#and the worst part is it feels warranted

[transsexualgriffith]

the berserk fandom is truly a beautiful thing only in that it's one of the few places on the internet today where you'll still see people giving yaoi trigger warnings

[transremylebeau]

Funny ass terrible week. It was so surreal. I had a high fever while mostly home alone and the power kept going out. I couldnt do much except lay there, my headache was pretty bad and if i moved too much i felt nauseous. I finally got out of bed at one point to try to make food so i went to the kitchen w my flashlight and. You know in silent hill when the worlds getting all fucked up when the sirens start? So thats basically what it looked like as ants were pouring out of the electrical outlets. It was distressing. If i were in silent hill there would defintely be ants. Representing how much i hate ants.

[voiceofthe]

anyway vital to my understanding/interpretations of the voices is that they are all, fundamentally, trauma responses. some are just more obvious than others.

[evergone]

Hypocrite

Theodore Nott x Reader

Warnings: 18+ content (sex), swearing

Description: The reader is embarrassed by the hickies Theo left on her, but she's not one to speak.

Merlin, you were pissed. Or, maybe — maybe you were embarrassed. Afterall, there were purple and yellow bruises all over your breasts and along your collarbone and up the sides and back of your neck. Despite your best efforts, your makeup hadn’t covered them all, and the collar of your blouse kept smearing the foundation and exposing more of them to the entire student body. A student body who couldn’t stop talking about you.

“Trip down the stairs did you, Y/n?” Pansy teased.

“Our very own Slytherin slut,” Daphne laughed fondly.

“By the name of Salazar,” Blaise breathed heavily at the sight of them.

You could only sigh in frustration, your head in your palms, “Guys, stop, please. Everyone and their mothers are giving me shit about it, you don’t need to join in.”

You weren’t lying. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Snape had practically burnt a hole through your neck, and then, in Transfiguration, McGonagall had quietly asked if you needed to step out to touch up your makeup. The worst, however, was Potions with Slughorn. His opinion of you since the beginning of the year had been purely positive since your family were fairly wealthy and you achieved some of the highest grades in his class. When he saw the hickeys all over you, though, his bulbous nose had turned up in disgust and he made a most unpleasant grunt of disproval. You were sure you had made his blacklist.

“This warrants murder,” said Pansy.

“It does, doesn’t it?” You asked, “I am so fucking mad at him for this.”

Oh, but you could hardly speak.

You and Theo (your boyfriend and hickey-giver) both received invitations to a party that was held the night before, and despite knowing you had school the next day, you went. Once you were about ten drinks in, you were completed sloshed, and when you were completely sloshed, you got horny.

Though the crowd of party-goers stood between yourself and Theo, you could still see every part of him. He was just standing there, chatting with Blaise and Draco, a can of cheap beer held lazily in his right hand while his left was barely touching his hip. He was so, so hot. You bit your lip sexily then made your way over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, kissing the back of his white shirt, and leaving stains of red lipstick all over it.

“Hey, Y/n, baby,” he hummed, happy from all the drinks he’d downed in the three hours prior, “What’s up?”

“Teddyyy,” you mused and stared up at him as he looked over his shoulder at you, “I want sex.”

Blaise and Draco snickered and Theo shot them a glare. After that, you can imagine what happened. Lots of moaning, groaning, grunting, panting. Enough snogging to last you both a lifetime, but not really because there was no such thing as “enough snogging,” and love making that lasted well past the rise of the sun that peeked through the window to Theo’s dorm room and illuminated every gorgeous curve of your body.

While Theo was the kind of sexual partner to want to leave marks all over you — not because he was the jealous type, just the prideful type, he liked everyone to see that he’d won you — you were the kind of sexual partner who liked it rough. You liked to feel his dick more or less pounding against your womb, so close that it almost warranted a trip to Madame Pomfrey. You liked when he thrusted into you fast, but not sloppy, always obeying your comments of ‘faster, Theo’ and ‘honey, please, I need it faster.’ But he couldn’t obey too much, you were very particular about that. He had to make you feel good, but he still had to be in control. It was always best if he gave in to every third or fourth demand, so that you had to beg for it. But the best part about rough sex with Theo? Well, it was what made you such a hypocrite.

“Mate,” Draco gaped at Theo’s back in the locker rooms before quidditch practice, “Did you get into a fight with a werewolf or something?”

Theo frowned in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

Draco motioned for Theo to move into view of the mirror and when he got a good look at his reflection he joined in the gaping. Long, red lines ran down his back like the British army at the Battle of Balaclava. He had become a canvas and you had painted him with your claws. He ought to have them clipped, Merlin’s beard.

The scratches were mostly up and down (go figure), but there were are couple that ran horizontally which Theo couldn’t place the origin of. You had torn him apart, you freak.

And that’s when you stormed into the locker room. Pucey had squealed, that was the first sign that you had entered. The second was the smart-ass warning that escaped Draco’s mouth ( “Look what the cat dragged in… or maybe she herself is the cat,” he said.

“She is the cat’s mother,” you responded, annoyed, and kicked him in the shin.

“My point still stands,” he laughed painfully).

Your hands were covering your eyes so as to not expose yourself to the privates of the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, and Theo thought you looked like a total dork in the cutest way. A pout had settled on your lips to make up for the fact that your frown was also hidden behind your hands.

“Theodore Nott!” You huffed and the locker room broke out into a chorus of ‘ooh’s, “Shut up, all of you — Theodore, look at what you’ve done to my neck.”

“I can’t really see behind your hands, lovey,” said Theo and you swore you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Use your imagination then, I’m sure you remember what you did to me last night — Oh, aren’t you all so mature,” you hissed as the boys erupted into laughter like little children.

You felt Theo’s hands settle on your hipbones as if they were arm rests. He pulled you in until your nose hit his chest and removed your hands from your face. So safe you were in his presence that you couldn’t see any of the other boys around you. With his big eyes that were more ocean-coloured than sky, he stared down at you, and flashed his brilliantly white grin.

“You aren’t much better, you know?” He said with a tone of question in his voice and continued to talk when he realised you didn’t know what he was talking about, “My back?”

