#Someone asked to tag for people that have it blocked

[purlturtle]

Any DNI I've ever seen wants to do one or both of these:

assholes don't interact

people outside the target group don't interact

The thing is, DNIs don't do that. Because you can't *make* someone not interact with your post; as soon as it is out there on Tumblr, a DNI in and of itself won't stop people.

If someone really does not interact with your post because of it, it is *because they choose to do so*, not because your DNI made them. What your DNI does is *ask*. It does not *prevent*. Anyone can still come across your post and read your DNI, and then *they* will have the *choice* of whether or not they heed it.

You don't weed out assholes that way, I can tell you that.

As for target groups? Tags do that much better, as do the labels Tumblr offers, or the option to turn off reblogs or replies. Yes, I know that there are people trawling tags that are "not for them" but, as OP says, how do you know? You can't, that's how. You won't even *know*, unless, guess what, they interact with your post. In which case you block them and move on; your DNI will have had nothing to do with that whatsoever.

"But minors! My posts are NSFW/18+!" And kids have never and will never lie about their age? Tag your posts correctly, use Tumblr's "mature" label, put stuff under a readmore. Anyone who absolutely does not want to see NSFW/18+ stuff can filter posts with those tags/that label, whether they're a minor or not.

"But labels and tags only work if the other person has them filtered!" Annnnnd your DNI does better at that how? No, seriously, how?

"But I don't want them to even look at it!" Because what, their eyes have cooties? Tough luck. As I said, as soon as yout post is out there, you have ZERO control about who sees it and what they do with it. "I don't want x demographic to fap on my pictures" ayyy do I have news for you about pictures posted on the internet. I'm sorry, but the only way to prevent that is to NOT POST. A DNI is about as helpful here as your Santa's wish list.

So you see, your DNI really doesn't work the way you want it to. What it *does* do, however, is exactly what OP describes: alienate the (many!!) people in the demographic(s) you named who are *not* assholes. And we don't need to go over how "member of x demographic" does not automatically equate "asshole", do we? Please tell me we don't.

look I've harped on this before but I think it's worth doing again. if you put "cis men dni" you are forcing trans men to out themselves to interact with you and that's shitty. you're also making eggs and closeted transfems feel worse about themselves and making the distance between womanhood/femininity and themselves feel that much wider and unassailable. (source: me) you're ALSO making recently out/early stages of transition/just very insecure trans women feel like shit, and probably desperately consider what the difference is between themselves and men, and they likely won't interact with you either. (source: me again) also yk what I get it kind of if ur making sapphic posts or whatever but sometimes it just isn't necessary. sometimes it genuinely is just shitty to cis men too and it promotes a weird ass culture of bioessentialism. just. you're showing a message. and it's maybe not the one you think you are, or the one you want.

[youthereader]

Be the Thing I Want part 2

pairing: joel miller (the last of us) x femsexworker!reader

summary: 3.3k words. Your body still trades well when you move to Jackson. Though ostracized by the majority of the town, you find an ally in Joel Miller.

rating: E for sexual content, rough piv sex, angst, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Joel is in his 60s), come on face, dirty talk, degradation

a/n: non-beta’d; all mistakes are my own. thank you for your enthusiasm so far! I've tagged everyone who was interested in a second chapter. 🥰

part 1.

You don’t see him for three days.

Not that you’re counting. Not exactly. But you know what absence feels like. You know how the silence rearranges itself when someone’s supposed to come back and doesn’t.

You don’t wait. You eat.

There’s food in the house now. It’s more than you’re used to. Rations folded in cloth, traded for favors or maybe left by someone who doesn’t want to be known. You don’t ask. You don’t thank.

You eat slowly. You boil oats and stir in a corner of powdered milk. Toast stale bread on the stove, scrape it with garlic. You save a few pieces of dried apple like it’s candy.

The cold doesn’t bite as hard when your belly’s full.

The quiet doesn’t sting as much, either.

Clients start to come back. One by one, like the thaw. The wiry man with the crooked teeth comes first. Then a boy no older than nineteen with shaking hands and too many apologies. They leave cards or old tins, sometimes nothing but matches.

You don’t pretend it means anything.

But the door gets easier to open.

And the town—the town seems to back off a little.

You catch fewer stares. Hear fewer whispers. No more spit on the steps, no more broken bottles. It’s not kindness, but it’s distance. And that’s something.

You still keep to yourself. Still walk with your hood up, still sleep in your coat. Still hear the wind like it’s warning you of something.

But the warnings feel softer now.

You walk to the depot and no one blocks your path. A man nods to you once, and though his face turns sour right after, it still feels like something broke open.

You wonder if Joel had something to do with it.

You wonder if he said your name.

Or if they just figured out that even broken things have uses.

You sit on your porch that evening, legs wrapped in a blanket, and eat the last of the dried apple with your fingers. It's soft, sticky, and sweet.

You don’t think about the night he came inside. You don’t think about the way he held your hip like it hurt him to let go. You don’t think about how quiet he was when he left.

You don’t think about him at all.

Until the next morning, when you step outside and find a piece of split firewood resting on your stoop. Just the one. No note, no trail.

You bring it inside anyway. You place it beside the stove and you wait. Not because you have to.

Just because there’s still space where he should be.

You start turning people away.

Not because you’re overwhelmed—just full. More clients come in three days than you saw in the last three weeks. Some leave candles. Others bring salt. One offers firewood, and you almost laugh. Almost.

