and start to walk toward the door to leave. but as you approach the exit, hao reaches across the door frame— your chest colliding directly with his forearm as he blocks you in.

“c-... can i get through? i have to be in calc iii in fifteen minutes,” you ask with a frown.

hao’s arm stays glued to the other side of the door as he continues to stare at you. “i want a better thank you.”

“you—... why?” you question, brow furrowing in confusion. “i already said thank you. and i didn’t even ask you to lie for me in the first place.”

hao blinks at you. “so you’re not grateful?”

“honestly, you’re kind of making me uncomfortable,” you reply, ducking under his arm and walking back out into the orchestra room. “so if my lack of gratitude means you’re going to go back to humiliating me in front of the entire string ensemble every day... i guess i’ll just have to continue living with it.”

you make it halfway out of the rehearsal room when you hear a faint: “wait.”

you turn around to find a slightly panicked hao still standing in the doorframe of the storage closet. 

“you need rosin, right? you ran out?” he asks, as if he couldn’t tell exactly what your problem had been from hearing you play today. “i’ll give you some of mine.”

clearly you’ve just hallucinated. you’re so stressed from yesterday’s events that you’ve started hearing things. or maybe you’re still asleep in your bed at home. or maybe you’re dead. because there’s no way hao would ever give you his beloved rosin.

“let me just get it out of my case,” he says, bending down to the ground and opening up his very expensive violin case. you walk over to him slowly, partly because you don’t believe him and partly because you’re starting to worry something is terribly wrong with him.

“hao, are... are you feeling okay?” you ask, stepping back into the storage closet and watching as he pulls out a fresh cake of premium rosin. it’s a box-shape with rounded edges and no plastic holder, the golden-brown hardened sap shining beautifully even in the dim light of the storage closet.

he stands back up, holding the rosin between his fingers delicately. “never better.”

“you’re—... you’re gonna give me your cimc prize rosin?” you ask, incredibly confused. “why would you do that?”

“because you need it. don’t you?” he answers with a shrug.

“but... but—.” you protest, head spinning a million miles a minute trying to make sense of hao’s bizarre and uncharacteristic display of benevolence. “what’s the catch?”

with no discernible inflection, hao repeats, “the catch.”

“i don’t see why you’d give this to me without a price,” you elaborate skeptically. “you don’t like me. you’re actively mean to me actually. it doesn’t make sense that you’d give me something you value without asking for anything in return. i mean, you couldn’t even randomly choose to cover for me during rehearsal without demanding a thank you after.”

hao considers this for a moment and then nods. “well, what if i ask for the same thing then? in exchange for this rosin, i want a thank you.”

“i can’t even begin to figure out what’s gotten into you today,” you respond with a reluctant sigh, “but fine. i guess i can agree to your terms.”

“we have a deal,” hao affirms with a stupid, perfect smirk. he closes the gap between you, holding out the rosin in his palm. when you try to take it from him, he retracts his hand. “i’ll take the thank you first actually.”

“sure,” you agree, rolling your eyes. “thank you.”

he tilts his head to the side, prompting, “what was that?”

“thank you, hao. i really appreciate you giving me your rosin,” you feed flatly, hoping you’ve finally appeased him.

“an improvement,” he says before shaking his head again. “but i’m still not loving the tone coming out of you... i think you could use some rosin.”

“what do you—” you start to ask, but it’s already too late. without any time to spare, the door is shut behind you and a sudden draft hits your heat as your panties are shoved to the side beneath your skirt. the air leaves your lungs as long, thin fingers dip through your folds and squeeze something cold and smooth inside of you.

“there you go,” hao smiles, incredibly satisfied with the stunt he’s just pulled. “i think that might help your tone.”

“y-you... did you...” you stammer as you gawk at the boy in front of you. your cheeks are beet red at the violation of your sex. you’re in such shock that all you can whisper is, “you can’t put that in... there.”

“an instrument should be well cared for,” he challenges, sinking to his knees and running his hands up and down your bare thighs. “gonna make you sound so pretty.”

there’s a flutter in your core that you desperately want to silence. you could not be turned on by this. one of the men you hate most in this world just shoved a foreign object up you without asking. so why is the hungry look in his eyes as he backs you against the wall of storage units exciting you?

hao hooks his fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. you step out of them without a word. he lifts your right leg over his shoulder, bringing your cunt closer to his face as he holds your hips steady.

he licks a stripe starting just above your opening to your clit as if he wants to taste every inch of you. the sensation makes you gasp and then immediately cover your mouth in shame. were you really enjoying this?

“hm, still an airy sound,” hao observes, eyes locked on your center as his fingers grip into your hips. “definitely needs more rosin.”

he dives back in, lapping at your cunt— tongue flicking your bundle of nerves as your arousal builds. you must’ve fallen into an alternate dimension. fainted. been in a terrible bus accident on your way to campus. but why you’d dream of hao’s head between your thighs in a storage closet is beyond your comprehension.

the more he works you with his mouth, the more hums and sighs escape your lips but all of your worries aren’t eased just yet.

“it’s... it’s gonna melt,” you say softly, starting to feel a bit dizzy. “the r-ros—.”

“rosin starts to crumble from heat at 50 degrees celsius,” hao interjects in between sloppy traces of his tongue. “the average internal temperature of a vagina is 37.5 degrees.”

“but—”

“don’t act like you don’t know how numbers work. aren’t you in calc iii?” hao ridicules, biting gently at your clit. you throw your head back at the sensation as he increases the pressure of his tongue against you. “are you just a fraud in every subject you take?”

“hao,” you beg, his slander just adding to the pleasure you’re feeling as your right hand tangles up in his hair— tugging from the root. “feels so good. so, so good.”

“fuck, that’s beautiful baby,” hao pants, right hand detaching from your hip. he parts your entrance with his fingers, the cake of rosin slipping out into his palm with a crude, wet smack. you both stare at the golden brown block, still perfectly intact but now dripping in your arousal. he drags it down the inside of your thighs, mesmerized by the trail of glistening honey it leaves on your skin. “mm, coated perfectly now.”

he drops the rosin on the floor next to you, replacing the empty space in your pussy with his ring and middle fingers. you gasp at the stretch, clenching involuntarily around him.

“i think you’re ready to play,” hao decides, curling his fingers up inside of you against your front wall and pressing on your clit with his thumb. he watches you intently, mouth open slightly as he drinks in the sight of you writhing in pleasure. “c’mon, baby. let me hear you.”

you do as he says, moaning as the pads of his fingers press into your sweet spot again. with every rhythmic stroke, your sounds grow less inhibited and hao grows more entranced. he’s making the face he usually makes while playing his violin— focused, impassioned, and devastatingly sexy. 

was hao enjoying playing you as much as he enjoyed playing his other instrument?

“gon—... gonna make me cum,” you whine after another minute, the look in hao’s eyes turning feral. he immediately returns his mouth to your cunt, sucking at your sensitive bud with a renewed vigor.

as hao brings you closer to the brink of orgasm, your moans only grow louder and sweeter like a crescendo. the harmonic sounds coming out of you are intensified by an increase in the pace of his finger-fucking. it’s all too much for you to handle, your walls spasming around him uncontrollably.

“oh my god, hao—,” you cry, your climax crashing over you like the perfect wave. “c-cumming... i—...”

you can barely hold yourself up, clinging to the shelves on either side of you as hao works you through your high. your breathing returning to normal, he looks up at you as he pulls his fingers out of your pussy— lips pink and glistening with your juices. 

he removes your right leg from around his shoulder, eyes locked with yours as he stands up and brushes the dust off his knees. 

“th-thank... you,” is what comes out of you as you stare at him, dumbfounded. “thank you.”

“yeah, sure,” hao replies dismissively. after making such a big deal about a thank you, it figures he’d pretend he never cared in the first place. “clean off that rosin and use it next week or i’ll tell professor ahn you stole it from me.”

“oh. okay,” you quietly agree, unable to control the awkward energy that’s now tying your tongue. “um. thanks... again.”

he just shrugs, walking over to the door and picking up his violin case. unlocking the door and pushing it open, he takes a few steps out the door before suddenly stopping in his tracks. he turns over his shoulder to look at you. “i almost forgot to ask...”

you gulp at the sight of the upturned corner of his lip in a smug grin.

“... was it better than jiwoong hyung?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

gender neutral version below

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: hand/oral (reader receiving), throat fucking with fingers (reader receiving), dubcon: hao does not have consent before inserting fingers into reader's mouth, reader is turned on by this, cum play, bullying.

IF YOU WANT TO COVER YOUR ROSIN IN CUM, YOU CAN I'M NOT THE BOSS OF YOU but from everything i've read in research for this fic, it will ruin it so maybe don't. up to you tho, babe. love you.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

you take a deep breath, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet at the south campus entrance. you’d barely gotten any sleep last night after your encounter with jiwoong, too busy tossing and turning as you pictured the dirty looks you’d be getting all over campus the next day. but as you walk across the main courtyard to the music building this afternoon, you’re surprised and elated to hear no frantic whispers in response to your presence.

had jiwoong really kept what happened yesterday a secret? you find it hard to believe he’d want to protect your reputation and mental well-being. still, the proof was in the pudding and, so far, the pudding seemed entirely unaware of who you are. just how you like it.

on tuesday afternoons, you had string ensemble in place of advanced drama. although it was a relief to have jiwoong out of sight and out of mind, there was another force at play to deal with.

as you enter the orchestra room, you spot that force immediately— already seated and delicately coating the hairs of his bow with the lifetime supply of premium rosin he’d won for first place violinist at the chinese international music competition three years ago. you know this fact because he never lets you forget it.

with your violin case in your hand, you make your way to your seat: second chair, of course. first chair is eternally occupied by your conductor’s most favorite student.

you sit down in your black chair, propping your sheet music booklet up onto your music stand. opening your violin case, you carefully pull out your instrument and begin quietly tuning it as the rest of the string ensemble files in. you place your bow to the strings, playing a note to assess the sound. the note comes out airy and weak and it makes you inherently wince. 

“fucking fix that right now,” a familiar voice to your left suddenly demands. “i won’t ask again.”

your left eyebrow peaks in confusion as you mumble, “you didn’t ask a first time.”

he doesn’t even look at you. and though you already intended to fix the problem without his prompting, you place your violin back in its case and start to fish around in the velvet compartments for some rosin. when you come up empty, you start to panic.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor ahn greets, tapping her conductor’s baton on the frame of her metal music stand. “we have a lot to get to today, so let’s just jump right in.”

shit. you really need rosin.

but there’s no way you can raise your hand and disrupt professor ahn’s flow. she already thinks you’re a second-rate violinist that “hides your lack of talent behind incessant practice”. this was a direct quote you’d received on your evaluation sheet last semester. besides, all professor ahn would probably say was that you should’ve made sure your bow was up to par before you even got to campus.

you couldn’t argue with that. it was the truth. but your little incident with jiwoong had preoccupied you and suddenly every perfectionist task you routinely performed seemed... obsolete. how could you let him get to you like this?

and why did it still feel so good?

professor ahn taps her baton again, signaling for everyone to turn to the first page of your spring concert repertoire. you swallow nervously, opening your sheet music booklet to tippett’s fantasia concertante on a theme of corelli. it’s an extremely difficult piece that an outstanding violinist struggles to play on a good day. and you would be playing it with your bow in a noticeably poor condition.

you stumble through the piece as quietly as possible, cringing when the sound your instrument produces is less than satisfactory. though your ensemble is still learning the song, others’ mistakes aren’t enough to hide the strange performance coming from the second-chair violinist.