He turned for you and upon seeing the mess you had evidently made on his back, you shut your mouth.

“Even?” Asked Theo.

“Even,” you nodded.

[screeching-bunny]

Yandere! Game Show Host Hcs

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Thoughts, Bad Writing, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Reader is Referred as ‘You’

A/N: I saw this request and was like this is such a cool request but what if we made him an evil game show host. Like one that would put contestants in deadly scenarios.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host who kidnaps all of the contestants and forces them to play this twisted game that he created for money. Don’t worry though, he rigged the entire game to be in your favor. It was discreet enough for the viewers not to really care but apparent enough for you to notice the favoritism. Did you care? Hell no!! As long as you were getting paid you and survived this whole ordeal could give a rats ass about what happened next. Even when you do manage to get certain questions wrong, he will just brush it off and pretend that it was just a warm up question. The contestants are definitely seething whenever they see this happening.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host is a psychopath by nature. In each round, he presents the contestants with morally ambiguous dilemmas, enticing them with promises of grand rewards while dangling the threat of dire consequences for failure. Whether it's forcing them to choose between betraying a fellow contestant or facing a treacherous obstacle, he revels in their anguish, relishing the psychological torment he inflicts.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host is doing everything in his power to make sure that you win the game. He can’t have his poor baby feeling upset if they fail to win the grand prize. He would absolutely give out the most insane questions that practically no one knows the answer to. The punishment for getting a few questions wrong is mutilation of certain body parts and if you get too many questions wrong then you’ll end up being sent to your death. While everyone is basically being tortured in their punishments, he’d never allow that to happen to you. At most he’d probably just flick your forehead and call it a day. I imagine that most of the people watching the show are people who paid for the contestants to be kidnapped and be brought there against their wishes. Everyone who is put onto his show is a horrible person, including yourself, and have done something to be warranted to be there.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host bends all the rules of the game for you, providing subtle hints or covert assistance to ensure your safety. Although he has a strong desire to see others in pain and suffering, his love for you is stronger. At first justifies these actions as preserving the "entertainment value" of the show, but deep down, he's driven by an inexplicable desire to protect you.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host would baby you during your time there. He’d make a fuss whenever you tried to do anything remotely dangerous or touch some blood. I could totally see him using a baby voice to try to convince you to stop what you're doing. He has no shame, and everyone is looking at him with utter disbelief/confusion on their faces.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Oh No! Please don’t go over there! You might slip from all the blood on the ground! Come here let me carry you across.”

Viewers: “…”

The contestant with their leg cut off: “…”

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host thrives on the power he wields over his contestants, reveling in their suffering as they navigate his challenges. As the game progresses, his demeanor grows more twisted, enjoying the contestants' internal conflicts and emotional turmoil. He taunts them with mocking laughter, reveling in their discomfort and manipulating their decisions to heighten the drama. God forbid that you manage to develop a crush on someone while you are there. He’d absolutely lose it and do everything in his power to crush them. You best believe that he’s going to keep them alive for as long as possible and give them the worst punishments known to man.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host has cameras everywhere and when it's time for the contestants to rest for the night he’s going to be observing you. He’s a loser who doesn’t really know how to act around you without becoming a mess. In his spare time, he likes to just watch you through the cameras and imagine himself right next to you. He’s absolutely delulu about your feelings towards him and believes that you feel the same way. Even when you do manage to win this fucked up game, he’s not letting you go. There’s no way that he’s letting you leave after you managed to steal his heart. After this is all over, he’s taking you to his house and locking you there.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host holds pride in knowing how many people are at the mercy of his hand. Has a minor God complex and has this skewed mindset about how everyone else is beneath him besides you. Believes that you were made just for him and that you're his one true love. Would rather die than give you up or allow anyone to “take you away from him”. He’s like an annoying roach and almost impossible to get rid of. He’s making sure to stay with you for as long as possible.

—

Yandere! Game Show Host strides onto the stage with a wicked gaze, his piercing gaze fixed on the contestants. His voice, a chilling blend of charm and malice, booms through the speakers as he welcomes the participants with a mocking flourish. Thom who were strapped onto a table with heavy objects over their heads.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Alright contestant number one, what is the mass of the Sun divided by Planck's constant in nanometers.

Contestant One: “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT!?!?!”

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Unfortunately, that's not the correct answer. You’ll now be facing the consequences.” In a matter of seconds, the heavy object comes flying down with alarming speed. Upon impact, it mercilessly crushes against their skull, unleashing an overwhelming and unimaginable force that distorts bone and flesh. Yandere! Game Show Host then makes his way towards you and begins to speak.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Alright, it's your turn now. No pressure, I know you’ll do great just take your time. Okay what’s 1 + 1?”

You: “2.”

Yandere! Game Show Host: "Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever done before, unafraid to reference or not reference, put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it."

Other Contestants: “What the hell!?!? How is this fair!?!!

[roselilies]

"Are you trying to distract the curses, or me?"

The playful lilt in Gojo’s voice made the blood rush to your face before you could even turn to look at him. You had barely stepped into the training grounds when his signature white hair and too-casual stance came into view. Today, the uniform skirt you were wearing was a little shorter than usual, though not short enough to warrant his teasing.

“Excuse me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Why would I need to distract you when you’re already distracted all the time?”

Gojo’s grin widened behind his blindfold, and he took a deliberate step closer. His hands slid into his pockets, the picture of effortless confidence. “Oh, I’m very focused. On you, that is.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his words. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?”

“Nope. You’re the highlight of my day, baby.”

The nickname made you falter for a split second, though you quickly covered it up by turning away and pretending to examine your nails. Don’t let him get to you, you told yourself. It’s just Gojo being Gojo.

But that was easier said than done. He had a way of getting under your skin, of making every casual interaction feel loaded with some unspoken tension. The worst part? You weren’t entirely sure he didn’t do it on purpose.

“If you’re going to stand there and flirt, the least you can do is help me set up,” you said, gesturing to the training equipment scattered around the field.