It’s not respect. You’re not naive. It’s hunger. It’s cold. It’s need.

They come because you’re still here.

You learn again how to hold your body like an answer.

You learn how to make them think it doesn’t touch you.

In the quiet, afterward, you find yourself looking at the window. Listening for boots on the steps. Wondering if it’s him. It never is.

-

You walk into town for flour. Just enough for flatbread, maybe. You count your cards twice before leaving, scarf tight around your jaw, hood low.

The street’s quieter than usual. The wind has teeth again. You pass a group of men loading hay near the stables. One of them - tall, with a birthmark on his neck - lowers his voice just enough to make it feel worse.

“—the whore one?”

He doesn’t laugh.

It’s not said cruelly. Only flat, as if he doesn’t know what else to call you.

You were already walking past. You weren’t supposed to hear, but someone else does.

“Hey.” It’s sharp, fast. “Shut the fuck up.”

You turn.

It’s Ellie.

She’s standing beside a crate, arms crossed tight across her chest, face hard as stone. The man blinks, taken off-guard.

“I didn’t mean it like—” he starts.

“I don’t give a shit how you meant it.” Her voice is low, cold. “Just shut up.”

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t want to see what her face looks like when she looks at you.

Later, sitting on your porch, with a bag of flour unopened beside you, you think about her voice. The anger in it. Not righteous, not noble—only sharp. Protective, maybe.

You think: She knows.

You think: He told her.

You think about how close her age is to yours. Not in numbers, maybe. But in weight. In the way you both carry things you don’t talk about. You're not that much older. Not really.

And Joel—he could be your father. Or hers.

You stare at the sky until your eyes sting from it. Until the weight of everything you’ve let him take starts to feel like more than you can hold.

You think: He didn’t kiss me.

You think: That’s what makes it worse.

You think: Maybe I should’ve let him.

You don’t cry. You haven’t in a long time.

-

It’s near dark when he knocks.

Just two raps this time. Much quieter than the last. Like maybe he doesn’t want to wake anyone, unsure if he should be here.

You don’t rush to the door. Your hands are steady by the time you reach it.

You open it.

He stands there, same jacket, same tired eyes. A cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand. He shifts his weight like it hurts to hold your gaze.

“Hey,” he says.

You don’t answer.

He nods, like that’s fair.

Then, quieter: “Can I come in?”

You step back and let him in.

He doesn’t go far. Just inside the threshold, like last time. The air between you is colder than it was before. But he’s not. His eyes flick to your face, your mouth, and then down.

You watch his throat work.

“I brought something,” he says, lifting the cloth in his hand.

You take it but don’t unwrap it yet. You don’t need to.

“You want the same as last time?” you ask, and your voice is steadier than you feel.

Joel’s mouth twitches. Almost like he wants to say no. But he doesn’t.

He just nods, so you undress. He watches. He always watches.

You pull your pants off, leave your shirt on, like before.

But something’s different this time. In him.

When he touches you, it’s slow. Careful. Reverent, almost. His fingers brush your thigh, your hip, your waist—like he’s making sure you’re still real.

You turn around, bracing on the table like last time. You wait.

He doesn’t move, not yet.

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s staring at you like he’s forgotten what to do with his hands.

“Joel,” you say, and you don’t mean to say his name but it leaves your mouth anyway. “It’s alright.”

That breaks it. He steps forward. Unfastens his belt. Takes himself in hand.

The first push is slow. The next isn’t.

He fucks you harder than before.

He grips your hips like he’s angry at something—at himself, maybe. At you. At the way your body opens so easily for him. At the sound you make when he slams in deep.

You cry out. Not loud. Not desperate. You’re just honest.

He grunts behind you, hand sliding up your back, then into your hair.

“You take it so good,” he murmurs, voice rough and broken. “Fuck.”

You tighten around him.

He pulls out suddenly, hot breath shaking.

You drop to your knees.

He doesn’t have to ask.

He fists your hair but not cruelly, holds you steady, finishes with a groan that shudders through his whole body.

Hot, wet, on your face.

You blink it away, chest rising, lips parted.

He reaches for something—maybe the cloth, maybe his sleeve.

You shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

Joel stares.

You wipe your own mouth.

He leaves again without a word.

And still—you don’t close the door right away.

-

He’s back the next night.

No knock this time.

Just the door creaking open, quiet and certain. You don’t startle. You don’t speak. You’re sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, chewing a sliver of dried meat like it’s paper.

Joel steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

He doesn’t ask.

He crosses the room, pulls you up by the arm, and presses you against the wall with one hand flat to your chest. The other comes up—slow, deliberate—curling fingers around your throat.

You don’t flinch. You smile.

“Careful,” you whisper, catching his wrist. “You sure you want to strangle me?”

His eyes are dark, unreadable. His grip tightens—not enough to choke, just enough to hold.

“No,” he says roughly. “I want to fuck you quiet.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t undress you. Just yanks your pants down, rough and fast, makes you step out of them while he works his belt open. He turns you toward the wall and pushes inside with no warning, no mercy.

You gasp.

He sets a rhythm fast—deep, brutal, punishing. His fingers find your throat again, holding—not hurting, but reminding.

You grind back into him, greedy for every inch.

“Filthy girl,” he mutters. “You want it like this?”