“zhang hao-sshi,” professor ahn suddenly calls. the boy to your left looks up at her in attention, causing your heart to sink to your stomach. “who is responsible for that unsatisfactory sound?”

you were foolish to think you could escape what inevitably always happens during string ensemble: the second of your five jerk-off bullies ratting you out in front of the whole orchestra.

there was a reason professor ahn held such distaste for you and your craft and that reason was zhang hao. each and every rehearsal, your professor would ask the first chair to list any mistakes he’d heard from your section and he apparently only ever noticed yours. you’d sit there, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as hao described every error you made in great detail that day— professor ahn taking note and deducting points from your rehearsal grade as she saw fit.

hao had seemingly made it his mission to single handedly make you quit violin in a sea of unbearable shame.

so you’re shocked when all hao replies is, “i apologize, professor ahn. i was too engrossed in playing to notice where the error was coming from.”

what the fuck? why would he lie? it couldn’t be to help you. hao would throw you to the wolves without a second thought if it meant remaining superior to you.

but his gaze returns to his sheet music, pencil floating across the paper as he quietly adds annotations. you’re honestly freaked out. had he hit his head? had the difficulty of the piece actually thrown him that much?

rehearsal ends shortly thereafter and you stay in your chair, silently tending to your violin next to hao. you’re both usually the last to leave, but hao always makes it a point to stay just a few seconds longer than you. just to prove something.

after your instrument is safely back in its case, you stand up and make your way over to the instrument storage closet. you find your cubby, pulling out your key and unlocking your unit so you can leave your violin there for the remainder of your classes this afternoon. 

as you place your violin case gently inside and lock your cubby, the unexpected sound of footsteps behind you makes you freeze in place. slowly, you turn around to find hao standing in the doorway of the storage closet.

weird. hao would never undermine his unparalleled musicianship by keeping his violin in a public storage unit. he sets his case down next to him, crossing his arms and leaning on the left side of the door frame.

“i’m waiting,” is all he says, brow raised expectantly. 

you look to your left and right, trying to discern what it is hao could be waiting for. you can’t find anything of note. “um... for what?”

“what do you mean, for what?” hao spits, eyes narrowing angrily. “i didn’t tell professor ahn about any of the mistakes you made today. and i don’t know if you noticed, but you made a fuck ton.”

and the shoe drops, you think.

“did you not even notice my act of kindness?” he asks indignantly. “don’t you think i at least deserve a thank you?”

“oh,” you reply, tilting your head in surprise. you swallow the urge to tell him that kindness in demand of a thank you is not exactly kindness and instead, just nod. “yeah. thank you. i guess.”

it must be some weird, new power play over you. it’s probably best to make a swift exit and not give him the attention he wants, so you turn on your heel and start to walk toward the door to leave. but as you approach the exit, hao reaches across the door frame— your chest colliding directly with his forearm as he blocks you in.

“c-... can i get through? i have to be in calc iii in fifteen minutes,” you ask with a frown.

hao’s arm stays glued to the other side of the door as he continues to stare at you. “i want a better thank you.”

“you—... why?” you question, brow furrowing in confusion. “i already said thank you. and i didn’t even ask you to lie for me in the first place.”

hao blinks at you. “so you’re not grateful?”

“honestly, you’re kind of making me uncomfortable,” you reply, ducking under his arm and walking back out into the orchestra room. “so if my lack of gratitude means you’re going to go back to humiliating me in front of the entire string ensemble every day... i guess i’ll just have to continue living with it.”

you make it halfway out of the rehearsal room when you hear a faint: “wait.”

you turn around to find a slightly panicked hao still standing in the doorframe of the storage closet. 

“you need rosin, right? you ran out?” he asks, as if he couldn’t tell exactly what your problem had been from hearing you play today. “i’ll give you some of mine.”

clearly you’ve just hallucinated. you’re so stressed from yesterday’s events that you’ve started hearing things. or maybe you’re still asleep in your bed at home. or maybe you’re dead. because there’s no way hao would ever give you his beloved rosin.

“let me just get it out of my case,” he says, bending down to the ground and opening up his very expensive violin case. you walk over to him slowly, partly because you don’t believe him and partly because you’re starting to worry something is terribly wrong with him.

“hao, are... are you feeling okay?” you ask, stepping back into the storage closet and watching as he pulls out a fresh cake of premium rosin. it’s a box-shape with rounded edges and no plastic holder, the golden-brown hardened sap shining beautifully even in the dim light of the storage closet.

he stands back up, holding the rosin between his fingers delicately. “never better.”

“you’re—... you’re gonna give me your cimc prize rosin?” you ask, incredibly confused. “why would you do that?”

“because you need it. don’t you?” he answers with a shrug.

“but... but—.” you protest, head spinning a million miles a minute trying to make sense of hao’s bizarre and uncharacteristic display of benevolence. “what’s the catch?”

with no discernible inflection, hao repeats, “the catch.”

“i don’t see why you’d give this to me without a price,” you elaborate skeptically. “you don’t like me. you’re actively mean to me actually. it doesn’t make sense that you’d give me something you value without asking for anything in return. i mean, you couldn’t even randomly choose to cover for me during rehearsal without demanding a thank you after.”

hao considers this for a moment and then nods. “well, what if i ask for the same thing then? in exchange for this rosin, i want a thank you.”

“i can’t even begin to figure out what’s gotten into you today,” you respond with a reluctant sigh, “but fine. i guess i can agree to your terms.”

“we have a deal,” hao affirms with a stupid, perfect smirk. he closes the gap between you, holding out the rosin in his palm. when you try to take it from him, he retracts his hand. “i’ll take the thank you first actually.”

“sure,” you agree with a sigh, rolling your eyes. “thank you.”

he tilts his head to the side, prompting, “what was that?”

“thank you, hao. i really appreciate you giving me your rosin,” you feed flatly, hoping you’ve finally appeased him.

“an improvement,” he says before shaking his head again. “but i’m still not loving the tone coming out of you... maybe your bow needs some rosin.”

“you already know it does! what are you even talking—,” you start to ask, but it’s already too late. without any time to spare, the door is shut behind you and two long, thin fingers are pushed inside of your mouth. 

“there you go,” hao smiles, incredibly satisfied with the stunt he’s just pulled. “a thorough coat to get that perfect sound.”

he cups your jaw with his free hand as he shoves his fingers further into your mouth. you gag slightly as he approaches the back of your throat, your cheeks turning beet red at the violation of your body. 

“an instrument should be well cared for,” hao says as he removes his fingers from your lips, unbuttoning your jeans as he guides you to sit down in a black music chair. “gonna make you sound so pretty.”

there’s a flutter in your core that you desperately want to silence. you could not be turned on by this. one of the men you hate most in this world just shoved his fingers down your throat without asking. so why is the hungry look in his eyes as he sinks down between your legs exciting you?

hao hooks his fingers around the waistband of your jeans, tugging at them until you finally lift your hips up wordlessly. he discards your underwear next, chuckling sardonically at your continued state of silence.

his lubricated fingers ghost over you, leaving a trail of your own saliva up and down your sex. the sensation makes you gasp and then immediately cover your mouth in shame. were you really enjoying this?

“hm, still an airy sound,” hao observes, eyes locked on your center as his free hand grips your thigh— fingers digging into the soft flesh. “definitely needs more rosin.”

hao pulls your hips closer to him, taking you into his mouth— swirling and sucking at your heat with his tongue. you must’ve fallen into another dimension. fainted. been in a terrible bus accident on your way to campus. but why you’d dream of hao’s head between your thighs in a storage closet is beyond your comprehension.

the more he works you with his mouth, the more hums and sighs escape your lips.

“hao,” you beg, pleasure building as your right hand tangles up in his hair— tugging from the root. “feels so good. so, so good.”

“fuck, that’s beautiful baby,” hao pants, right hand detaching from your hip. “maybe you can even learn something from how i’m playing you. everyone would appreciate that, huh?”

the patronizing insult makes you throb, another whimper falling out of you. he watches you intently, mouth open slightly as he drinks in the sight of you writhing in pleasure. “c’mon, baby. let me hear you.”

with every rhythmic stroke, your sounds grow less inhibited and hao grows more entranced. he’s making the face he usually makes while playing his violin— focused, impassioned, and devastatingly sexy. 

was hao enjoying playing you as much as he enjoyed playing his other instrument?

“gon—... gonna make me cum,” you whine after another minute, the look in hao’s eyes turning feral. he immediately returns his mouth to you, sucking at your most sensitive part with a renewed vigor.

as hao brings you closer to the brink of orgasm, your moans only grow louder and sweeter like a crescendo. the harmonic sounds coming out of you are intensified by an increase in the pace of hand. it’s all too much for you to handle, your core beginning to spasm.

“oh my god, hao—,” you cry, your climax crashing over you like the perfect wave. “c-cumming... i—...”

hao pulls out the cake of rosin from his back pocket as he works you through your high, bringing it between your legs and covering it in your release. your breathing slowly returning to normal,he runs the sticky rosin down each of your inner thighs. 

“it’s... it’s gonna melt,” you say softly, both hypnotized and concerned. “the r-ros—.”

“rosin starts to crumble from heat at 50 degrees celsius,” hao interjects as he coats the rosin in more of your fluids. “your body temperature is 37 degrees.”

“but—.”

“don’t act like you don’t know how numbers work. aren’t you in calc iii?” hao baits, licking up the last remnants of your orgasm for himself. “are you just a fraud in every subject you take?”

his eyes lock with yours as he stands up and brushes the dust off his knees. 

“th-thank... you,” is what comes out of you as you stare up at him, dumbfounded. “thank you.”

“yeah, sure,” hao replies dismissively. after making such a big deal about a thank you, it figures he’d pretend he never cared in the first place. “clean off that rosin and use it next week or i’ll tell professor ahn you stole it from me.”

“oh. okay,” you quietly agree, unable to control the awkward energy that’s now tying your tongue. “um. thanks... again.”

he just shrugs, walking over to the door and picking up his violin case. unlocking the door and pushing it open, he takes a few steps out the door before suddenly stopping in his tracks. he turns over his shoulder to look at you. “i almost forgot to ask...”

you gulp at the sight of the upturned corner of his lip in a smug grin.

“... was it better than jiwoong hyung?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐌𝐞 🔞

You thought you knew he only wanted sex. He thought you knew he wanted love. Who's gonna break first- and who's gonna pick up the pieces?

Tags/Warnings: PWP, messy sex oop, emotions, hurt & Comfort, major angst, minor manhandling, multiple rounds mentioned

Length: 2.3k words

A/N: someone send help I can't write smut no more I'm sorry

━━━━━━━━━━.~°💔°~.━━━━━━━━━━━

In the beginning, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Really- it wasn't.

Jungkook and you had been nothing but friends, casual ones that would mostly text and sometimes meet up for the odd takeout and drink at either his place or yours. And then, one day, it really kind of just.. happened.

For you, it was clear that he didn't mean it in a sense of 'hey, I love you' because he litereally told you so straight up the next morning. He'd stood up, got dressed, thanked you for letting him stay over, and made sure to tell you that this wasn't him confessing to you in a fuckboy'ish way or anything. That he was totally 'cool' with just staying friends and nothing more.

You had laughed it off. Had said almost nothing. You just took the hit silently, and let him walk out of your apartment, only to have him return a week later.

And the same happened again. You ate, drank, and end up having sex- and while this time it had been on the couch instead of your bed, it still turned out the same the next morning. He'd leave, thank you for staying over, only to text you a few days later if you wanted to hang out at his place.

And there too, he'd end up with his dick inside you. His bed had been comfortable, even if he lacked pillows for some odd reason. It was still nice. And this time, something was different.