Gojo laughed, the sound warm and slightly obnoxious. “Of course, anything for you.”

Before you could blink, he was suddenly at your side, picking up a set of practice dummies as if they weighed nothing. The proximity caught you off guard, and you found yourself hyper-aware of the way his shoulder brushed against yours. Damn it, why does he smell so good?

“You’re awfully quiet,” he teased, leaning just a little too close. “Am I making you nervous?”

“In your dreams,” you shot back, shoving a dummy into his chest with more force than necessary.

Gojo caught it effortlessly, laughing again as if he enjoyed your annoyance. “I dream about you all the time, actually.”

You groaned, trying to mask the flutter in your chest. “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Because you love me,” he said matter-of-factly, his grin impossibly smug. “But don’t worry, I’ll wait for you to admit it.”

You shook your head, biting back a retort as you turned your attention to the field. His teasing was relentless, and you hated how much you secretly looked forward to it. Gojo Satoru had this annoying charm, this magnetism that made him impossible to ignore. He knew it too, and used it to his advantage every chance he got.

“Alright, focus,” you said, pointing at the dummies. “We’ve got to run these drills before the others arrive.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he said with a mock salute, the smirk on his lips audible in his tone.

Ignoring the way your heart skipped at the nickname, you moved to the center of the field. As you began demonstrating the first sequence, you felt Gojo’s gaze on you, heavy and unapologetically lingering. It was like he wanted you to notice.

“Gojo, stop staring,” you snapped without looking at him, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Why? You look good,” he shot back, unbothered. “The uniform suits you. Especially the skirt.”

You froze mid-step, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Why thank you, but you’re impossible.”

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said, his tone softening slightly, almost fond.

That caught you off guard. Usually, his comments were light and playful, but this felt different, more intentional. You turned to face him, trying to gauge whether he was just messing with you again. His expression, though hidden behind the blindfold, seemed uncharacteristically sincere.

“Why do you do that?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

“Do what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Say things like that.”

Gojo paused, and for a moment, you thought he might deflect like he always did. But then his lips curved into a smaller, softer smile.

“Because I mean it.”

The simplicity of his answer left you speechless. You searched his face for any sign of a joke, a smirk, something to suggest he wasn’t being serious. But all you found was an openness that made your chest tighten.

“...You’re so annoying,” you muttered, looking away to hide your embarrassment.

Gojo laughed, the sound lighter than usual. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.”

“Too late.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly as he added, “But seriously, you look amazing today. Not just today, though. Always.”

You hated how easily his words got to you, how they made you feel warm in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“Whatever,” you mumbled, turning back to the equipment. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Anything you say, baby,” he replied, but there was something gentler in his tone now—something that made you think maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely joking.

A/N: Gojo I will always love you.

[bluemoonbun]

what if there was a yandere batfam x villain!mom!reader. More specifically, I'm thinking of this (Fem reader);

Reader is a (technically) small threat. They're well known, but they mostly go after the rich and police. Unfortunately, that describes everyone in/closely involved with the Batfamily. Attempts at capture are futile, however, since they seem to rival Bruce in contingency plans.

Eventually, Jason steps up to bat and tries to catch them. However, there's one thing that Jason picked up from Bruce; his type is crime.

You and Jason have Batman-and-Catwoman-esque chases throughout Gotham, Jason blaming your escape on you being too crafty while denying any help. You see Jason's scars and admit that you have a pretty bad one on your side, eventually showing it to him when you feel comfortable taking your clothes off. Jason has had to hide more hickeys, bite marks, and scratches on his back than anyone would hazard to guess.

One day, however, you disappear. The Batfam is relieved that you've finally stopped your reign of terror over Gotham, but Jason is worried.

The Batfam all go out for ice cream a few months later for something unrelated, when Jason catches sight of something familiar.

A scar winding up someone's side. A scar he's seen before. A scar that's stretched due to a bump.

Dick walks into his back when Jason freezes. Judging by the size, you've been pregnant for about as long as you've been off of the streets. So that's where you've been...

Why didn't you tell him? Did you think he didn't love you enough? Did he not show you enough times that he loved you? Did you think that it wouldn't work because he was working with Batman? He wasn't that close with him! He'd help you find a nice apartment in Crime Alley, or, hell, you could move in with him! He wasn't sure how good of a dad he'd be, but he'd try! Isn't that what parenting is about?

Oh god, he hasn't been around for so much of your pregnancy already. He needs to talk to you!

"...Jason. Earth to Jason Todd? Hello?" Dick says, waving his hand through the thoughts swirling in front of his eyes. Jason starts slightly as he remembers where he was. Damian begins walking towards you. Or rather, the ice cream store you were in front of.

While you were out of earshot, he saw as you looked at Damian. You smiled, probably asking where his parents are, because he gestured behind him. He watched as your smile fell into shock as your eyes landed on him, hand instinctively going to your stomach before you glanced at a nearby alleyway before looking back at him.

He took the hint. Now you're facing each other, unasked and uncountable questions floating between the both of you. Jason, however, asked the worst question possible in that moment.

"Is it mine?"

The slap was warranted, honestly.

The next few questions come more easily. You're around 24 weeks along, you've been living alone for the most part, you've obviously taken time off to avoid any injuries/toxic exposure to the baby, etc. Eventually, he asks why you never told him, and the reason was twofold. On one hand, telling him would've required doing some sort of crime for the batfamily to follow and him being the one that caught you, which you had known was debateable since he mentioned how Bruce and the Robins offered to tag along. On the other, the chance of everything crashing and burning because of this was too great. You were too willing to accept that it was truly just like what Batman and Catwoman had, something fun and fleeting but nothing deeper than that. You weren't going to risk your child because you felt loved.

Jason takes your hands and tells you his full legal name. At first you're confused, but he tells you more. He tells you how long he's been a vigilante, where he lives, even the code to his apartment. He doesn't see any of this as fleeting. This, to him, was a relationship that just needed a full push to become a "proper" one.

He places his hands and yours on your stomach.

"My name is Jason Peter Todd, I'm the vigilante Red Hood, son of Bruce Wayne, and... I'm gonna be a dad if you'll let me."