You nod, barely able to breathe. “Yes.”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit. You cry out when he circles it, even harder when he slows just to deny you.

You dig your nails into the wall.

“Say it,” he growls in your ear.

“That I want you?”

“That you need it like this.”

You don’t hesitate.

“I need it,” you breathe. “I need it hard—I need you.”

Joel groans, slams in deeper. You feel him come seconds later, buried deep. His weight against your back, his breath loud in your ear.

He stays there for a beat, then pulls out and steps away.

You slide down the wall, panting.

He tosses a cloth-wrapped bundle beside you on the floor. Ration cards. Another bar of chocolate.

You blink at it.

“Sweet tooth?” you ask, voice cracked.

He doesn’t answer. He gives you one last look before turning and leaving as quickly as he came.

The door shuts behind him.

You wait for the sound of his boots fading. Then unwrap the chocolate with shaking fingers, tearing through the paper like it might disappear if you don’t eat it fast enough.

You bite down hard.

It melts across your tongue—rich and bitter and almost too much.

You moan, just once. A different kind of pleasure.

Then pull the blanket tighter and eat the whole thing, crouched on the floor like a starving thing that’s forgotten what it means to be fed gently.

-

You open the door before he can knock.

He looks startled. Just for a second. Then his eyes settle into something heavier. Like he knew this was coming.

You lean against the frame, arms crossed. You don’t move aside to let him in.

“You here to use me again?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You tilt your head. “It’s fine if you are. I don’t mind being the thing you take it out on.” You pause. Let the silence build. “But it always costs, Joel.”

That lands. You see it in the way his mouth pulls tight, how he shifts his weight like guilt’s made his boots heavier.

He steps forward, almost in, but you don’t move.

“You mad?” he asks, voice low.

You scoff. “Why would I be mad? I got fed. I got fucked. Not a bad deal.”

His jaw ticks.

“Did you even come?” he mutters. “Or were you just—”

You step closer, enough that your breath hits his collar. “You know I did.”

He doesn’t deny it.

His eyes stay locked on your face. His hand comes up like he might touch you, but he lets it fall. You see it, though—the wanting, the pull.

He laughs, humorless. “You get off on fucking old men?”

You shrug, swing your knee slightly as if it’s a dare. “Only the ones who fuck me like they mean it.”

He grabs your sweater and yanks it up, off, over your head in one rough motion. You let him. Stand there bare-chested in the cold, nipples tight, chest rising. His gaze drops like it’s dragged.

He exhales through his nose. “Where’s the bedroom?”

You nod toward the back of the house. He grabs your wrist and you let him drag you there.

The mattress is still thin. The sheets are still cold. He doesn’t seem to care. He pushes you down face-first, shoves your hips up, and fucks you like he’s punishing himself for wanting it.

You moan, not quiet. You grind back into him, greedy and slick.

He grips your shoulders, pulls your hair. Calls you a filthy thing and fucks you deeper.

When he’s close, he pulls out. Flips you over. Stands over you and growls, “Open your mouth.”

You do. He finishes down your throat with a sound like a snapped branch. You swallow around him, eyes wide, breath caught, hands gripping the sheets.

When he twitches, spent and shaking, you grin up at him.

“Think you can go again?” you ask, voice husky.

Joel looks wrecked, breathless. And something else—something like awe.

He brushes your lip with his thumb and mutters, “Wicked girl.”

He pants like he ran here.

One hand still grips the edge of the mattress. The other rests on his thigh, loose and trembling. His eyes follow you as you slide off the bed and walk toward the bathroom, naked and slick and unbothered.

You don’t give him the show this time.

You just wipe your mouth with a washcloth, rinse your hands. You pull on your sweater, step into clean underwear and the softest pants you own. There’s still salt on your skin. You don’t bother with it.

When you come back, he’s sitting up.

He’s still flushed, still watching you like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or apologize.

You climb onto the bed and lie back with your arms folded under your head. You don’t touch him.

He clears his throat.

“How long you been doin’ this?”

You glance sideways. He doesn’t flinch under your stare, but he does look away first. You think about lying or saying something smart.

Instead: “Years.”

He nods like that hurts, or like it makes sense. Perhaps it’s both. You don’t elaborate and he doesn’t press.

The wind whistles outside the thin window glass. Somewhere across the street, a door slams. A dog barks once. Then silence again.

Joel shifts on the bed like he doesn’t know what to do with his body anymore.

You know the feeling.

“You always this rough?” you ask, eyes on the ceiling.

“Only when I want it bad,” he mutters.

You huff a breath. Could be a laugh, pr it could be disbelief. “Lucky me.”

He glances over.

“You don’t act like you hate it,” he says.

“I don’t.”

More silence. Then, softer: “You shouldn’t have to.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

“That’s not your call.”

Joel nods. Looks like he’s chewing on something he won’t spit out. His hands flex. His thigh twitches. He opens his mouth and then closes it.

You know what’s coming next. The guilt. The apology. The maybe I shouldn’ta—

You roll onto your side, pinning him with one sharp look.

“Don’t ruin it by feelin’ sorry for me.”

His jaw locks. He nods once.

You close your eyes.

You don’t sleep, but you let yourself drift for a while. The bed smells like sweat and salt and smoke. Joel shifts beside you, breath evening out but not quite softening.

He doesn’t leave, not yet. You don’t ask him to.

-

You both fall asleep by accident.