This time, it was you who thanked him for letting you stay over, before you'd left.

The same game, simply with reversed players. Nothing new- it just looked like it. And now, after a year of playing this, you're yet again entangled with him in his bed, though he actually owns a few pillows now after noticing your complaints about his lack of them. You slept in the same bed after all, whenever you'd stay over- and while he hoped you'd at some point at least try to cuddle up to him, use him as a pillow, you hadn't. You'd rather accepted the sore neck you'd get the next morning, instead of showing him any kind of domestic affection outside of sex.

And he's not sure how long he can take it.

There's only so much he can do. So much he can offer. So much he can sacrifice for you.

He's unable to keep his hands to himself, uses them to push your wrists into the mattress below instead as he clenches his jaw, grits his teeth under the pressure of his own muscles aching already. He doesn't know how far he needs to go, how hard he needs to fuck your brains out so you understand that it's him who's making your mind spin. Him who wants to offer you so much more than just his dick down your throat or shoved inside your cunt. He could give you so much more than just purple marks on your skin, could give you a lot more lasting things than just a fleeting bruise.

You just won't let him.

And its agonizing.

He doesn't know what to do at this point to show you what he wants, because your eyes are always closed, no matter what. If not physically, then mentally- you don't ever look at him, never see him, all while he can't look away, has to watch every breath of yours. He knows he's not a perfect guy. He's got his flaws, a lot of them, but that can't be the reason you just won't love him.

Because in your touch, in your kisses, in the way you cling to him, he can feel it. It's not just lust and desire that's making you feel like this, he knows that. He just knows- but you act like there's nothing.

You pretend nothing is going on, you just keep your hands over your eyes and never spot the way he kneels in front of your feet, offering his heart clawed straight out of his chest. As if what you do is nothing but a stale job to get done, something not worth much more effort than necessary. A normal 9 to 5 that pays the bills.

And if that's what this is, he wants to be fired.

Because he surely isn't able to quit on his own.

But that's the thing- every time you give him the chance to leave, he just can't let it happen. And neither do you stay away from him for long either. If he doesn't reply to a message you send him for more than a day or two, you'll call him, worried tone in your voice while asking if he's alright. And it hurts, because he feeds off of those moments every single time like a drug addict, wants and needs your attention and has started to ignore you just to get that reaction in return. He knows it's cruel, that at this point you're more than toxic towards one another, but he needs you.

And it's clear that you need him too- you just refuse to admit that.

"Jungkook-" You gasp out when he pushes himself in deep, arms growing tired from the by now third round of lovemaking he's tied you up in. But he can't stop- he doesn't want to. The moment he's done with you, the moment he lets go, you'll leave.

And tonight, he can't handle that. Tonight is his breaking point.

"Jungkook I can't-" You start, but he instead leans back on his heels, pulls your legs over his thighs, before he pushes his length that had slipped out back in, hips lifting before he gathers the last ounces of strength once more. A hand on your cunt spreads the mess he'd made with you around, thumb pressing and circling over your red and swollen bundle of nerves, pushing you towards one last peak with him.

He knows it's ending. He can feel his muscles burn.

So he uses your limp and pleasure-paralyzed body to his advantage, as he moves his hands to pull your back towards him instead, having you sit on him instead, his arms around you, your face in his neck. He hisses a little at the feeling of your hand tugging his hair, the other scratching his back for just a second, as you spasm once more, core clenching around his by now painfully sensitive cock.

His last orgasm is empty, he's got nothing left to give-

and he notices the way you both shiver, just not from the cold.

And if this is the last time, he wants to be stupid- he wants to be selfish, and he wants to at least pretend for a moment while you're still out of it that he's got you. That you want him even if you're not just fucking.

His lips kiss the salty skin of the crook of your neck, up to right underneath your ear, as he leaves his head there, breathes in your scent. His arms hold you close, length softening inside you, cum and arousal leaking and causing a weird slippery sensation on the skin of his thighs. And then, you try to move. "Don't-" He mumbles, voice hoarse. "..not yet."

You're quiet, feeling a bit panicked. You need him to let go of you, right now. Because the way his hot breath fans over your skin, the feeling of his arms hot around you, the sensation of his body so close is making you delirious. It's causing your fucked up brain to come up with dangerously domestic scenes of a post-sex shower with him, where you both fail to stand up for long enough to get yourselves clean, so you have to rather take a bath and laugh about the trembling of your muscles as you somewhat clumsily make yourselves at home in the warm soapy water. It creates a dream where you sleep next to him tonight, only dressed in barely any clothes so you can feel as close as you can throughout the night, his heavy body clinging to yours at some point, raspy voice greeting you with a good morning the next time you both wake up. It paints a picture of breakfast together, of a playful argument with him about the muscle ache you both have from the excessive amount of lovemaking you both just did.

But it's not lovemaking. You two simply fuck- you don't make love.

"Jungkook, I'm all gross-" You whine, trying to push him, when you suddenly feel it as he holds you even tighter, face resting on your shoulder. He's shaking, but not from the exhaustion of his muscles.

He's crying, quietly, trying hard not to have you notice.

It confuses you. You're not sure what to do, so for now, you just lean into him, rest your own head on his shoulder, and interlace your hands behind his back as you relax. "Don't do that.." He suddenly says, shaking his head and leaning away from you. No you're definitely confused. "I can't.."

"Jungkook what's wrong?" You ask, as he takes in a deep breath to calm himself, hands wiping his face almost aggressively. "What's going on?"

"You should go shower now." He mumbles, not looking at you as he cringes a little when he finally slips out of you, sitting on the edge of the bed, before his hands rub his arms, muscles probably aching already. "Do you need me to drive you home?" He wonders, and you just sit on the bed, watching him.

It's silent, for a good while, until he finally turns a little to look at you.

And you've never really seen anything that physically hurts you so much as his face in this moment, heart dropping down towards hell, ice cold shock running up your spine at the pure exhaustion on his face. But it's not physical exhaustion you see. No- whatever it is, it's something else.

"Jungkook.. talk to me-" You try, but he scoffs, shakes his head.

"I don't want to." He denies, getting up to walk into the bathroom, where he turns on the lights and starts the shower. You feel oddly small in his apartment, weirdly out of place as you look around, surroundings unfamiliar now that you actually look at them. Have you ever really looked at his apartment? Or just the ceiling at max?

Then again, why would you? Jeon Jungkook doesn't do relationships, and you know this because he told you. Numerous times. So why is he so distressed today?

When he walks back out, you quietly wobble into the bathroom yourself, get clean and get out once more to see him already changing the sheets, angrily throwing the soiled one's to the floor. It's clear that something's off this time, and you're at fault- but you're not sure what you've done.

So you just sit down on the floor with crossed legs, butt cold on the ground since you're only wearing panties and a shirt of his you found.

"There's sweatpants in the hamper. They're clean." He mumbles, not sparing you a glance. "You can wear those. I'll drive you home in a second-"

"I don't wanna go home." You say, making his movements stutter.

"What?" He turns towards you, eyes all puffy from his earlier emotional break.

"I don't wanna go home." You repeat. "Not until you tell me what's wrong." You say, and he shakes his head, pulling the bedsheet over the mattress, groaning angrily when it slips up on another corner, undoing most of his work. You, instead, laugh a little, getting up slowly to walk over and help him.

He sighs.

"Why do you want to stay?" He asks, and you look at him as he braces his hands on the mattress, not looking up at you.

"Why do you never want me to stay?" You ask instead, and his brows furrow in confusion, as he finally looks up.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He asks, genuinely confused. "You're the one that always leaves the moment I'm done with you." He accuses, and you stare at him almost offended.

"Excuse me?" You scoff. "Who leaves me while I am asleep after almost breaking my bed twice now?" You argue.

"You didn't invite me to stay, like, ever!" He barks back, now standing to full height again, staring at you.

"Well boohoo, didn't know the prince himself needed a formal invitation to stay in my bed after I sucked his dick!" You huff, crossing your arms.

"What the fuck is your problem?" He asks, and you open your mouth, offended.

"No, what the fuck is your problem?!" You respond back, before both of your faces relax visibly.

"I always wanted to stay. I just didn't know if you wanted me to." He says awkwardly, and you sigh, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt you're wearing.

"And I wanted you to stay, but I.. you said you don't do relationships and all that, so I didn't want to seem clingy." You mumble. "I rather, you know.."

"...took what you offered and never asked for more.." He continues.

"..so I would at least not lose you." You finish, and you both stare at each other for a good moment-

before you both break out in tearful laughter, falling into bed together-

for the first time, actually holding each other throughout the night, and many more to come.

━━━━━━━━━━.~°💔°~.━━━━━━━━━━━

[steve-faglan]

Breaking and Entering

Reader x Steve Raglan/ William Afton

TW: NON CON, NON CON, NON CON!!!

Summary: You and your best friend, Mike decide to break into the old Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Restaurant to get high and explore the relics of your youth. It's all well and good until you realize you're not the only ones in the building.

PART TWO: HERE❤️

William Afton was widely known to be involved in the disappearance of several children during the years that Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was open. Because of this, he's renamed himself Steve Raglan and taken on the role of career counselor to ensure a security guard for his life's work.

Not only smart but extremely well coordinated, William navigates the halls and secret passageways of Freddy's today just as swiftly as he did in the 80's.

You'd been to Freddy's back in its glory days. You've seen the animatronics in their prime and even witnessed the tall yellow rabbit mascot that used to walk around, though he creeped you out, so you always steered clear.

Lately, college has been taking a toll on your mental state, so you decide to indulge in some good old-fashioned nostalgia in the form of "innocently" breaking and entering at Freddy's. Mostly you're just looking for a place to smoke a joint and think about anything other than your major you wish you'd switched a year ago.

"Come on, you said you'd go with me. No one's ever there, it's been closed since the fucking 80s, man," you plead with your friend Mike to join you.

"The temp agency just tried to get me to work there!"

"So then there's no security, right?!" You drive a hard bargain or maybe Mike's extremely obvious feelings for you influence all his decisions.

"Alright. I'll be over in 10. I'm putting Abby to bed." He caves and you giggle in victory before hanging up. While waiting for Mike, you roll a few joints, grab your CD player, and slide a lighter into your front pocket. The minutes drag by until you hear Mike's piece of shit car pull into your driveway. You bolt out the door and climb into the vacant passenger seat.

Mike can't help but stare at you for a minute. You're easily the most beautiful person in this town as far as he's concerned, but he can't bring himself to make a move considering his ever-complicated home life.

"Thanks for doing this, dude. School is kicking my ass." You smile at your friend, and he quickly turns away, hoping the night is concealing the blush on his cheeks.

The drive to Freddy's is short and exciting. It's been years since you've seen this place. Mike pulls into the furthest, darkest corner of the parking lot and the two of you devise a plan of entry. At the very back of the building, there are two large loading dock doors. With both you and Mike using all your strength, you get it open just enough to crawl through.

"Jesus Christ, what did I let you talk me into?" Mike coughs away the dust.

"Come on, this way!" You drag him by the arm, the blood in his face rising just from your touch. Anyone with two eyes could see how Mike felt about you, except you.

You and Mike sit on the floor, right in front of the main stage. The four, old robotic humanoid animals still occupy their spots, holding their respective instruments or props. Time has been unkind to them.

You spark up one of the joints and pass it back and forth to Mike. You each share a headphone as you stare into the tall, decrepit ceiling of the restaurant.