You smile and hug him, unable to talk around the lump in your throat.

"Jason...? What the fuck are you doing?" says Dick.

He turns around and realizes that the entire batfamily had heard him.

"So, she's pregnant with your child?" Damian glances around, trying to get another look at your belly.

"Of everyone I thought would get a villain pregnant... you weren't high on that list." Barbara chimes in.

"I'm gonna be a grandfather?" Bruce asks

---

So yeah, gist of it is that Jason gets Reader pregnant, Reader gets some information that Batman uses to justify keeping you in the manor, along with the half truth of "keeping appearances", since the tabloids would eat you alive if they caught evidence of a member of the Wayne family being a deadbeat dad, and over time, the family becomes more and more suffocating until your baby is born, in which they somehow make themselves a nuisance in child rearing.

Asks are welcome!

[comicaurora]

A bit of a strange question, but if there were any of your videos you were to "remake" today for any reason (ex: you feel like you misrepresented the original text or spread misinformation), which would it be and why? None of them is a perfectly valid answer

Again: bit of a strange question, but I've been thinking about my own creations and how I could have done so much better with some of them, but I also know that is a sign of my growth and constantly chasing "what if I did this instead" isn't always healthy for nurturing a creative mindset, and I was wondering what your opinion might be as a Creator of Things with a bit more experience than I

There's been a few trope talks where I've thought later of other angles I could've explored that might warrant sequels or part 2s, but I don't dislike any of the summaries enough to justify a rework.

I always find "I could've done this better if I made it now" to be a bit of a fallacy. I'm only better at making things now because I made all those earlier things. If I knew everything I'd learn from making a project before I started the project, it wouldn't come out the same.

I think when it comes to the "rework remake perfect" instinct, it helps to zero in on what the impulse is really grounded in. In my experience, more often than not, it's not actually about making the art better, except incidentally. It's usually about showing that you are better. It's demonstrating your competence and your higher standards and your skills, and more importantly it's overwriting the proof that you were once less than perfect. If people look at your old work and think that's all you're capable of, they'll be judging you poorly!

If that's the motivator, it's a very unhelpful one. You can't control for being harshly or incorrectly judged. It's a fruitless effort to stave off potentially upsetting outdated criticism, and it's not even going to work. Fear of critique is an unreliable and untrustworthy motivator.

If it really is about making the art itself better, perfecting your magnum opus with your newly leveled-up skills, that's a little more solid. But from where I'm standing, it's always better to use those skills to make something new instead of polishing something old. The older, unpolished work has already acquired its audience that finds it appealing for reasons that might never occur to you. Trying to bury or overwrite it just deprives that audience of the thing they like, and maybe makes them feel bad for having liked it in the first place. Also, usually when you look back on the older work, you'll conclude that the problem is everything and it'll need to be torn down and started from scratch. I know when I revisited the first three chapters of the comic, when I let my critic brain spin up, it wasn't shading or lineart I wanted to fix - it was panel composition, overall pacing, the entire structure of the chapters as a whole. I would've had to make them all over again to be happy with them, and they wouldn't be the same story by the end.

I've been thinking a lot about the Discworld through this lens lately. It ended up over 40 books long, but everyone agrees that the first two are not what you should start with, because they're the worst ones. They're entirely parodic, purely referential of at-the-time major fantasy series, and borderline mean-spirited in places. If you haven't read Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser and Dragonriders of Pern, you're not gonna understand like a full 50% of The Colour Of Magic.

It's clear that when he started in on them, Pratchett was entirely focused on taking the piss out of a genre he found mostly shallow and unimpressive. But the Discworld wouldn't leave his head, and everything he made fun of he clearly eventually found himself overthinking. He'd make little one-off jokes in the early books about Dwarves having no women and a hundred words for gold, and then twenty books later he'd have a Dwarf gender revolution make waves across the Disc, and then he'd write Thud!, a book that delves deeper into the nuances of Dwarf societal structure than Tolkien ever did.

If you look for them, there are continuity errors everywhere in Discworld. In his introductory book, Carrot defused a dwarf bar full of rowdy brawlers by guilting them all into writing to their poor lonely mothers back home. Shortly thereafter, Carrot will be outraged at the mere concept of an openly female dwarf. Pratchett even eventually wrote Thief of Time, a book that loosely explains that the Disc makes no sense because history has been broken and put back together incorrectly twice, and therefore any continuity errors are because of that.

He's the writer. He could've gone back and fixed it, edited the reprints to be less disruptively discontinuous with the later books. Instead he continuously moved forward and allowed the world he made to grow without cutting it off from its roots. And because he didn't bury his older, far worse work, we have the privilege of following the Disc's evolution from the very start, and seeing how this shallow, stock fantasy world parody became something incredibly rich and complex without ever pretending like its early installments never happened.

Anyway, that's why I think it's better to move forward. You make more good stuff that way.

[http-shield]

whatever you say, old man- bucky barnes

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: post endgame but no one is dead and life is good, think 2012 Avengers fandom where clint is in the vents yeah that is where I'm at, established friendships, pining, yearning, bucky is not used to new age dating rituals, explicit language, sexual tension ~ wc: 2.6k ~ not proofread

You: Hey, are we still on for tonight? Rita’s at 7?

Him: ye

“So you’re telling me this is normal?” Bucky’s tone is judgemental as he quickly reads over the words on your screen.

You nod, wordlessly confirming that situatuonships are a staple part of the modern dating scene.

Bucky’s brows furrow, eyes flicking from the lack of effort text message to your face as you lean over the bed, phone gripped between expertly manicured fingers. He blinks once, twice, as if taking the time to formulate a response that will rebuke your earlier confirmation without hurting your feelings. This is new for him. A habit he has only recently picked up upon developing his friendship with you. He usually isn't as careful with his words, not caring enough about the recipient's opinion or emotional well-being to warrant enough time and consideration when responding, but with you. It was another ball game entirely. Bucky doesn't want to hurt your feelings, to see you frown because of something he has said; in fact, he wants the opposite. To see you smile and laugh and blush because of him. For you to want to talk to him about anything and everything, share thoughts about your day and how things make you feel. Bucky wants to know everything that happens in that pretty little brain of yours, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with it. Normally he would take the time to sugarcoat his words, sweeten his tone and make it easy for you to swallow but this is a situation where he couldn't, doesn't, want to mince his words.