It’s not deep sleep. Just the kind that slips in sideways. You feel the pull of it in your limbs, the weight in your chest. The silence is thicker now, wrapped around the two of you like wool.

Joel’s arm is still beside you, slack and warm. His breathing is steady. He hasn’t moved since you turned away.

You drift. You don’t dream.

When you wake, it’s to the sound of the wind and the faint creak of the floorboards under the bed. There’s a softness in the room you don’t trust.

Joel’s still there. His eyes closed and his boots are off.

You clear your throat.

He stirs, blinking. He looks at you like he forgot where he was.

You stretch and sit up. "You stay the night, you pay for the night.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He nods slowly. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and starts pulling his boots back on. You stay where you are, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. He doesn’t look your way.

“Joel,” you say.

He glances up.

You hesitate. Then: “Does she know?”

His face goes still. You hold his gaze.

“Ellie,” you clarify, even though you don’t need to. “Does she know about us?”

“No.”

It’s immediate, firm. You believe him.

He stands there a second longer. Like he wants to say more. Like he’s working through something behind his eyes that you’re not supposed to see.

He doesn’t speak, only adjusts the collar of his coat when he slips it back on.

You lie back on the bed, stare at the ceiling.

“Door locks behind you,” you say.

Joel pauses at the threshold. Hand on the knob.

“Good,” he mutters.

Then he’s gone. You wait until his footsteps fade. You exhale.

You don’t know what you wanted him to say. Only that he didn’t.

Maybe it’s better this way.

You don’t move for a long time after he leaves.

The silence fills back in, heavier than before. You listen to it settle—into the walls, the mattress, the skin under your fingernails. You could swear it smells like him in here now. Sweat and regret.

You peel back the blanket and dress slowly, without urgency. No one’s waiting for you. There’s nowhere you need to be.

At the window, you watch his shape disappear into the trees. Not fast, but not lingering, either. He’s like someone walking away from something he knows he’ll come back to, even if he doesn’t want to.

You wonder what he tells himself. You wonder if he tells himself anything at all.

The sky starts to pinken with morning. The frost hasn’t lifted yet, but there’s a softness in the light. You crack the window an inch and breathe it in.

When you turn back toward the bed, you catch a glint of something folded beside your coat.

Another ration card. Tucked under a tin of instant coffee.

No chocolate this time. You snort.

"Guess I’m off the sweets," you mutter, but your fingers linger on the tin like it means more than it does.

You put it away with the others. You’ll trade it for something later. Oil, maybe. Or salt. Another bar of soap. You stretch your back until it pops, then crawl into bed, not because you're tired but because it’s the only place that still smells like someone else.

You pull the covers up and close your eyes. You try not to remember the look on his face when he came.

Try not to remember the way he hesitated—like he might stay.

You don’t know what this is between you and Joel Miller.

You don’t know what to call it.

But you know one thing:

You’re not the kind of girl men stay for. And he’s not the kind of man who lets himself be kept.

So you rest, and you wait.

The next time he comes through that door- you know exactly what it’ll cost.

tagging: @joeldjarin @b00klvrs @imsonotweird @ker0senebunny

😘😘😘

[orellazalonia]

Hi! You're writing is great! I keep coming across it in the tags and reading some. What really has caught my eye is “Worth Fighting For”. And you're under no pressure for this, but I am wondering if you plan on making a part 2 for it

Again, no pressure or anything. Its your decision. I don't wanna impose. I'm a writer so I understand shit takes time or having writers block, or simply that it doesn't need anything more. Whatever you decide will be perfect. It is truly a good as a one-shot.

I just really enjoyed it and am wondering

Hello there! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying some of my work, that makes me so happy to hear! Most of the time, I’m usually able to create additional parts to my work but only do so if someone requests it. If not, it’s something I only do if I really loved it or it was too long and I had to break it into smaller parts lol. So, don’t worry! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

All of the Time

Summary: You start to build a quiet friendship with Steve, finding comfort in someone who understands your struggles, but when you fall and face cruel laughter, your confidence shatters and you pull away. Meanwhile, Bucky’s fierce protectiveness boils over, leading to a vulnerable moment where he promises to stand by you, as someone who loves every part of you. (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Worth Fighting For (Original Fic)

It started with small things, simple moments that stitched themselves into the quiet rhythm of your days.

Bucky still walked you everywhere. Always showed up early and stayed later than he needed to. But lately, Steve Rogers had started appearing too.

At first, it was by coincidence. A passing nod on the street. A shy smile when you visited the corner store. But Steve was thoughtful in ways that surprised you, gentler than most and always listening. You found yourself drawn to him in a different way than Bucky: calm, understanding, like he recognized something in you without asking questions.

One afternoon, when Bucky got pulled into something across town, Steve offered to walk you home. You were hesitant at first, but he didn’t press, just waited while you adjusted your grip on the crutch and fell into pace beside you.

You both talked about things you usually didn’t discuss with Bucky, like your legs and his lungs. Like the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t watching, the unsolicited advice, or the way strangers treated you like a sad story instead of a person.

“I get it,” He said, voice low and dry. “They all think I’m fragile, too. Like if I breathe too hard, I’ll fall over.”

You laughed, and he smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

It was easy, talking to Steve. And you knew it the second you saw Bucky waiting outside your building, arms crossed and jaw tight, watching the two of you approach like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Steve caught it too. “He’s gonna scowl me to death, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” You muttered, amused. “You’re the one who stole his job.”