"You think the bathrooms here still work?" Mike asks, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Surely they do if they wanted you to work here, right?" You ponder the question further. "Maybe check the ones in the office area." You point to a door that you recall from childhood that leads to the "boring" part of Freddy's. You ended up there by accident and swore you heard screaming, so you never went back.

Mike disappears in pursuit of a restroom, leaving you by yourself on the large, open party floor. You light another joint and stare quizzically at the robots. You become lost in thought thinking about how lonely it must be here, after all this time.

"You've been waiting for an audience, haven't you?" You tilt your head. Mike's taking longer than you anticipated, so you grab the other headphone and place it in your vacant ear. The volume is loud enough for you to imagine the animatronic band playing it. For a moment, everything around you melts away. You close your eyes, reliving a carefree time in your youth.

"Y/N!!!" Mike barrels down the hall. He's sprinting around every corner, tripping and stumbling the whole way in fear and adrenaline. "GET OUT!! GET OUTSIDE!!" He screams, but you can't hear him. You can't hear a thing. Just as he's about to make physical contact with you, he's yanked backward. The large, yellow rabbit that used to freak you out drags Mike behind the kitchen doors before bludgeoning him over the head, knocking him unconscious.

"I thought you couldn't do nights, Micheal?" The rabbit man binds Mike's wrists together and drags him through the same doors as before. He securely fastens his restraints to a support beam and stands. Already a tall man, he towers in the suit. William Afton.

William slowly turns his head, looking right at you. You sit with your back to him, on the far side of the room, closest to the stage. He takes two steps before you glance behind you, wondering where your friend is. Your breath hitches in your chest when you're met with a giant bowtied rabbit. You glance behind him to see Mike's motionless body on the floor. Time's moving too fast to tell if he's alive or not, and you scream again before taking off toward the door.

The rabbit man gestures to the stage and begins to slowly stalk toward you.

"Stay the fuck away from me! What did you do to Mike?"

"I'll do a lot worse if you don't stop fucking screaming!" William's voice is robotic and warped through the automated helmet of the suit. He's inhuman to you. Your mind can't wrap your head around the fact that anyone is in the suit, let alone William Afton himself. You try to silence your wails, but you can't do anything to stop the terrified sobs. All you can do is think about Mike.

"I-Is he dead?" You whimper, in a state of shock.

"Not yet," is all the rabbit says before he advances on you, grabbing you with unnatural strength. Your arms are pinned by your sides and he lifts you off the ground with ease. Kicking and fighting does nothing but bruise you up, but you try regardless. You manage to free one arm, and in your hysteria, you knock the mascot's helmet off his head. The helmet falls with a heavy thud, but it's as if it's muted in the background as you stare at William. He stares back, unfazed by his revealed identity. It almost looks like he's smiling.

"W-W-W-"

"William," he growls before placing his steel-covered hands around your throat while you were too distracted to notice he'd sat you back down. You claw at the lifeless metal and cloth, but slowly, your vision becomes blurry, and then... Nothing.

Mike wakes before you. He recovers quickly as he realizes where he is. He searches for you frantically, but you're nowhere to be found.

"Y/N!" Mike screams, but there's no reply. He's alone in silence for a few minutes before the unmasked rabbit man appears carrying your wilted body. Mike begins to panic. "What did you do to her?!"

"Calm down, Micheal. She's just tired. She's gonna need her energy." William grins, sending a wave of nausea through Mike's stomach. "You should feel lucky, you get to watch." He steps out of the robotic suit revealing clothes similar to the ones he wore when he first met Mike, not long ago.

"Watch what?" Mike raises a brow. William doesn't reply, he just starts cutting the clothes off of your body. "What are you doing?! Don't fucking touch her!"

William laughs at him, licking the entire length of his middle finger and sliding it inside you while he stares at Mike. He continues to play with you, rendering Mike into a livid mess. William shakes his head, amused, continuing with whatever dark plan he's already hatched for the evening.

You have no idea how much time has passed, but eventually, you wake up. You groan as you try to sit up, only to find that you're bound to a tabletop in an X formation with your legs hanging off the side where your knees bend. There's a raggedy drape of cloth over your body and the dry, musty smell is enough to make you sick. You scan the room in a quiet panic, unable to move and truly study your surroundings. Quickly you spot Mike. His left eye is swollen and will surely be blacked by the time you get out of here... If you get out of here.

"Mike!" You try to yell, but it comes out as a strained wheeze after the damage William did to your throat. Mike locks eyes with you and that's when you notice how scared he looks, but not for himself. You furrow your brow and look in the other direction. There stands William. He's out of the suit now, standing over you with a devilish grin.

"Breaking and entering isn't a good look for either of you," William chuckles. "But especially you, sweetheart." William places a soft hand on your cheek. You recoil in fear.

"Don't fucking touch her!" Mike thrashes in his restraints. It's clear to you that Mike knows what's about to happen before you do.

"Please, we're sorry. We won't say anything to anyone, just let us-"

"Don't be cliche. You knew what you were doing and you did it anyway. This is someone's stuff, you know? Someone's livelihood."

"I'm sorry," you sob.

"You're gonna be," William hits the joint he commandeered from you, and after a long drag, he flicks it to the side and begins to unfasten his belt.

"No! No, no!" You plead, arching and bucking your hips in hopes of loosening the cables that secure you to the tabletop. Mike causes his wrists to bleed, but he still can't get free. William strokes his erection as he watches your helpless body writhe under the sheet. You accept your fate, horrified and humiliated, you look away, facing the stage. You quickly notice it's empty and your heart begins to race.

"They won't be joining us. This is for my- our eyes only." William releases a deep, taunting laugh and starts pumping his middle finger in and out of you again.

"M-Mike..." You try to ask for help, unsure of what he could do for you at this point, but desperate to be free. He won't even look at you now. He's slouched over, looking at the floor, trying to drown out the sensual wet sounds coming from William's fingers scissoring inside you.

"He doesn't want to save you, sweetheart. He wants to see you get fucked against your will." With his last word, he heaves the entire table closer to him, giving Mike a front-row seat to the show. Panic consumes you. Before you have the chance to beg for mercy again, William tears the unkempt sheet from your body, leaving you entirely exposed.

"No! Wait, please!" Your fight or flight response kicks in, but you're helpless to do either. The cables strain against the table, but you're unable to move an inch. You look back at Mike. He meets your gaze and the two of you share a knowing look before you feel William slide the head of his cock up and down your clit, soaking it in the arousal your body had no choice but to pool between your legs after the ways he touched you.

"You make it hard to believe you don't want it when you're dripping like this, sweetheart," William taunts. You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed and afraid, unable to watch the blood rise in Mike's face as he watches you get defiled. Just as you're sure William is about to slam into you with no mercy, he pulls away. You open your eyes and glance at him in confusion, hoping he's realizing he can just let you both go and that would be the end of it. But that's not the case.

William bends to knees, placing your soaked entrance right at the perfect height for him to consume you.

"Let's see how difficult I can make this for you." William buries his tongue in your wet folds, flicking the muscle delicately over your violated clit. You try as hard as you can to fight back any kind of reaction, but you fail. A soft, breathy moan slips from your lips like a note from a music box. William laughs against your sensitive skin.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry." Mike hangs his head in defeat, listening to the sounds of you succumbing to William's sensual touch.

"What are you sorry for? She loves it," William smirks before curling a finger inside you, eliciting another explicit moan from you. He regains his standing position and replaces the head of his erection at your pulsating entrance, waiting. "I've needed this. You have no idea how stressful it is to keep a place like this under wraps."

All you can think about is how stress got you here. All you wanted was a smoke session with your best friend in a cool venue, and now, here you are. You're jarred from your thoughts when William's massive erection drives into you. It's abrupt and painful, but your body gushes with arousal to make up for the stinging, pleasurable friction.

"No!" You scream. Mike fights against his restraints one more time, thrashing and sliding his body in any direction he can, but he's stuck. William throws his head back in ecstasy as he plows into you. He's fucking you like he's eating his last meal. Breathless grunts of focused pleasure fall from his chest. His rough, calculated hands find your breasts, toying delicately with your nipples.

You close your eyes and try so hard to escape the reality of the situation, but William lands a hard, heavy smack across your face, shaking you back into the moment. With a stern hand, he grabs your face and forces you to look at Mike. He's red-faced, enraged, and tired. You can't decide if you want him to look at you or not.

Mike mouths an "I'm sorry" to you, but all you can do is stare at him while William picks up his pace. Your vision is unsteady as he jostles you around.

"You've gone quiet. I think I need to fix that." He draws his hips back and in a split second, your eyes widen in fear before he slams into you at full force. A loud, moaning wail emits from you and the humiliation finally tears your gaze away from your best friend. "There she is," William smirks, steadying his thrusts yet again.

"Please... Stop..." You moan between gasps. Your orgasm is building at break-neck speed. The last thing you want is to climax around William's invasive erection, but it seems as if you have no other choice. The hitching breaths in your chest become loud, sultry moans. Your mind is too frazzled to focus on withholding any signs of enjoying him. Tears stream down your face, but you admit to yourself that you don't want him to stop.

Mike looks away for a moment, but can't help but stare at you. Your eyes flutter shut and your back arches so intensely. He watches the 'O' shape your mouth takes and imagines those same lips wrapped around him. He has to shift uncomfortably, hoping to conceal his already obvious bulge. After you've ridden out your high on William's cock, he slowly slips out of you. Taunting you.

William knowingly reaches under the table and unfastens whatever link was holding each of your extremities. Your hands instinctively find your most delicate, used areas.

"Don't touch yourself unless I say so," he snaps, taking your wrist in one of his strong, demanding hands. His riddance of contact allows your mind to clear from the climax and you're suddenly afraid again. A notorious serial killer is making you his toy.

"Let her go, you've had your..." Mike searches for the words, but he's unsure how to describe the vulgar scene before him. "Just let her go, man." He looks exhausted.

"Don't talk yourself out of a good thing, Micheal," William chuckles before shoving you to the ground in front of Mike. You land with a thud, releasing an involuntary whine of pain when you hit the hard surface. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"No! I-" Mike attempts to protest, but William cuts him off.

"Oh, please. You're not fucking her. Probably never will. Now you get to get off on the idea that it's being taken from her."

"You're a fucking monster!" Mike thrashes against his binds, protectively snapping at William like a guard dog.

"You want me to let her go?" William squats beside the two of you. You lie fucked-out and terrified, curling up next to Mike for some sort of dignity. William grabs your hair and sharply yanks you toward him. You release a high-pitched squeal and allow him to guide your head to Mike's pants zipper.

"What are you doing?" Mike shuffles uncomfortably.

"Don't make me wait," Afton snaps at you and you quickly reach a shaking hand for Mike's pants button.

"What are you doing?! Stop, let her go!" He tries to shake your hands away, noticing the waves of tears falling down your face as you already piece together what William might make you do.

"Mike, I-" you're cut off by William shoving your face into Mike's newly exposed crotch. He diligently bobs your head for you, fist still wrapped in your hair. The second you make contact with Mike's cock, he releases a deep, sensual sigh. Small moans fall out of him left and right, nothing he can do to stop them.

"Tell her to stop, Mike." William waits, but Mike is silent. You squeeze your eyes shut as more tears well up. "Tell her to stop, and I'll let you both leave right now." Silence.

"Mike?" You beg, relieving yourself from the forced fellatio. Mike doesn't look at you, he can't. William smirks and shoves your face back to work. He makes good use of your throat as you take Mike as deep as his shaft can possibly go, ignoring any protest from you.

Mike begins to pant heavily. Little whimpers escape his mouth as his orgasm builds.