“There is no world where that is normal.” He stares at you, expression bored and a little annoyed. At you? Never. At the man on the other side of the phone? Incredibly so.

You groan at his very true statement and pull away, slipping the phone into the pocket of your cargos as you turn towards your open closet.

He’s right. You know he is.

There is nothing remotely normal about two grown adults being in a relationship that is defined by the amount of time the other left the first one on read, or how much emotional vulnerability there could be put on the table before the other got too scared and ran. There is nothing normal about being in your late twenties and having a grown man introduce you to his friends as a 'buddy’ despite having an entire draw dedicated to you in his apartment but you can’t admit that, refuse to admit that you know its wrong and desperate and frankly, demeaning. If you can't own up to your own patheticness, how are you supposed to admit it to the man you are secretly interested in. There would be nothing more humiliating than confessing that the only reason you are with and putting up with bullshit efforts from this other guy is to hopefully distract yourself from the desperate need you feel for Bucky. This new guy is mediocre at worst yet attainable at best and that is something you will live with until your crush on the super soldier is dead and gone and you can finally focus on something other than him.

——

You had spoken with Natasha about Bucky last night, her voice a soothing purr over the phone as she encouraged you to disclose your concerns about pushing the boundaries on your friendship with the super soldier.

“The worst thing that can happen is he says no and then you both move on.” She croons, voice laced with comfort and reassurance.

“Wrong.” You shake your head despite being on a voice call.  “The worst thing that can happen is he says no, I lose him as a friend and then I’m stuck pining after someone who wants nothing to do with me” You place another dish in the washer before continuing with your point. “Or I push him before he is ready, again losing him as a friend, and now I’m left with the guilt of possibly taking advantage of a war veteran.”

“You take advantage of Steve all the time, how is this any different?” 

“I take advantage of Steve to get someone to carry in the groceries. I’m not trying to date Steve.”

Natasha huffs a laugh. “What if he is interested in you as well?”

Your hands stop scrubbing at the pan in the sink.

“I can find out.”

Heat fills your body, your stomach twists at the idea of having that information. It would put an end to the constant yearning you feel, but the thought of finding out he doesn’t like you that way, that he sees you as no more than a friend will destroy you, humiliate you beyond all logical reason and you would be forced to cut off the friendship out of pure self-preservation.

You shake your head again. “I’m good.” And return to scrubbing your pan. “I'll just wait out the crush and then move on.”

——

“This isn’t the 1940’s anymore.”  You sigh and completely shift your attention from Bucky to the mess that is staring back at you.

Endless outfit options are strewn about the small closet but so far none of them have come together, just single shirts, skirts, and pants all muddled in a heap of black.

“I know it's not the 40s but I doubt relationships and dating have changed that much." Bucky grumbles from behind you, the bed creaking as he shifts.

Another sigh, this one long and exaggerated as you will the frustration to leave your body. You want to turn to him and explain that you know all this, and are very aware of the fact that nothing about your current predicament is what you want. You want to be wooed with flowers and preplanned dates and soft kisses on hands and longing looks but that’s not the reality of life anymore and having to be reminded of it is getting annoying and your heart is starting to ache at the lack of effort given to you by your current choice of dating partner.

“You know if I was taking..” Bucky starts but you quickly cut him off with a whine of his name.

“James, please.” You don’t turn to face your friend, afraid to even glance at him because you know you will crumble. “I need help picking out an outfit so help me or go back to your room.”

--------

“You know if I was taking…” You don’t let Bucky finish but, God did he want to. His name on your tongue was enough to shut him up, to send a flush rushing to his face in a way that no man his age should blush, but he can’t help it. There is something about the way his name falls from your lips that has his mind racing to thoughts that should not be there, should not appear when the picture of you enters his mind.

“You know if I was taking you on a date, you’d get flowers and chocolates and champagne and those little baby dolls you like” is what he wanted to say before you shut him up with an annoyed grumble.

His intention wasn’t to display how things were different back in his day but to indicate exactly what you’d be getting were you about to go on a date with him, to explain the reason why you should go on a date with him and not some loser who couldn’t even formulate a fully fleshed out text message. How if you were to drop that kid, and say yes to Bucky he would gather the moon on string for you, pick every flower in every field, find every single little Sonny Angel there is and give them to you each and every day for the rest of your life, you would never be sat wondering why he isn’t calling or responding, if you were even going out the next day, if he even liked you. Bucky would make his feelings for you so abundantly clear that even a blind man would be able to see the signs, but you are his best friend and best friends don’t feel that way about each other. It’s all platonic hugs and hair tussles, cheeky jabs at each other over coffee, shared trauma and secrets over whatever dinner you bring to his apartment and he yours. There will be no dates, or long hugs that turn into kisses that turn into you beneath him, whimpering his name as he makes you feel oh so good.

Fuck.

Bucky’s entire body is on fire, and he needs to stop thinking about the way you would feel wrapped around him, his mouth on yours, the taste of you sweet on his tongue.

“Okay, what about this?” you announce as you walk into the bedroom from the ensuite. “Too much?”

You stand in the doorway, dressed in plain jeans and a black shirt.

“Too much?” Bucky is confused. “This is the outfit you wore to breakfast this morning.”

He is right about this too. You had worn a very similar outfit this morning, but tonight isn’t a full-on date, a semi-date, where things shouldn’t be that fancy so why shouldn’t you recycle your outfits. Bucky stands from the bed, readying himself to dig through the mountain of clothes that had formed at the entrance to the bathroom. He crosses the small space and squats before the clothing, fingers expertly rifling through the material, quickly brushing over the lace of bras and panties, before finding purchase on a black dress he thinks he has seen you in before. It might have been the dress you wore to a funeral or press conference, either way, it was not alluring in the slightest, not that you weren’t stunning in everything you wore, hell you could come out wearing a garbage bag and Bucky would be in awe of your beauty. It was just that he didn’t want your date to ogle you, to think of you the same way Bucky does so he is being a little selfish and conniving in his choice of garment.