“I didn’t know I was being recruited.”

“You weren’t,” Bucky said before either of you could reach the door.

You raised a brow. “Bucky.”

He looked at you, then at Steve. “Appreciate you stepping in,” He said flatly. “Won’t be necessary again.”

Steve just gave you a little shrug, like well, you warned me, and offered a quick goodbye before turning down the street.

You turned back to Bucky. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He doesn’t know how to pace with you.”

“Neither did you once.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held the door open with a tight jaw and followed you up the steps, his hand hovering behind your back like it might catch you if you slipped even though you didn’t.

You thought the tension would fade over time, but it didn’t.

It built slowly, like steam behind a radiator. Bucky brought you more things now: fresh rolls, a knit scarf he swore he didn’t buy but you knew he did, and little things that made you feel warm and heavy with affection.

But something in him had twisted tighter since that day. He stood closer, watched more, and didn’t laugh as easily when you talked about walking alone.

So, one morning, you did.

You hadn’t meant to leave without him. You just needed to prove it to yourself, that you could still do this. That your legs might tremble, but they still moved. That you didn’t need anyone.

The air was brisk as you stepped out, crutch steady under one arm, purse swung across your chest. You took the quieter route, the one that curved behind the main square.

You didn’t even hear them at first, the boys your age loitering by the steps of the butcher’s shop. Laughing and smoking. One of them was the same kid Bucky shoved into a lamppost last month. Of course.

“Hey, it’s the hobble girl!” Someone barked as you passed.

You kept going.

“Where’s your guard dog, sweetheart? Don’t think you’ll make it far without him.”

You didn’t look back. You didn’t give them a reaction, but your foot caught the edge of a broken curb. Just slightly. The crutch hit an uneven crack in the concrete and your knee twisted, causing you to fall.

You didn’t cry out, didn’t scream. But the shock knocked the air out of you and scraped your palms bloody against the sidewalk. You lay there for a breathless moment, too stunned to move.

And then came the sound.

Laughter.

From behind you, from above.

You tried to get up. The brace dug into your shin as you twisted, slipping against your own balance. You were halfway to your knees when someone appeared beside you, not Bucky.

“Easy,” Steve said gently, already crouched. “I got you.”

His hands were steady, warm under your arms, and he didn’t pull you up right away. He just helped you sit, giving you space to let you breathe.

“I’m fine,” You muttered, heart pounding in your ears.

“I know,” He said. “You just don’t have to be alone while you are.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, and your eyes burned.

Then–

“WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY?”

The voice tore through the square like a lightning crack.

You whipped around just in time to see Bucky storming across the sidewalk, eyes blazing, and fists already clenched. The group scattered in a heartbeat, but Bucky was faster. He caught the mouthy one by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough that a window rattled.

“I told you once,” He growled. “Now I’m telling you twice, if I so much as hear her name in your mouth again, you’ll be drinking through a straw for a month.”

“Buck–“ Steve called out.

“I mean it,” Bucky snarled, shaking the kid like a ragdoll before dropping him onto the concrete.

By the time he turned back, his hands were shaking. But his voice, when he knelt beside you, was quiet.

“Hey,” He said, brushing your hair out of your face. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

He touched your scraped palm gently. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked at him finally. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

“I don’t,” He stated, voice hoarse. “I look at you like someone I’d kill for. That’s different.”

You blinked, stunned.

Steve stood nearby, silent but present. He didn’t say a word, just nodded once and stepped away, letting you and Bucky have a moment.

Bucky helped you to your feet with slow, careful hands as he tucked your crutch into place like it was something sacred. When you leaned into him subconsciously, his arms went around you in a way that made all the tension in your body fade.

He spoke softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time, sweetheart. You’re allowed to fall, just let me be the one who helps you up.”

But no matter how sweet words Bucky tried to tell you or how he and Steve both tried to lighten the mood on the way back home, you didn’t sleep that night.

The fall kept looping in your mind over and over. The sound of laughter, the stares, the sting of your knees hitting concrete. You could still feel the scrape on your palms, raw under the bandages. Still feel Steve’s arms helping you sit up, still hear Bucky’s voice when he screamed.

But worse than all of it, worse than the pain or the crowd, was the way they looked at you.

Both of them. Steve, with concern. Bucky, with fury. Both looking at you like you were fragile.

And you hated it.

So, you canceled plans the next morning, told Bucky you weren’t feeling well when he knocked, and left the curtain drawn even when you heard him waiting outside longer than usual.

You knew he meant well, but you couldn’t take the weight in his voice. Couldn’t stand how fast he moved when he thought you needed help. How many people he was willing to fight just because they looked at you wrong.

You didn’t want to be something he protected. You wanted to be something he wanted.

And by the second day, you stopped answering the door entirely.

Across town, Bucky was cracking.

He paced the alley behind the corner bar like a caged dog, jaw clenched, knuckles already bruised from the wall he’d punched earlier.

“You’re gonna get yourself arrested,” Steve muttered from the edge of a crate, arms crossed as he watched Bucky burn through another lap.

“She won’t even look at me, Steve.”

“She’s embarrassed.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“She’s scared.”

Bucky stopped. “Of me?”

Steve met his eyes. “Of what you’ll do or of how angry you get.”