"F-Fuck," he huffs before finishing down your throat. When William finally pulls you away, you're a choking, sobbing mess. Betrayal doesn't properly describe what you're feeling right now.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry, I- I don't-" Mike fumbled over his words, red-faced and breathless.

"Shut up, now. You had your turn." William lifts you from the ground with ease and throws you against the same table as before. This time, you're bent over it, presenting your ass to him like a trophy to be won. To be taken.

"Please let me go home. I want to go home..." You sob with your face pressed to the large party table. Mike's eyebrows upturn as he watches you cry. Guilt consumes him, and the helplessness of your cries only amplifies that. He's not sure why he didn't tell you to stop, he knew it was the right thing to do. But he was so enveloped in the feeling of your lips bobbing up and down his erection, how could he ever ask for it to end?

"Shhh, you're doing fine, sweetheart." Afton coos in your ear as he leans over you. He's so tall, it's nothing to him. He plays with your pussy for a moment, slipping a long, nimble finger inside you. His eyes roll back in his head as he tests how tight you are in this position. "Perfect."

William slips inside you, fucking you as if he didn't just screw you senseless not long ago. His large, calloused hand comes down hard on your right ass cheek, and a loud slap echoes through the empty restaurant. You release a cry of pain every time he lands a blow, and he does it a lot. You're fucked out, beaten, bruised, abused- everything.

"Plea-" you beg, but another HARD smack to the ass shuts you up.

"Shut up! I'm so... Fucking..." William slams into you one final time before you feel his cock twitching inside you, filling you up. "Close..."

"No!" You try to kick and fight and do anything in your power to stop him from cumming inside you, but it's entirely too late. You sob loudly as Mike watches in horror. William removes himself from you and his handiwork spills from your swollen entrance. Your weak knees wobble under your weight.

Afton looks at Mike and grins deviously before flipping you over and clasping his powerful hands around your neck. The sound of Mike pleading for your life becomes a dull mumble in the background as you slowly lose consciousness. Once you're out, William readjusts his rolled-up sleeves and lands a hard, knock-out punch on the side of Mike's skull.

He dumps you both in the back alley, unsure if you're both alive or dead. He doesn't care, he just doesn't need you here anymore.

Mike wakes up first, placing a gentle hand on his face and wincing at the pain.

"Y/N? Y/N!" He scrambles over to you and takes you in his lap. You're still naked and you're covered in bruises and scrapes, a testament to how hard you fought and how strong William is. "Please wake up. Please wake up, dude. This isn't funny."

You don't move.

"Please wake up! Wake up, Y/N! Wake up!" He repeats over and over, shaking you and lightly tapping your face with his open hand. Finally, you suck in a big breath. The sound of you inhaling causes Mike to jump, but he quickly pulls you into his embrace, relieved to see you alive.

"Mike..." You groan. He quickly sheds his jacket and wraps it around your crumpled form, hoping to give you some sort of cover. The two of you get into Mike's car and head back to your house. The ride back is mostly silent until he finally speaks.

"Y/N, I- back there, I..." He doesn't know what to say.

"I don't think he would've let us go anyway." You stare out the window in a state of shock, secretly reliving the way William made you feel.

"No- that's not the point. I mean-" Mike struggled with his words yet again.

"Do you think he let us live for a reason?" You finally glance at Mike. It's the first time you've looked at him since he filled your throat with an entire friendship's worth of pent-up feelings.

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter. We're never going back there, I promise." He's attempting to comfort you, but something depraved and demented inside you is already thinking about what he'd do if he got his hands on you again.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

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

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

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

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

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*This chapter would've had the "breaking point," but I don't like to post chapters of more than 4-5000 wordcounts on Tumblr. So the next part will be up in a bit once I fine tune and add to it.

**And to anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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@anyfandomdarkbingo

Card: sarahyellow / sarah-writes-stucky

Square N3: Body Swap

@matchat3a @bethexo07

[dairy-farmer]

Tim getting lobotomised from the villain of the week, now Bruce has to look after him in every way (including sexually). Dick and Jason are sad that Tim's changed at first but slowly they accept it and it brings them back together as a family, Tim seems happier now anyway, watching children's shows, carrying around his plushies, getting fucked, being bathed, why bother trying to fix him when it makes them all happier? (Maybe Bruce even arranged it in the first place to keep him from leaving)

tim becoming permanently injured snaps something among them. because it's one thing being killed, another thing becoming physically and mentally scarred. with tim it's a deliberate act of cruelty designed to extract the most pain from tim's friends and family by forcing them to see what they've taken away from tim.

tim. poor tim. they were too late. it's not until his distress beacon turns on, activated by this new villain that decided to make their name by taking out one of the 'birds' of gotham, that they arrive.

his injuries are minor. some rope burn around his wrists and a cauterized circular scar above tim's eyes where the sick fuck had used a laser to sever tim's prefrontal cortex.

they don't want to believe at first. but the villain had left documentation, scans, taunts to show them how they were a "threat" to be taken seriously. they track him down in a matter of hours, it's the fastest they've ever caught a rogue. they won't go to arkham. it's highly unlikely they will ever even leave a hospital bed for the rest of their lives given the damage jason had done. because unfortunately for that villain, red hood had gotten to their location three minutes before anyone else and that had been more than enough time for him to instill his own personal brand of justice.

they extend every effort they can to fix this. leslie says there's not much she can do. yes she's a doctor but neurology is not her specialty but even without it she knows that...injuries with the brain are very complex and intricate matters. bruce extends every effort. he flies in doctors, specialists, doctors who have been retired for years but had been the best of the best, professors who don't even practice but have done more for the branch of science than anyone else, he gets special permission to visit villains in prison to get consults from them even though it burns the ethics seared into his bones but he can't deny that some of them know their stuff.

in the end its the same. the brain is complex. it's a deeply important organ but so much of it is still an enigma. bruce is given prescriptions for tim, recommendations for therapists for him, told that his support is all he can offer, a few of them even tell him that...that a care home might be the best option for tim if he doesn't feel equipped to deal with someone who is disabled.

at every person who can't help him bruce and the others grow more desperate. they're thinking of consulting magic users but zatanna says that's not their specialty. bruce thinks of consulting that short list of metas the league has of those with healing powers but none are particularly skilled and can only hear minor cuts and breaks. bruce thinks...of the pit...

and stops himself. and in a moment knows he's gone too far because he knows that tim would never want that. he wouldn't want the pit. and so...with a heavy heart bruce calls it off. tells the others to stop their desperate search for a cure or a fix. they have to accept this. tim is still alive, he's still tim. the brother and son they all love so much. and tim might be a little hurt and a little less of himself but that doesn't mean they love him any less.

so they have to try, to try and adjust to how things are now. it's easier than they thought it would be. but also hard in ways they hadn't expected.

tim had a temper sometimes, tim was a grouch in the mornings, tim got angry and always knew what to say to hurt someone, tim was independent, tim was private, tim was funny, tim was rude, tim stood up for himself, tim never hesitated to call them out on their shit.

tim was an incredibly self sufficient person. he was like a plant that could go months without being watered and it wouldn't die. he was resilient. and they didn't realize how much tim was away and absent until they saw him each day to help him. bath him, dress him, feed him.

tim isn't fully helpless. there's some element of cognition he retained given that he still refuses to eat the navy beans that alfred makes for lunch one day. tim has preferences, things he likes and wants and enjoys. it's easy to love tim like this. he's so...simple. so easy to please and make happy and ask for forgiveness.

dick holds and kisses the top of tim's head all afternoon while movie after movie plays and tim doesn't fuss or whine once.

damian finds it easy to endear tim to him by offering little gifts. chocolates, candy, stuffed animals. things that make tim trust him without a second thought and it soothes some hurt indignation inside him that had always simmered because he and tim had never really fallen into that easy relationship once damian had stopped wanting to kill him.

jason...jason finds an ease at being with tim. a simplicity. he'd always harbored some suspicion towards the other. he was...conniving. sneaky. it was just hard to believe his words and not feel like he was being conned or used as some pawn in a bigger scheme because jason wasn't cooperative and when bruce wanted something that's what HE did and everyone said that bruce and tim were so similar...

maybe it's cruel. fucking disgusting even. but...jason likes tim better this way. tim's capacity for trickery has been greatly cut down. jason could ask if tim spoiled his dinner by eating chocolates when he wasn't supposed to and tim would clutch a stuffed hippo close and say he didn't, all while melted chocolate would be smeared on his lips and cheeks. tim is an open book. and with a family full of bats its a breath of fresh air. even alfred isn't fully transparent. with tim there's an honesty between them.

tim is different now. softer, weaker...sweeter.

they get used to him fast. tim requires more careful attention but its nothing they aren't willing to do.

until dick goes to get tim dressed for the day and finds his panties soaked through and tim making soft sounds and pressing his thighs together.

and bruce tells them that tim may have become changed mentally but his body is still very much that of a young adult. that he has needs and desires even if he can't understand them or do anything about them.

and they try to ignore it initially. dick cleans between tim's legs and ignores tim's soft noises and the wet stickiness coating his thighs. they ignore the soft slopes of tim's body, the hard ridges and lines of him having softened from retirement.

tim grows agitated, frustrated, upset. bruce already had tim on birth control because the pain of his period would just confuse and cause him unnecessary pain.

so..jason brings up a possible solution. an idea. there are...toys they can give to tim, things to help him along. tim's clearly in discomfort.

and they do. they try to offer them but tim doesn't understand what to do with them. he gets frustrated, upset.

so...they need to help him. just like how they have to help tim in other ways now they have to help him like this. if that means they help part tim open and press a toy in before turning it on so tim can squirm and writhe on it well, that's just part of the job.

they escalate without realizing it.

sometimes they're out in the garden or on the couch in the sitting room, or in the library and tim gets needy... but they don't want to go all the way to tim's room where they store his toys. so...they just use their fingers. their hands are clean so it should be okay and tim seems to enjoy it so much more. he's curled up close and weakly clutching at their clothes while they press fingers in and gently rub at his front- so they keep doing that until they suddenly they don't use the toys anymore.

damian is the one who gets curious. he's young, he's horny, he's curious- they really should've realized that. and damian after having his fingers dripping and hand drenched with tim's..release. he grows...curious. the smell, the taste...

before he knows it he's using his mouth on tim instead of his fingers and tim just likes it so much better. he gets all sweet and pliant afterwards and damian likes seeing the different reactions so he keeps doing it until dick finds him with his head buried under tim's skirt while tim squirms and whines on the carpet, his hands wrapped tightly around a stuffed giraffe.

damian doesn't get...grounded. but he is reprimanded by dick for allowing tim to lie on the floor which could hurt his back and for making tim's panties messy and not properly cleaning him up.

it progresses. it just does. suddenly dick is gently poking the head of his cock into tim, checking his reactions and whispering assurances and telling tim that dick will make sure this feels good that he wants tim to know what this feels like because he will never have gotten to feel it otherwise.

sex with tim is nice, he's so vocal and doesn't hesitate to express how much he enjoys something which is refreshing. every person dick had ever fucked always tried to retain some kind of dignity or clung to the idea that they needed to pretend like he wasn't good at what he was doing to 'check his ego' or something. tim reaches for him, kissing at his cheeks, and whines so sweetly and breathlessly when dick presses in nice and deep filling up his baby cunt with cock. tim is tight and hot and so pliable and easy to move around into good positions and though dick may have been hesitant at first that changes after the first time he sinks his cock into tim with a thick wet sound.

it's good. it's nice. its addicting fucking tim. pumping their hard cocks into him, watching it disappear into tim's hot little cunt, pressing flush to his puffy lips, gently fondling his baby tits, and fucking him in all different ways until he's clenching hard and going 'ah ah ah' on their cocks while the head is pressed right against the entrance to his womb and their spilling ribbons of warm cum all over his walls.

tim is so much happier after they fuck him. he cooperates better, behaves better, has less tantrums, is more affectionate. its a win win for all of them.

the only rule to it is that they're not allowed to fuck tim through the night.