“Where is he taking you?” His question is disguised as interest in the dress code but his real curiosity is far from an outfit.

There are two reasons why he needs to know where you will be tonight. The first is to judge whether this manchild is even worthy of a date with you, second if he knew the exact location and time, maybe he could show up and show out your date, make you realise what you deserve and how Bucky could be the one who gives it to you.

 “We’re meeting at Rita’s down the road and then might see a movie, maybe something else. I’m not sure yet.”

“He hasn’t planned anything?” Bucky whips his head around to you, finding you standing there looking incredibly embarrassed at the lack of effort. What the fuck happened in the years he was gone?

The defeated shake of your head is enough to have Bucky’s chest aching. He sits back on his haunches; the dress discarded back in the pile and gives the outfit another look as he decides on where to go from here. “Yeah, I think it’s too much.” He nods and stands up, brushing his hands as if he had just completed an excavation on some ancient site.

“Go change back into your sweats ‘cause there is no way I’m letting you go on a date with a guy who can’t even plan something.” He nods his chin towards the bathroom, more of an order than a suggestion.

He watches you tilt your head back as you groan in frustration. “I’m not going through this again, old man. This is how it works now.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to get frustrated. He takes a step towards you, hulking 6’0 frame rising to tower above you with a somewhat menacing glare, but you know he will never hurt you no matter how much you push his buttons.

“I’m not talking about what it used to be like, little girl.” The jab at your age/generational difference comes out before he can register it, but he notices how your eyes widen. “This is about getting what you deserve.”

He pushes in on the space between your bodies, now chest to chest as you square your shoulders, not ready to back down from an argument despite knowing you will not win.

“And what’s that?” you stare up at him, brows raised in anticipation of his answer. You aren’t sure where this is going. If you are going to receive another lecture or maybe even a verbal beatdown as to why your standards for men are so low, a common topic of conversation between you and Natasha, but instead you are met with a soft smile as his Vibranium hand is raised and brushes against your cheek.

“You deserve flowers and preplanned dates and wine and jewellery and everything you could ever want.” Bucky’s voice drops into a whisper, cold fingers trailing soothing lines against your heating skin. “You deserve a man worshipping you, to be on his hands and knees begging to take you on a date. Not some punk who can barely put together a sentence.”

You hold his gaze, blue eyes staring intently as you shudder in a breath. “Who’s going to do that, huh?” your voice is small, no longer filled with the same bravado you had not a minute ago. “You know anyone who wants to do that for me, you send them my way Bucko.”

His metal hand slips to your cheek to your jaw, fingers pressing into your pulse points so he can feel the speed at which your heart is racing.

“I’d do it.” He states matter-of-factly, eyes dipping to your lips. “I’d do anything for you.”

Breathing becomes a little bit too difficult as his human hand traces up your bare arm.

“Anything?”

Bucky nods and dips his head until his face is mere centimetres from yours. “You didn’t let me finish before, but I'd give you anything you’ve ever wanted.” Fingers move to cup your chin and tilt your head up. “You want flowers, I’m a florist. Moon? Stars? I’m getting Stark to build me a rocket. Anything you want, you’re getting it.”

“And if I want you on your hands and knees barking like a dog for me?” You smirk, the mental image of Bucky on his knees panting like a puppy has your stomach twisting.

“Put a collar on me and call me Spot 'cause I’m yours, doll.”

The confession has your eyes widening.

“I’m all yours, from now until whenever you’re done with me.” Bucky whispers, breathless.

“And what if I want you to kiss me?” you ask, knowing he is waiting for your permission to do just that.

Bucky crumbles, his expression falling from that of teasing into one of pleading.

“I want you to kiss me, James.” You whisper.

His resolve breaks and he presses his lips to yours. Softly and timidly, closed mouth and restrained but as your hands reach out to grip his waist, a delicate gasp slipping past your lips, does he deepen the kiss. His mouth opens over yours, lips slotting against your plush ones, tongue darting out to test to waters only to be met with your slackening jaw. Bucky’s grip on you tightens as he continues to kiss you, afraid to let you go in case this was one of the many, many dreams he had where he woke up alone and confused, but as you bite down on his bottom lip, he is brought back to reality. Your hands on his waist, pull him tighter against you, the softness of your body had Bucky’s mind wandering to places it should not be. You pull back, pupils blown wide and lips parted as you pant. Bucky is just as breathless, hands cupping your face with a gentleness he doesn’t think you’ve ever known from the way you stare up at him.

“You’re not going on that date.”

“Whatever you say, old man.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

a/n: eee this is my first avengers fanfic since like 2018 pls be nice I just need something happy to think about clint living in the airvents, thor eating poptarts era was my happy place

[hyenaspots]

Monthly Quota

[Gaz x Male Reader]

After a very long time (one year) working on this fic, with the help of two very good friends, I've finally got this out! I'm so happy to be able to finish it and throw it into the wind. God knows I've worked hard on it and it has given me some back pain.

Fem & Minors DNI

¡¡¡ Content Warning !!!

Piss, afab genitalia and language, could be considered dubcon, but it's very enthusiastic from all sides; thigh fucking, and a very mean and socially stunted Ghost

Thank you to @embry-garrick-ravengard and @thegnomelord for their help and ideas! Without them I would've probably scrapped the fic.

Word count: 5.7k

The effects of Gaz’s monthly testosterone shots were stronger than he’d ever heard anyone else complain about. By the first day, he was usually sweating. His skin was hypersensitive, every small drop crawling down his back as he did his laps unbearable. Each hot flash felt like a heatwave. The second day would bring hunger spikes. An indescribable ache deep in his very core that could be decently sated with some cafeteria food, or in worst case scenario, a meal from whatever local food chain he could guilt the captain into taking him to.