Bucky’s fists curled. “What am I supposed to do? Let them laugh? Let her think falling makes her less than–”

“No. You’re supposed to show her that she’s still her. Still the same girl you wanted to walk home three weeks ago. Still the one who doesn’t need to be hidden behind your fists.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a rough whisper. “She thinks she’s a burden.”

“She isn’t.”

“I know that,” Bucky snapped. “But if she won’t let me show her, if she keeps pulling away… I don’t know how to make her believe it.”

Steve stepped forward, quieter now. “Then stop yelling it with your fists, Buck. And start whispering it where it matters.”

That night, you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your bedroom window.

He wasn’t moving. Just leaning back on the cold metal, head tilted toward the sky like it could give him an answer. His hands were scraped, bruised, wrapped in a torn bandage that looked like he’d done it in a rush.

He didn’t look at you right away.

You opened the window quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” He said simply.

You swallowed.

He still didn’t look over. “Steve says I’m doing too much… that I’m pushing you away.”

You sat on the windowsill carefully, still quiet.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to do this, sweetheart. I see you hurt, and I lose it. I see you scared or embarrassed, and something in me just–snaps. I know it’s too much sometimes. I just…”

He finally turned, eyes tired.

“I don’t want you to ever think I’m here because I feel sorry for you.”

You looked down. “I don’t… think that.”

“I want you to know that when I look at you, I don’t see weakness. I don’t see your crutch. I see you. All of you. And I–” He broke off, jaw tight. “I like you so much it’s ruining me.”

You blinked, chest twisting.

“I don’t care that you fall or that you limp. Or that some days you don’t want to talk. I care that you think those things make you hard to love.”

A silence stretched between you.

Finally, you reached out, gently tracing the fresh bruise on his hand.

“Who was it this time?” You asked.

His smile was small. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t say another word.”

“Bucky–”

He caught your hand in his, kissing your knuckles softly.

“I’m trying,” He whispered. “I’ll stop throwing punches if it helps, but I won’t stop showing up. I won’t stop being yours.”

You pressed your forehead to his, heart thudding.

“I don’t want you to stop showing up,” You said. “I just want to believe that I’m not dragging you down.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” He murmured, brushing your hair back with fingers too gentle for someone who fought like he did. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing some days.”

Then, with a small smile: “Besides, you don’t even weigh enough to drag me down, doll.”

You laughed, and the tension finally broke.

He pulled you into his lap right there on the fire escape, blanket wrapped around both of you, his arms warm and firm around your waist.

And for the first time since the fall, you didn’t feel like a burden. You just felt like his.

You didn’t fall again that week.

Bucky never said it out loud, but you knew he noticed. He started walking half a step ahead of you instead of beside you, close enough to catch you if needed, but far enough to let you breathe.

He didn’t ask if you were alright anymore. He just knew you were. And maybe more importantly, you knew you were too.

One quiet afternoon, he showed up at your door holding something behind his back.

You squinted. “What is it?”

“No peeking.” He grinned, backing up as you stepped out. “I have a surprise.”

“Bucky.”

“Trust me.”

You did. So you let him inside and waited with your back turned, listening to him set up something. When he finally gave the okay, you turned to find the surprise was music.

More specifically, his old record player set up in the tiny living room of your apartment, now spinning. The radio crackled softly as a slow jazz melody filled the air, warm and golden like molasses.

You stared at him, blinking. “Is this a setup?”

He didn’t deny it.

“I thought maybe you’d let me have one dance,” He said, offering his hand, eyes teasing. “I mean, I did get beat up for you. It’s the least you could do.”

You snorted. “You didn’t get beat up. You beat them up.”

“Still counts.”

You glanced down at your brace, hesitant. “I’m not exactly graceful, Bucky.”

His voice lowered. “Doesn’t matter, you’re mine and I’m yours. That’s all I need.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer. “Let me show you.”

And he did.

You didn’t dance, not really. It was more like swaying in slow circles, his arms firm around your waist, one hand curled gently around yours. He moved slow and patient, guiding you like he could feel every bit of hesitation in your body and answered each one with a touch, a smile, or a whisper in your ear: “You’re doing perfect, doll.”

You were laughing by the second song. Spinning awkwardly as he dipped you in the most dramatic fashion, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.

“Okay, that one was your fault,” You huffed, holding onto him as you regained your balance.

He didn’t let go. Just leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “I like you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Laughing, moving, being… you.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You never needed to walk perfectly. You just needed someone to see you.”

You leaned into his chest. “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Good,” He said, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Later into the night when you were wrapped in his arms, half-asleep in the hush of your room, he whispered, “I used to think I needed someone perfect, flashy and put together; but I was wrong.”

You stirred, smiling sleepily. “Oh yeah? What do you need now?”

He kissed the side of your neck and said simply, “You.”

And you knew then, without a single doubt, you had never once been a burden to him.

You’d been the center of his world all along.

[scribbsyscribs]

@boldlygreatsuit Ayyyy you got a minute to let me stomp on your heart some more?

Btw, the amazing person I tagged up there, made the most absolutely gorgeous art for chapter 1, highly recommend checking it out if you vibe with what we're throwing down here.

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

I always respect your rule about suggestive posts, and I am 100% on board with it.