'you're robbing him of his sleep' bruce scolds them after tim can barely stay awake at breakfast because damian had kept him awake the entire night by fucking him. its the reason tim sleeps in bruce's bed with him at night, so none of them get any ideas and also so bruce can prevent tim from rolling off the bed.

it also means bruce is the first of them to get to fuck tim as soon as he wakes up when his cunt is all warm and wet. bruce enjoys fucking tim's thighs, not quite trusting himself to push in. he's significantly bigger than his sons after all, even jason doesn't try to work in more than half his cock. but tim seems content either way, laying under him, underwear and little shorts pushed down to his knees, shirt pushed up to expose little, pink tits. bruce coats his cock in wetness and fucks the wet seam, listing to the thick wet noises and squishes as tim whines and grinds up against him.

truly tim has never been happier. the family has never been happier, and bruce has never been more content.

he knew when he'd found that new villain's plans during his raid of the office building they worked to track down a different criminal that he'd made the right choice in stepping back. he'd considered how things would turn out and they'd far exceeded his expectations.

sabotaging tim's distress beacon to delay by half an hour once activated was the best decision bruce had ever made. tim had been making to many moves that had bruce tensing, making too much talk of perhaps moving to san francisco permanently.

no. at least this way bruce's family stayed together. and thats all that really mattered in the end.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

“That one time Barnaby broke somebody’s jaw for going a little too far w/ insulting Wally & almost got expelled <3”

Full story please? <3

WITH PLEASURE!

for those who are slightly confused, this is for 'my' modern human au! well. modern-ish!

okay so when they were in freshman year / 9th grade, Barnaby and Wally are soldily Bonded. they are a set, do not separate. they receive a lot of shit for this, because some kids are assholes and that's especially true for 14yr olds. and it's 2006. so Wally and Barnaby get teased/bullied a lot for their closeness. at this point they're kind of used to it. they met early in 7th grade and have been inseparable ever since. most of it slides off of them

but what is Barnaby was having an especially stressful week? one of those weeks were everything is going wrong, nothing is working out. so Barn is at the end of his rope, and then one of the main kids who likes to bother them insults Wally specifically, and badly. like it's some next level So Bad Its Almost Impressive shit. at present Barnaby is walking to his next class with Wally and Poppy. so Barnaby just kind of stops in place, mentally chooses violence, turns, walks up to the kid, and punches him as hard as he can. it knocked the bully out instantly and broke his jaw.

and keep in mind that at this point in time, Barnaby isn't the big strong guy he is later on. he hasn't had his main growth spurt yet. and he still packed enough of a punch to do Damage - which makes him even more intimidating when he Does hit his growth spurt and towers over practically everyone

the pros of this event: Frank and Julie were watching, and Frank respected Barnaby's response so much that he allowed Julie to bring him to hang out with the growing friend group at lunch / asshole kids were less inclined to insult Wally and Barnaby (or his friends) to their faces

cons: Eddie was also watching and was too scared of Barnaby for the rest of their school career to try and talk to him or his friends / Barnaby nearly got expelled but did get suspended, and that's a permanent mark on his record

so the kid goes down, everyone freaks out. Barnaby is still too angry to feel anything other than pissed off vindication. naturally higher Authorities (teachers) come to get the unconscious student to the (i almost said vet) nurse's office, and to bring Barnaby to the principle's office. they call Ms. Beagle and have her come pick him up. Wally has stuck like glue to Barnaby pretty much the whole time, except for when Barnaby was in the office to get chewed out / interrogated. when Ms. Beagle is done w/ her conversation with the principle, she takes Barnaby and Wally home.

there, Barnaby is still worked up, and as "punishment" Ms. Beagle has him do some menial tasks alongside his usual after school chores. Wally tags along, of course, and asks why the hell Barnaby did that. in a nicer Wally way of asking. this is what breaks the camels back. Barnaby just sits down and starts crying, to which Wally is like "oh no. oh fuck. what do i do." cue a solid minute of him just standing and staring in panic before awkwardly sitting next to Barnaby in solidarity.

when they go inside, Ms. Beagle already has Barnaby's favorite dinner whipped up and ready. She gives him a talk where she's essentially says "blah blah blah violence isn't the answer. however, good job for standing up to that kid. he's an asshole and deserved a good wallop." (listen im a firm believer in ms beagle having been a Wild Youth that would have thrown bricks at cops). Moods are lightened, they have a good dinner. The next day or so they need to go have a meeting with the Injured Kid's parents. that's when they find out Barnaby fully broke the kids jaw (he feels a little bad for that) and that the parents are pushing for his expulsion and also juvie. Ms. Beagle manages to whittle down the sentence to a long suspension and then detention for the rest of the year, as well as her paying the kid's hospital bill.

tl;dr Barnaby punches a kid for insulting Wally, gets a new friend out of it, nearly gets expelled, and gains a mostly unfounded Reputation that dissuades most from outright messing with him or his pals

[doberbutts]

As Disability Discourse 2.0 crosses my dash yet again I am left sort of wondering where the line is.

I am physically disabled. I am also neurodivergent. I do not consider myself mentally ill but I know that there are people out there with my exact diagnoses that do consider themselves mentally ill.

I have a brain injury. You can point to it on an MRI. I have the images to prove it. I had to re-teach myself how to speak. Those weird typos I have sometimes? Yeah my brain just reads letters wrong and sometimes spits out the wrong word or tense or grammatical structure sorry, that’s what happens when your brain gets shaken around in your head like a maraca following a serious car accident. I have a permanent tremor in my right hand and arm which results in me being incapable of fine motor control when having a flare. I am photosensitive and relatively intolerant of stress. I knocked an eye loose and was thankfully able to keep it but occasionally need to cover it or else it feels like someone is stabbing me directly in the brain when there is literally any light or movement whatsoever.

Did you know that over 30% of people who survive TBIs debate and even attempt to kill themselves within the first year? It’s still a bit unresearched but many neurologists believe it’s because many survivors have a hard time adjusting to their new normal when it feels like they have lost all control over themselves. I did not get that bad but I had many meltdowns where I would sob uncontrollably because it was all just Too Much, and the knowledge that it would be Too Much, Forever was curse over comfort.

Is that a mental or a physical disability? A part of my brain is damaged, like a scar. It is entirely neurological and mental in its symptoms.

I was diagnosed with a different brain condition, one that affects the autonomic nerve within my brain, causing fainting episodes, out-of-control mast cells, horrific digestive problems, and joints that bend a little too much. Average quality of life after diagnosis is roughly equivalent to someone with end stage heart failure.

A part of my brain is faulty and always has been. It is entirely physical in its symptoms. Is this a mental or physical disability?

My knee hurts. I was knocked off my bike one day on my way home from college. It was a hit-and-run driver and I didn’t have the money or the insurance to do more than slap a brace on it and limp around for several weeks while it healed. Less than a decade later it gave out. I was completely unable to walk for months. I lost my job. I ended up switching careers entirely so I could sit. I walk with a cane. I have to physically drag myself up stairs with my arms and my “good” leg. I spend nights grasping at my knee willing it to stop spasming as I try to get some sleep. I’ve had to beg for painkillers. Surgery will not help it. My knee is Completely Fucked, Forever.

This is a clear physical disability, that much is for sure.

I recently went to see Spiderverse. I warned my friend that it was entirely possible I’d need to duck out at some point because the movie would overwhelm me. I also warned her that I would probably need to immediately rest or go home and would not be able to hang out because I was anticipating it to be Sensory Hell. I went in prepared with my own snacks, tinted glasses to take the edge off the flashing, and even looked away during some of the worst of it.

I needed to duck out after an extended chase scene which featured a lot of flashing lights. I was able to come back and finish the movie. I needed nearly an hour of rest to stop shaking and be safe to drive myself home. I immediately went to bed upon getting home at about 4pm and by the time it was night had a pounding headache and shivers. I knew this would probably happen because the first one was very bad for my brain injury and I’d been pre-warned the second one was worse about it- truly I think it is really those movies’ biggest flaws is that they are very not friendly to people with problems with bright flashing lights.

My knee did not prevent me from entering the building. The theater was wheelchair accessible.

But even with sensory provisions, my brain injury and faulty nerve made it a monumental task to just finish a two and a half hour task of literally just sitting there.

I could go in. Staying was the part that was in question.

[sualne]

Listen as someone who has been obsessed with vampires like my entire life (but not in a ooh there sexy way its like the symbolism man of what vampires can mean) i am a huge fan of your op vanpire au.

I know you just made a post with lore (amazing art btw) but is there anything else about the au you want to talk about. Id love to hear everything

there's a lot of things i want to talk about the au!! im going to use the frantic energy from the year to get myself some bravery and say some of it is inspired by my own experiences with hallucinations and delusion (dont ask about it pls), with the au i want to explore what it would be like having the person who changed you being very literally stuck with you.

i love stories where characters end up sharing a mind and/or body, i also really dont like when its just good person vs bad person, nuance is a lot more fun lol. the relationship luffy and mingo will be forced into stuck as they are is something important to me. mingo is an awful monster but since he can feel everything luffy does he ends up trying to teach him how to live as a vampire, how to take care of himself. im also very found of the concept of parasite (they're literally the worst thing ever and so fucking scary, so naturally they keep coming up in my stories).

it's also about luffy's body and mind failing him, because of the mindlink he has a hard time knowing where he is, sometimes who he is, what is relationships were supposed to be with others, it gets complicated for him! how hard it is to go through one's daily life when your sense are all messed up! (mingo also struggles with that a bit, but this isn't about him, even thought it's new for him too he get used to it much more easily for plot convenience).

other's ppl reaction to the situation also, i feel, completely unconsciously was also incidentally inspired by my own fear of being seen as a monster or dangerous, something to be put down or locked away!

there's also a few jokes in that lore post that reflects this here:

bugs are a pretty common brand of hallucination, be they crawling in the corner of your sight or inside you, making you feel like a walking hives, this was a funny reference to that!

"surprisingly he doesn't start biting people or become violent." this is my not very subtle "mentally ill and neurodivergent folks aren't inherently dangerous pls stop killing us". the occasional euphoria from bloodthist is vaguely inspired by some manic episode, the happy kind.

there's more, about the way this is about trauma and feeling alienated, i guess this is also a "character realize they've got a disorder/develop one and now has to live with it" kind of story.

[rageprufrock]

Hi Pru, this is a career question... I am in my mid-twenties, female, not quite the most junior employee at my organization but treated often as one. The workplace is highly male-dominated, competitive, the older supervisors sometimes hilariously old-boys'-club, and the younger men (my age) mean well (feminist, etc.) but have their own territories to defend. For complicated reasons I cannot leave. I knew some of this coming in but am ashamed to say that

You’ll love this: my response is so late because I too girlbossed too close to the sun and have accidentally reached mid-senior leadership status at my organization and the past month has been the most hilarious cluster of fucks. Insert clown emoji herey.

ANYWAY.

I have a few thoughts on this one, and hopefully one, or some, of these are helpful as you're navigating your early career.

To address your most immediate question: is it meant to be this hard? I think "is it meant" or "is it always" are two different questions, and each with branching answers completely dependent on your field and profession. Some are notorious for early career hazing--banking, medicine, etc--and then the answers are that the suffering is a feature, not a bug, for these industries (this can be debated ad nauseum but you know what I mean), and then for many, many other professions, the answer is that while it's not meant to be this difficult, it still is, and that it's all we can do to survive it.