The third day is when his rationality leaves his body.

It’s like every other side effect travels down his body and gathers into the base of his dick, leaving his clit aching. The hypersensitivity spreads across his t-dick, keeping it hard and swollen enough to stick lewdly out of his hood. The head is dark from arousal. He’s wet too, soaking with it. His inner thighs and its wiry hairs are damp, as are the curls covering his fat lips. It drips down his ass as he lays facing the ceiling, groaning at the way that not even slotting his dick between his index and middle fingers can’t seem to satisfy the deep ache of his cock. He can see the way it throbs, how it sluggishly bobs up and down despite it barely reaching an inch and a half in size. The ache is the worst part of it all. A deep, insatiable ache that jerking off and even fingering couldn’t satisfy. He’d considered a dildo, but the risk of getting caught with it stored somewhere was too embarrassing. And he wasn’t big enough for a fleshlight, so no point in wasting money on one.

It's the desperation that drives him insane, the ache of his wrist locking up and cramping that drives him to pull his trousers back on without any underwear to prevent an unfortunate stain in the strangely delicate material. It’s what drives him to put his boots back on, haphazardly tying the laces and knowing he’ll be stepping on them soon enough.

He's feeling ballsy, treading through the deserted hallways of the base. Usually there’d be more noise than this. Not a crazy amount but everyone knew that when higher-ups were cozy at home and Staff Sergeants were holed up in their private rooms, the rest of the base would have their own little secrets behind closed doors. Gambling was common, sometimes done in broad daylight if bets were harmless enough. Barrack bunnies, too, were harmless enough. The occasional Warrant Officer or Lieutenant could even be tempted by such temptations before the eyes of lower officers and rookies. But today, the base was dark and silent. You could hear a pin drop from two hallways over. He was perhaps feeling self-destructive, maybe the testosterone fuelled sex drive made him so. Nobody dared leave their assigned barracks when higher-ranked officers were pulled from the comfort of their homes to be caged within prison-like beige walls.

It's stupidity, Gaz knows. He’s left his rational thinking back in his private room, taking no heed of the warning signs his brain was sending him of the silence suffocating the halls. He can see the once-abandoned rooms already, with their matching red, faded door frames standing out from their beige neighbours. Distantly, he remembers seeing people leave on the rare occasions he’d go past. And he remembers catching Soap leaving once, mohawk messy and face glowing a soft pink. The wink he’d sent his way had had Gaz furrowing his brow in distaste. On each of the doors themselves, a moon and sun are carved respectively. Innocent enough, compared to what they actually stood for. He wraps his hand around the broken handle and pushes. The brass nearly comes off in his hand, from the forcefulness of his grasp and the heavy-handed push he gives it to soften the rusty hinges.

The carpeted floor is worn down. Pale in a way that only constant use and then sudden abandonment can make look. There’s debris scattered around the room, in the space where furniture and broken pieces of training equipment don’t cover. Gaz can see, with the help of the moonlight refracted through the broken smoke-stained window, patches in the floor where the larger items in the room have scuffed and ripped out carpet. Most of the room is hidden from sight by these larger structures. He’s forced to map his way across, staking out the small space carefully just to avoid causing a ruckus. As he walks past, there’s obvious reasons why this space hasn’t been used for so long. A low-hanging beam nearly knocks his head off; a particularly scruffy piece of carpet nearly sends him stumbling when it catches on boot’s toe. He’s careful though, lest he scare off whatever barrack bunny or brave soldier is manning the hole tonight. If there is one. If.

It would feel silly, stupid even, if he’d been any less horny than he’d been maybe 10 minutes ago. But even now, after he’s had plenty of time to feel the iciness of the halls, his dick remains hard just beneath his trousers. He can feel the damp fabric now, as he stands in front of the not quite circular hole carved into the wall. At least it’s been sanded down, he thinks. Or not quite thinks, just a remark made to himself by some part of his brain that is trying to keep some resemblance of normalcy despite the absolutely stupid observation. His hands shake but he's not entirely sure if it’s from the reasonable anxiety of being caught, or the depraved way that he wishes he would be caught mid-act. He knocks on the wall. It’s shaky, like a stutter caught halfway through a sentence. He presses his forehead against the wall, heated skin soothed slightly by the cool surface. He bites down on his lower lip, eyes shut tight as his snaggletooth digs into the soft plush flesh. Anyone brave enough to come down to the other room, to service another person, is less brave and more suicidal. The risk is so high, the logic so far out the window. And he knows he’s just as reckless, waiting desperately for a hand to welcome him that shouldn’t be there. He whimpers when a minute passes and it seems there’s nobody there.

A hand reaches out before he can move away. It cups his front gently, the skin hidden by a dark brown glove. The gasp that leaves his lips is hoarse, he felt a drop of moisture clinging on his eyelashes. His hands shake as he fumbles with his trousers’ buttons, rash and hurried in the way he flings them open to let the fabric pool at his feet, heedless of the now broken zipper and ripped off button. There isn’t a single second of hesitation, not a single moment of wondering whether or not the person on the other side would be willing to serve him. He doesn’t think, just presses the sharp jut of his hip bones flush against the wall, letting his mound and dick disappear into the hole. His arms rest tensely by either side of his head, shoulder width apart and flexed with the effort to not whimper out loud as the hand comes back up to trace the curve of Gaz’s mound. The hand moves gently through the thick bush of hair, moving further down at a taunting pace to dig gently and tease the hood of his cock, making Gaz rumble out a groan straight from his wildly beating heart. It’s cut off by a whine when the hand retreats. There’s a muffled shushing sound on the other side. And it’s true, he should be quieter. Especially tonight that any little sound can land either of them in hellish-levels of reprobation. But the touch feels so good, and Gaz is so damn desperate that when he feels a warm pair of lips wrap carefully around the head of his t-dick, he has to slap a hand over his mouth. Even so, the little cry he lets out is loud, despite being muffled by his own hand. He feels a soft stubble brush against the hypersensitive skin of his mound, ghosting over a tiny part of his inner thighs.