However please keep in mind that at least on mobile if there are many tags on a post some of these will be hidden! And some people might not notice the tag! Even I sometimes caught myself almost liking/reblogging something because I zoned out and didn't notice (I'm also a dummy and might not register that something is suggestive, especially that english isn't my first language.) When tagging questionable posts, please put the #suggestive tag first. Or not, I'm not gonna order you how to tag your posts, but please concider.

Thank you for reading and have a good weekend!

Sincerely, a 16yo ULTRAKILL fan

I’ll try to remember to put that tag at the front. I schedule all the posts when I’m at work so I’m usually more preoccupied with making sure no one is standing behind me while I’m doing that so the tags are an afterthought. But like I said I’ll try to fix that for future posts.

But anyway I reblogged that warning cause I had to block 2 accounts that followed and blatantly said they were 14. Meaning they couldn’t bother to read the short af blog description I have there. It’s right there as soon as you open the account. I can’t make it any more obvious. And I know they scrolled through the account because they were liking old posts that were tagged as well. They didn’t just follow from their dashboard. Not slick.

Like. Come on. I too was on tumblr from the age of 13 but I had the common sense to not do that. Stay out of trouble. Don’t cross people’s boundaries. 10 years from now you’ll realize how uncomfortable it’d be to have a 14 year old thirst posting in your replies.

If you’re going to do it anyway. Do that in your private discord or whatever with your friends that are (hopefully) around your age, I can’t stop you. But doing it out in the open with 0 respect is an auto block from me. Not only because it’s weird, but it opens themselves up to being creeped on.

[ladyinthebluebox]

wE wAnT cOmPaNiOnS tO bE mEaN aGaIn!!!!!!!!!!

my siblings in the maker, you can't handle Taash calling Emmrich a death mage couple times or [checks notes] ...asking Neve about her clothes [?????????????]

[danieyells]

in a strong Leo mood because I'm tired of seeing tagged hate shit for him, so I went ahead and added the rest of Leo's home screen voice lines to his post, including the Japanese text! And, of course, I updated the masterlist.

additional tag for @mayoigotokurousagi who requested Leo in the first place.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Both my parents actually suffer from HORRID emotional dysregulation and are prone to snapping and going into rages. My sister is the same way tbh. I am now realizing this is why they are constantly baffled by the question of whether or not I am mad at them.

I don't have external meltdowns.

I could. I don't let it happen.

I keep my rage on the inside and stay pretty quiet about it. It's just as strong as theirs [physically shaking nose bleed from high blood pressure kind of bad], but like as a kid I saw how terrifying it was to be around [dad breaking dishes, mom putting our lawn chairs into walls] and I just internalized that I wasn't going to wear that anger on the outside.

So my mother genuinely cannot tell if I am just being quiet or if I am silently hearing the dial-up noises of pure rage. This has lead her to both making strong and confident statements like "You are a pacifist who would never hurt a fly U.U" but also acting like I am secretly dangerous maybe... It's because she has never seen me snap.

She knows what her temper is like [throwing chairs through walls], she knows what my father's temper is like [pick up child and toss out door], and she can tell I am being tested, but she doesn't know what happens when I snap or where that breaking point is.

Her -perhaps unhinged- solution to this, my whole life, has been to do things that should obviously enrage me or shut me down completely, like ignoring important boundaries, repeatedly, punishing me for expressing emotions or needs at all, etc... And then to constantly ask me if I am angry with her when I get too quiet [right after near directly telling me to shut up].

It has occurred to me now, they have never once seen me lose my temper, so they literally just can't tell if I am angry at them. My sister is easy, my mother fights and screams with my sister constantly, my mother understands this. My mother doesn't have any grasp of feelings or boundaries that are not screamed at her [apparently, and I fear my sister is the same way]. Her and my sister are close despite constant fucking fighting because they understand each other.

They are trying to get me to engage the same way and it is not working. I realize now that this has been hard for them.

I was so successfully taught to suppress my emotions, by being punished for any outburst, that rage quiet looks the same as any other kind of quiet from the outside. To them anyway.

I did tell her. For the record. I used my words. I did tell her very calmly that my response to rage, in order to avoid doing the things that terrified me as a child, was to simply leave [the autistic urge to GTFO]. When a situation or person causes too much of the dial-up rage noise, I simply extract myself from that situation, up to and including never speaking to a person again. I explained this calmly. I explained it calmly 100 times and I explained that I explain myself calmly as my rage response 1-5 [also pretty much every other negative emotion tbh], and I told her that what came next was me simply opting out and fucking off. I told her this. I couldn't understand why she never took me seriously, or why she never fucking understood.

I couldn't understand what made her like this.

But it's the same problem I have with everyone else multiplied by a factor of 10.

If I am explaining myself calmly, they can't understand that it's actually serious or that I am actually upset. ESPECIALLY because they read me as "female" and women "aren't that rational" so if I am not screaming and crying about something, which I never do, people assume I can't be upset and it isn't serious.

And then after having my boundaries ignored too many times despite having calmly explained how and why it's a problem [shaking inside or not]... I leave. I leave and everyone gets upset like this is unexpected behaviour, even though I told them 50 times that is how I would respond if they kept doing *the thing.*

And for neurotypical people especially, they are expecting there to be a disconnect between what someone says they need or feel and what their actually boundaries and feelings are, and they expect the latter to be demonstrated with emotions. Telling them bluntly you do not function that way somehow never helps?