But setting aside the macro issues, of whether the role itself is objectively hard or if the environment you're in is objectively sub-optimal, the more nebulous and inescapable thing is that each one of us, individually, in our early career are undergoing one of many puberties and all its attendant implied indignities. I find it weird that culturally we don't talk about this much--at least not in Western or the Eastern cultures with which I'm most conversational--but think about it: in the first five to ten years of your working life, you're often simultaneously navigating a staggering number of life-changing systemic shifts that have a tectonic impact on your lived experience. I

For a lot of us, beginning your life as a working adult means you're likely moving out of your parents' home, which adds a huge amount to your mental load and financial burden.

For a lot of us, these early professional jobs are also the first time we're operating in a performance-reward system for which there is no clear rubric or understandable progression monitoring--there aren't any grades, and I can't tell you the number of people who I've spoken to in my career who have been shocked when they're told they're being put on performance improvement plans even though they thought they were doing fine.

It's like being sent to college with no class list, textbooks hidden in eight different departments run by varyingly helpful people, while trapped in an inescapable group project run by someone who seems just as frazzled as you are, and told "okay well you should need to bring me your completed degree by EOD Thursday." This doesn't even take into account your genetic assignment to play this entire game on hard mode by failing to be a cisgendered man in the dominant cultural demographic.

People who've had multiple jobs and career changes can attest, every new job, no matter how seasoned you are, is fucking exhausting. It's almost a joke among my friends at this point how often I change jobs, and every single time I do, there's at least a six month run where at the end of every day, I'm fucking spent. I couldn't calculate 1+3 if my life depended on it, because I've spent my working day so furiously trying to read the professional tea leaves and figuring out what the actual fuck I'm supposed to be doing--which, funnily enough, is never as clear as you would think! Even if you are at increasingly senior levels of responsibility! It's really fun and good! Your boss's boss's leadership team meetings? Surprisingly similar to when I used go get coffee during my break working at an ice cream shop to complain about our customers and equipment and boss! It's amazing how no matter how much changes, everything stays the same!

So I think in the end, my answer to your question is this:

Is it meant to be this hard? Depending on what you do, maybe.

But should it be this hard? Of course not. Life is short and lush and wonderful, but already so filled with challenges, and it's a shame that being rooted in capitalism, we're all forced to participate in a system that's so unbending and unforgiving.

But does that mean it's going to be forever? Or that you can't survive and thrive and have fun in the process? Absolutely not.

However awful you feel, however bad the job is, it doesn't have to be forever. This role you're in now may be just what you need to find your next, better, better paid opportunity. And maybe that one won't be the ideal for more than a year, maybe two, but that's why you keep an eye out and a keen focus on what you want, and what's most important, and like a shark, you continue to move and grow as you get clearer on where you want to move and how you want to grow. The person I was at 24 could not have imagined the person I am at 38, and I'm guessing that the woman I am today can't fathom who I'll be in another 10 years. Whoever she is, I hope she's still choosing to do hard things and--to the very best of her ability--having a good time in the process.

It's okay to cry about work. It's okay to cry at work, even though I strongly recommend that you do this huddled in a restroom in privacy because otherwise it gets messy--fairly or otherwise. It's okay and normal to do these things. It's okay and normal to feel like a fucking disaster, to feel--or to in actuality!--be categorically failing. It is okay and normal to hate and love your job, and to love money and hate the work. There is no right way to do this, and the only wrong way is to give up on yourself, or to create a situation where you cannot have the freedom of your choices or your future.

It's also going to get easier with time. Even if you don't feel it, every day you're getting more experienced, more confident, more discerning. Those microscopic, atomic changes in you accrue, and I'm sure if you're honest with yourself you can already identify how even today, you are a stronger, more capable person in your professional context than you may have been just a year or two ago. Even if you don't mean to do it, just the experience, the bruises, the callouses from throwing yourself at the brick wall over time will rewrite the person you are--if you do this with your eyes open and intentionally, all the better.

Five years from now, ten years from now, you might still find yourself crying about work. But hopefully you'll share the good fortune I have been privileged enough to have, and find yourself the type of good friends who say, "don't care during work hours, it's beneath you to give them the satisfaction--cry later," and actually have the wherewithal to follow that extremely correct guidance.

So anyway, it shouldn't be this hard, but it is. The good thing is, you're better and stronger than it is, and you can look forward to the day you get to look over the shoulder at all the worlds you've conquered as you get ready to do it all over again.

💖

[aspd-culture]

I apologize, i know this is a “culture is” blog but i was wondering if you had any tips on unmasking? Its a huge struggle for me and its effecting my treatment and mental health severely.

This culture is blog definitely is in massive part a place to ask and answer questions too, no worries at all!/gen

The biggest thing for me that helped was first working on the masked piece that told me I was supposed to give a fuck about what people thought of me. I learned that manually over a long period of time, having next to no sense of embarrassment as a child and early teen. I found that once I got back to "I really don't give a fuck if you like me or think I'm a shit person or what, and if you think I should be constantly putting on some act for you, then you're an exhausting person and I'm glad to see you leave my life so bye", the rest of unmasking has come easier.

The second biggest thing builds on this; making sure you're not filling your life, especially your personal relationships which are supposed to be caring, supportive, and filling your battery vs draining it, with people you can't unmask around. Massive red flag if they can't get past the easy symptoms like flat affect and need for emotions being clearly communicated after a conversation or two and maybe some reassurance if they are more sensitive or have Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. If the people you value push you to hide your disorder, you will no matter how hard you try not to. ASPD makes us cling tighter to bad people sometimes, because we know that we hate the social dance of trying to find someone else even remotely trustworthy, let alone that we can tolerate spending time around. This goes 10x for any Exceptions.

The third is letting yourself get a little angry. You shouldn't be spending your energy trying to hide symptoms you never asked for and that hurt you more than anyone else. This disorder doesn't show up without the failure of *at minimum* a few adults in your life for many years without resolving it. If they don't like you being like this, then maybe they should have done their job. It isn't your job to hide their mistakes. It isn't your job to hide their *failure* to do a simple job of keeping a kid safe and secure. If you look up the percentage of needs being met that leads to a secure attachment style (which ASPD is not compatible with), you probably will find the getting mad portion of unmasking pretty easy. The bar was in hell and the majority of the adults supposed to take care of you in your childhood played limbo. That's worth being upset about.

To be clear, this isn't the go ahead or encouragement to get violent, abusive, or destructive, but if your symptoms are inconveniencing someone vs hurting them, then fuck it. You deserve to breathe and just *be* sometimes instead of starring in Normal Person, Director's Cut all day every day.

Once I got those things under my belt, most of the rest of unmasking for me has just been reminding myself that I will burn out if I keep making myself fit in a box that does not fit me. It was not my choice to end up a square while everyone else is a circle, and no matter how much it might bug anyone, that won't make a square fit through the circle hole.

Just in case no one else in your life says this to you, I will. You deserve at least some amount of time - and while sleeping does *not* count - without the mask at least some of every day (with maybe exceptions for like the occasional holiday with family or work trip or anniversary or something) without masking. There are plenty of symptoms of this disorder that do not cause harm to anyone, they just don't like it because they aren't used to it (for example flat affect) or because it causes them to have to put some effort in (for example, needing to communicate their emotions vs playing a bs game of Guess Who? with the clues read in a language you don't understand). Those symptoms can and should be unmasked sometimes.

Plain text below the cut:

This culture is blog definitely is in massive part a place to ask and answer questions too, no worries at all!/gen

The biggest thing for me that helped was first working on the masked piece that told me I was supposed to give a fuck about what people thought of me. I learned that manually over a long period of time, having next to no sense of embarrassment as a child and early teen. I found that once I got back to "I really don't give a fuck if you like me or think I'm a shit person or what, and if you think I should be constantly putting on some act for you, then you're an exhausting person and I'm glad to see you leave my life so bye", the rest of unmasking has come easier.

The second biggest thing builds on this; making sure you're not filling your life, especially your personal relationships which are supposed to be caring, supportive, and filling your battery vs draining it, with people you can't unmask around. Massive red flag if they can't get past the easy symptoms like flat affect and need for emotions being clearly communicated after a conversation or two and maybe some reassurance if they are more sensitive or have Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. If the people you value push you to hide your disorder, you will no matter how hard you try not to. ASPD makes us cling tighter to bad people sometimes, because we know that we hate the social dance of trying to find someone else even remotely trustworthy, let alone that we can tolerate spending time around. This goes 10x for any Exceptions.

The third is letting yourself get a little angry. You shouldn't be spending your energy trying to hide symptoms you never asked for and that hurt you more than anyone else. This disorder doesn't show up without the failure of *at minimum* a few adults in your life for many years without resolving it. If they don't like you being like this, then maybe they should have done their job. It isn't your job to hide their mistakes. It isn't your job to hide their *failure* to do a simple job of keeping a kid safe and secure. If you look up the percentage of needs being met that leads to a secure attachment style (which ASPD is not compatible with), you probably will find the getting mad portion of unmasking pretty easy. The bar was in hell and the majority of the adults supposed to take care of you in your childhood played limbo. That's worth being upset about.

To be clear, this isn't the go ahead or encouragement to get violent, abusive, or destructive, but if your symptoms are inconveniencing someone vs hurting them, then fuck it. You deserve to breathe and just *be* sometimes instead of starring in Normal Person, Director's Cut all day every day.

Once I got those things under my belt, most of the rest of unmasking for me has just been reminding myself that I will burn out if I keep making myself fit in a box that does not fit me. It was not my choice to end up a square while everyone else is a circle, and no matter how much it might bug anyone, that won't make a square fit through the circle hole.

Just in case no one else in your life says this to you, I will. You deserve at least some amount of time - and while sleeping does *not* count - without the mask at least some of every day (with maybe exceptions for like the occasional holiday with family or work trip or anniversary or something) without masking. There are plenty of symptoms of this disorder that do not cause harm to anyone, they just don't like it because they aren't used to it (for example flat affect) or because it causes them to have to put some effort in (for example, needing to communicate their emotions vs playing a bs game of Guess Who? with the clues read in a language you don't understand). Those symptoms can and should be unmasked sometimes.

[ghostkennedy]

One Foot Here, One Foot Out the Door

~Leon Kennedy angst~

Word count: 854

Content warnings: PTSD, mental illness, gun use, suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation, near suicide attempt, self-destructive behaviors, Leon is depressed and contemplating suicide. No comfort, no happy ending, just pure sadness.

I've been having a hard time lately with the battles inside my own head, so I wanted to write about the part of Leon that most resonates with me. The one foot here, one foot out the door feeling. Teetering on the edge of the end. I've barely scratched the surface here, but it felt nice to release these feelings from inside of me.

!!!!!SUICIDE IS NEVER THE ANSWER. REACH OUT TO SOMEBODY, NEVER SUFFER SILENTLY!!!!!!

~masterlist~ for those who don't wish to proceed with this piece

Why are any of us even born at all? Brought into a world where pain and suffering is the primary universal experience.

He looks at an old lady pushing her grocery cart, knowing she’s experienced pains he’ll never be able to comprehend. He sees a newborn baby and knows there’s nothing at all anyone can do to prevent them from enduring countless heartbreaks and devastation. He looks in the mirror and sees the shell of a man he once was. Or maybe he doesn’t recognize the face staring back at him at all.

He’s merely the solution of an equation made up of trauma, ache, and dread. 

So that begs the question, why the fuck were we even born at all?