My mother isn't just looking for normal yelling or a few tears to know I am serious, whether or not I do those either [I don't], she's looking for an explosion to know there's a problem at all.

Fucked if I know how she proceeds through life this way in general or if this is just her expectation of her own kids???

And I couldn't get why my mother couldn't read my emotions and didn't seem to think I have any. It's because she's testing for the rage limit to see where my 'actual' limit is instead of taking my word for it. Never the fuck mind that she could simply *not* test at my boundaries instead of letting me have them. Separate issue.

I couldn't figure out what made her *like this*

She's expecting me to throw a giant meltdown violent tantrum at people when I have 'actually' had enough. Maybe she got away with those being like 5'4" in another time, but I am the size of the average man, I do not get to have giant screaming rages, whether or not people perceive me consciously as a woman, and least of all because a lot of people -at least unconsciously- read me as 'masculine' or at least always "they guy" of the situation compared to all other women and some men [bigger stronger and more rational, more able to just absorb the damage and let it go so the less rational screaming/crying one doesn't have to be dealt with]. Even if it was in me to be willing to terrify people [usually never], there are such limited instances where it wouldn't just blow back on me. Potentially very dangerously.

I am going to be the quiet calm one. You are going to have to let me use my words, bitch.

So she kept ignoring my boundaries until I had to cut her out of my life, and she probably doesn't understand and probably thinks it feels sudden -after 36 long years of bullshit- abrupt and unfair.

But I told her hundreds of times.

I probably should have just screamed at her.

[katyspersonal]

If you can't handle me at my Willem x Rom you don't deserve me at my Yurie x Rom. 😔

[copia]

got free time to see sleep token on saturday but at what cost (got to do an 8 hour night shift immediately after) (friday is full so that means no graphic nature no alcest no green day) (also can't drag myself to see poppy because i will need sleep) (getting all my camping stuff from somerset to derby is going to end me) (might be too autistic for this whole thing)

[rouge-the-bat]

really hate the trend in many progressive circles where people diminish the suffering certain groups face by adding a caveat of "but dont forget youre not the intended target," or insist certain groups shouldnt even discuss their problems with "how dare you make this about yourself, others groups have it worse."

neither awareness, support, discussions, nor oppression are a competition or in limited supply. there is no reason to ignore or silence others to get more of the spotlight. you will only be aiding in others suffering by doing so.

[never-ending-pizza-time]

That au makes me extremely uncomfortable and its very disappointing to see people that I genuinely thought were cool defend it and try and 'save it' without realising just how harmful and gross it is. Major ick feelings from me in general and I hope they realise why people take issue with it and change their minds. I am not going to talk about it any more because I don't want to, but eugh

[oceanwithouthermoon]

ive received multiple dms or asks asking why i blocked people (fyi to the anons, i dont have that many people blocked so youre not saving yourself much embarrassment by being anonymous😭) and im just gonna say this here EVEN THOUGH I DONT OWE ANYONE AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS im just tired of the messages

i will block anyone who has disrespectful takes (usually misogynistic but sometimes just straight up mean, FOR EXAMPLE if you make a really farfetched take or disregard canon SPECIFICALLY for the sake of discrediting someone elses take or ship) or if you always post a ship i dont want to see 🤷🏻‍♀️

so basically youll get blocked for being a dick... or a torisai shipper 😭😭 thats the criteria

[autisticlee]

sometimes people who struggle like to make jokes or find positives about their condition that causes them to struggle so they can escape the constant negative and struggle. sometimes autistic people will say things like "the 'tism" or use the "autism creature" or say their autism helped them have a *positive trait* to feel better about their struggles. because living your life only focusing on the struggles and negatives is depressing and makes it hard to want to live, even if those struggle take up 100% of your life and you can't actually escape them. sometimes any little seemingly positive thing can help a lot.

but there's so many other autistic people that hate when we do that and call it "reducing autism to a cute trendy thing" and say it takes away from *their* struggles and is bad and shouldn't be used. maybe *you* want to only focus on your struggles, but some people can't live in constant negative and need some positive or to find ways to make their condition more positive so they can feel better about living with their struggles. life is hard. I take anything I can get.

I cant get jobs. I can't make and keep friends. I can't get help and support for doing "normal" things so sometimes I go weeks without being able to shower and without eating more than a bowl of cereal a day. most times can't even do things I like. struggle to communicate. have meltdowns. i'll never be able to live independently. I struggle a lot. but instead of sitting here always depressed and having no motivation to live, i'd rather try to joke about "my 'tism is acting up again" when i'm struggling (just an example. don't think I ever actually used the 'tism thing but i saw others use it) or say "i'm just being a creature" when I need to stay in my dark room because everything is too much and I personally find it cute to be a little creature meant in a positive way. i'm not actually downplaying mine or anyone else's struggles. I still acknowledge them and that silly jokes dont make them go away. i'm not trying to be trendy. i'm not doing any of the things people say we do by making silly little jokes. i'm using the silly little jokes to convince myself life can be a little more than pointless, painful garbage all the time.

(continue in tags)

[rouge-the-bat]

wait like... do some ppl actually check all the blogs of people that interact with them? to vet out all the ones they dont want around? bc if so that sounds. exhausting?? how do people have time for that??

[ahalliance]

how do i turn qantoine’s spontaneous marriage proposal to qetoiles into evidence of his early-days fear of qfrench drifing away and keeping secrets from one another