Graced with a life that we beg any higher deity to take away. Take it back, take it all back. Why must we be forced to exist? He never should’ve existed at all.

Projecting his own damage as the general consensus to aid in an endless loneliness that no company could ever fill. Emptiness. How can one person feel so empty and so full of disgusting emotions at the same time? 

Countless people tell him he’s worthy of a better life. That he deserves so much better, that there’s better out there for him. But no one ever offers a solution. It’s just words they tell him to make themselves feel like they did something for him. 

If one day he loses the battle between himself and his own brain, they can say that they tried to help him. They were there for him. They took care of him. They can’t believe that this has happened.

They didn’t do a fucking thing. Thank you, sincerely, for your meaningless phrases that went in one ear and out the other. Empty words that he tossed away. Meanwhile, the words inside his own brain telling him the world would be better off without him dug their claws deeper and deeper into this godforsaken soul.

This soul that couldn’t have possibly been designed to endure such bullshit.

If everything happens for a reason, he’s sure that the reason is to see what will be the final nail in his coffin. Each day is harder. The years pass and traumatic event after traumatic event after traumatic fucking event just keeps happening to him. What will it finally take for him to fall apart completely and give himself away completely?

He wishes he could summarize it so simply. He could proclaim that the darkness has him in its grip, but that wouldn’t do it justice. Maybe he’s become the darkness. Maybe any light left inside of him has burnt out and now he’s left with only the nothingness within him.

If he had a choice, maybe he would feel better. He’d tell himself that he does it because he helps people. But that’s just more bullshit.

He’s never had a choice. He’s always been expected to put everything above himself, who gives a fuck what happens to him? Another statistic? A plus one to the casualty count? He’ll destroy himself until one day, that’s all he is.

If he thinks about how much light he used to hold inside of himself when he was younger, he’s filled with a blinding rage. The hopes and dreams he’s long lost and buried. 

How is one person expected to mourn themselves while still fucking breathing?

He’s not himself anymore. The Leon he once knew, maybe even the one he was meant to be, is gone. And there’s nothing he could ever do to bring him back. 

No matter how much he tries to numb himself, to detach himself and just go through the motions, the depression and anxiety always creeps up. It’s the only consistent thing in his life, and it’s not much to cling to, is it?

And as hard as it is to admit it, he truly wants it all to end. 

Maybe not by his own hand. Maybe not intentionally. No, he’s a coward. Too cowardly to take that final step that he so desperately craves.

His daydreams have become a grim vision of what it would be like if a mission went wrong. If something out of his control finally ended his life. 

Perhaps he’s become careless. Acting despite the possible consequences. Because if something finally clipped that last thread tying him to our world, would that really be so bad? Is that really “worst case scenario”? 

He’s no hero. He’s a fucking fool. A fool who at the root of it all, should’ve never existed at all.

The only comfort he finds is in the fact that one day he will cease to exist and there will be no one left on earth who remembers Leon Kennedy. The pain and suffering he’s seen will die with him.

But unfortunately, today is not that day. Today isn’t the start of the world after Leon Kennedy.

“Fucking coward,” he whispers to his reflection as he clicks the safety back into place. He lowers the gun from his temple and smashes it against the bathroom sink with a loud clang.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hey. i love you. and i would listen to you any fucking time. don't let the worst day of your life be the last. -hannah

[cowboyjen68]

hi jen, i just followed you and this is really random but ive seen some of your posts helping younger people and it really struck a cord and i need to just let the words fall out of me.

ive been having issues with my girlfriend she cheated on me but this situation is very complicated and we're both fucked up people but i know she still loves me and i really love her. but my anxiety and our lack of communication is really bad right now and im so worried she might not love me the same anymore

ontop of this im 18 and for the past id say 5ish years my mental health and family life has been getting worse, getting diagnosis is hard especially with mentally ill and just overall bad parents that somehow dont understand or believe. i know im deppresed and have been i have anxiety, sever paranoia maybe bpd and bipolar and autism and everything is just so much. now the one person i had is something thats making everything hurt more and i just don't know where to go, im trying to get help but its so slow in this country and i feel so lost and tired i barely eat now and when i do its ether rare or unhealthy and everything is so much i want to collapse.

i hope this isn't to much to randomly send anonymously but you just seem really kind and helpful. thank u for your reply if you do

HI and please accept my apologies for the delay on answering this. I am sorry you are going through so much. My kids are adopted from foster care and I had many kids in my home for up to 5 years who eventually went back home. That is to say I have a lot of experience with mental illness, the systems that treat them, trauma and kids who came from unstable home lives.

At the ripe old age of 18 you have plenty of time to find love and contentment but right now might not be the time. I understand there might be odd circumstances that caused your girlfriend to cheat on you. If you feel betrayed and lost trust that is a feeling that is next to impossible to overcome for people with no comorbidities let alone a teen trying to figure herself out and deal with navigating the broken mental health/care system.

It is actually quite normal for young love to change and get redefined into friendship even when the circumstance are the best. Her cheating on you might very well be a sign that your relationship is in flux and not what you thought it was. A romance that has run its course is not a failure, relationships do not have to last forever to be important and real and worth having had.

It might be scary to think of not being with her, of not having your "one" person that you can count on but I do believe you can get farther working on yourself if you put time and energy into you and not dividing it up between you and her.

There is a lot of precedent set for women to set aside their romance and intimacy in order to be just friends while one or both does some work on herself. Sometimes it is necessary to stay involved for emotional support or financial support, that is just the reality of our world. Living single can be very difficult.

Please consider letting go of the relationship in its current form and putting your energy of yourself. Letting go of the stress of trying to repair what you had with her will remove so much pressure from you and from her that you will feel much more ready to tackle your mental state.

I promise. You are not a failure, she is not "the bad guy" in this story. Take all the wonderful things you shared with her keep those with you when you want a reminder that it loving her was worth your time even if it didn't end like you planned.

Seek mental health help but starting small. A therapist can help you begin to talk through things and often she can help you find additional resources like a medical Dr, public subsidies for insurance or free clinics to assist you in getting medication and mental health support. Most counties have a social services office and those employees are a wealth of information.

[system-of-a-feather]

Man finally got around to watching the "Mr. Monk's Last Case" that I've been meaning to watch since it came out and I always forget just how relatable Monk is to me and how it really just hits home a bit too much how Monk lives and views himself

Like I'm sure a lot of people read the show like its a "haha OCD so funny" gag and I know some people get really mad because "OCD is treated like the butt end of the joke and no one with OCD is actually like that" but it really never felt that way to me as someone who has OCD - particularly because I cope with it the same way.

I totally understand the people that do not relate to it, OCD has a wide way of presentation and an even wider way of coping with it and that is not taking into account co-morbidities, the one in particularly that I think is most important when judging Monk - is C-PTSD and the MAIN one, while not directly mentioned, autism.

Cause the way they DO handle Monk's mental health, both in the original series (which I've watched at least 5 times over in my life) and the newest movie, while silly and haha at times, has always been so realistically done to me that it unironically is the only show or series or movie or game that had nearly made me physically cry because when it DOES get real into Monk's mental health, it gets pretty real, arguably too real.

I think if you are to talk about it as JUST OCD and treat this as "media representation of the average individual with OCD", people are right to say that its not good because I agree, Monk isn't the average individual with OCD and it does play into harmful stereotypes and generalizations of OCD. Monk is advertised as that a lot, so that advertising I disagree with. But if you actually watch the show, the show does little to hide that he has co-morbidity with PTSD / C-PTSD and while they don't outright say it, he is obviously autistic.

And as someone who's dad is has C-PTSD, Autism, and OCD and as someone who ALSO has C-PTSD, Autism, and OCD.... It's really really really fucking accurate and hits home. Something my mom, who lived with THREE people with that matching set of co-morbidities, loves and agrees is super relatable to how it was like living in our house.

And that is where it really gets me when people say "its a bad representation of OCD! OCD doesn't looks like that" cause... yeah it does, for at least three people I know with OCD. Are we a specific minority within the group of OCD? Probably, but we still have OCD.

I dunno man, episodes with Monk's mental health being talked about gets me in ways few things do and I will die on the hill that Monk's shit is very well done and accurate albeit to a specific subset of people with OCD.

And also on the point of it "being the butt of the joke"...

For me, my OCD and literally all my mental health conditions are often used as the butt end of the joke. And I'm not saying that people are wrong for being upset, but chronic mental illness symptoms after you get really used to them and adapt your life to them and just embrace your unique way of living.... it's kind of hard to not find a lot of the quirks in light humor?

Like my fiance always said it about his year with severe Chrons "at a certain point when you are in the hospital having shit come out both ends, you just have to laugh at it cause thats funny shit right there."

I don't think I would have survived recovery with any of my mental health disorders if I didn't take some of the quirks that came out of my adapted life style to be funny and love them anyways.

As long as there is a balance between "this is a serious thing that gets in the way of a persons life" which they DO do very well in Monk, I see very little issue at exploring the kinda funny things living with a chronic mental health condition does.

[gunmetal-ring]

anon again. i'm sorry that i keep coming to you with this depressing messages but you seem like one of the few sane ppl in this fandom and i appreciate your honesty.

truth is im feeling really disillusioned with hellcheer lately. we don't have a lot of "canon" content so after a while, it gets tiring going thru the same 2 scenes over and over again (especially when one of them involves chrissy's death). ive been relying on fandom but it seems like it's slowed down. fics arent updated as frequently, not a lot of new artwork.

heck, even joe and grace have moved on. joe's career is taking off. grace is leaving acting. it just feels like everything that happened last summer has come to an end :(

Aw anon thats okay. Ty for thinking of my feelings though 💓 (and also im flattered that you think im sane lmao)

Unfortunately its the way things go, especially with small ships, especially especially in a fandom as hostile as this one is. People come together and build community and share their love for characters and then g(r)o(w) their separate ways again.

But not everybody does! You and me, for example. And ive got plenty of hellcheer mutuals that seem perfectly content to draw, write, and rb their little hearts out.

I for one am absolutely astounded that theres even a fandom for hellcheer, let alone one with such talent and breadth and depth of love! Our characters had 2 scenes. Our girl was killed just as it all began. Our boy died with her name on his lips. In all likelihood we will never see them together on our screens again.

But somehow. Those ~10 minutes managed to foster an entire community of people and keep us engaged and in love w the characters for almost a year at this point! With no dangling promises or false hope or anything! Like we all know the score and we still go hard for hellcheer. Incredible.

Idk maybe it's just bc ive only had brainworms like this for 2 other ships and 1 of them is even smaller and the other one is a clusterfuck of unimaginable proportions, so im a little biased in terms of community/fandom, but im just like... idk. I think its really incredible thats all. And a testament to the very real power and truth of hellcheer 🥰

All i can say anon is that the best way to keep a fandom/ship going is engagement. Likes on tumblr and kudos on ao3 are great. But whats even better and more motivating (and i say this as a fic writer/meme shitposter so im speaking the total truth lol) is reblogs and comments. Tell people how much you love their work and how much it means to you, it goes a very long way. And on the flip side of that - stay out of the infighting. All it does is sap your mental energy and the fandom infighting bullshit is a major contributor to why people leave. The negativity and bitterness warp your perspective and make it really hard to remember what we're here for - it's not anti-st*ddie or anti-qu*nn stans or anti-anti-hellcheer or what the fuck ever. We're here for hellcheer!

Sorry my $0.02 is now $2.00 bc i ramble lol its a fatal flaw of mine. Anyway im sorry if this is annoyingly positive or dismissive but im in a strangely upbeat mood rn so there you have it