The suction of your mouth is heavenly around the head. A warm, tight heat wrapping around the sensitive organ and drawing more blood into its surface. It’s borderline painful when you suck more and more of his dick into your mouth, dropping your mouth open and letting your tongue loll out so Gaz rubs the sensitive head against the rough surface of your tongue. Gaz’s thighs ache. The soft muscles of his thighs tense and relax to the beat of his heartbeat, to each throb of his t-dick. The muscles jiggle as he adjusts his stance, spreading his legs to give you more purchase. You take it in stride, lapping at his wet cunt with eager skill. You lick all the way from his perineum to the base of his dick, running your tongue through the soft curls framing the swollen inner folds dripping with slick and precum. And as you reach his dick again, you let your upper teeth graze the sensitive bundle of nerves, relishing in the accompanying muffled yell.

The pleasure is dizzying. It’s like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, chest rapidly expanding and contracting as he pants and moans as quietly as he can. He’s got his hand against his mouth, palm fully covering it to muffle his sounds to the best of his ability. His face is turned to the side with his cheek pressed against the cold wall.

It’s like you can’t get enough. He can feel the way you get more and more desperate, bringing your hand back up again just to tentatively sink a finger in his wet cunt. Gaz cries out, throwing his head back. His hand slaps against the wall, stabilising him as his knees buckle under him. A small strand of drool slips from the corner of his lips as he pants and whines, his hips slapping against the wall with small thrusts. Your mouth joins your finger, wrapping around his dick again and suckling on it. A constant, gentle suction that brings tears to his eyes. The wet sounds of your single finger slowly rocking in and out, crooking inside him and rubbing against his silky walls, while your tongue traces the slight edge of his head drive him insane. Your nose is pressed flush against his mound, and he can feel how heavily you’re breathing. You’re essentially sniffing him with every inhale, although you don’t seem to really mind his heavy, musky scent. He tastes so good, each taste bud sending sharp signals to your brain, encouraging you to taste more and more of him.

You’re both so lost in the pleasure, that the creak of the door opening is completely lost on you both. And so are the footsteps that follow, and then the sound of the door clicking shut. The footsteps are light as paper, so in a way, neither of you can really be blamed for missing it. The click of the door, though, is a clear warning, the owner of the hand wrapped around the knob hidden expertly behind the shadows of the room’s furniture. He makes no move to muffle the sound of it, the sound ringing throughout the room. But even so, neither of you hear it over the sighs of Gaz’s pleasure.

It isn’t until a pale hand slaps down over Gaz’s mouth that the poor man realises that maybe it hadn’t been as quiet as he thought.

He tries pulling away at first, arms scrambling to slap and push at the body behind him. It’s cut short by a thick, scarred arm wrapping around his arms and midsection; rendering them useless by his sides without much effort. His hips buck back as his body pushes against the body behind him, until-

“Settle down, Sergeant,” the voice is rough, louder than a whisper from the sheer inability to go any quieter, “thought I heard your boots down my hall.”

At the sound of scrambling on the other side, his boot slams down onto the wall right below the hole. It makes you yelp, and your hands slam against the wall to give you the leverage to push off of it. There’s the sound of snapping, before the chain around your neck falls off to hang from the lower curve of the hole. There’s only a moment of hesitation before you stand up on shaky legs to run to your room’s door. However, as you push and turn the handle of the door, the door itself does not budge or even rock with each of your shoves and slams against it.

“Shit-!” You kick the door, before slumping to sit down against it. Effectively trapped. Looking over your shoulder at the handle, you notice a keyhole in the metal just below the handle and groan. So caught up in sucking off the pretty sergeant that you never heard Ghost locking the room from outside the door. And not only that, you were stupid enough to let your dog tags get caught beneath the Lieutenant’s sole, now trapped on the other side of the wall, where you can’t reach. The chain had slid into the other side too, so there was no hope of trying to paw it out of the lieutenant’s reach. You watch as the chain begins to slide and fall into the otherside fully, the sound of the sole of Ghost’s combat boot scraping down the wall sending your heart pounding. In fear? For sure. But also in mind numbing arousal. Your cock still hasn’t flagged and you’re grateful that neither of them can see that.

Gaz has stopped struggling by now. Too dizzy in the feeling of the Lieutenant’s grip on him even as fear pumps heavily from his chest into his limbs. His dick twitches traitorously against the cold air of the room, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the feeling of wetness collecting right below his hood just for it to drip loudly against the floor. The lieutenant curls over Gaz’s heaving body, letting his chest rest on Gaz’s broad back. A chuckle reverates, seems to echo in Gaz’s chest, and he moans into the hand keeping him muffled.

“Thought you were smarter than this, Sergeant.” The arm wrapped around his limbs falls away, dragging down his pretty, dark chest just to let his fingers catch on the tip of Gaz’s left nip. “Coming here when you know us higher-ups are just looking for an excuse to berate any soldier caught red-handed where he shouldn’t be. And yet here you are, handing me the opportunity on a silver platter.” The tips of his fingers trace around his darkened areola, flicking the hard nub for a second before the rough digits pinch it. Seeing that Gaz has calmed down, his other hand moves away from his mouth, hovering above it just in case Gaz tries to shout again.

“Lieutenant-” Gaz gasps, arms shooting up to rest against the wall. Holding himself up by his forearms.

“I know it’s obvious, but let me remind you, Sergeant. Be quiet.” The hand on Gaz’s chest is rough, fingers pinching and groping in a way that leaves him gasping wetly. “Any other person wouldn’t be as nice as I am now.”

His free hand presses against his navel, making Gaz yelp. He bites his lip, teeth sinking into the fat there to muffle the sound of his desperation. He can feel the way Ghost’s fingers course through his curly hair, moving further down to curl around the thick bush framing his cunt. He’s quivering with want, legs spreading invitingly as to tempt the Lieutenant’s large pale hand to move to his dick, to press each rough callus against the sensitive skin. For Ghost’s fingers to pull back the hood of his clit and pinch at the swollen flesh until he cries in the man’s strong arms.

His boot comes up to kick Gaz’s feet further apart, and the hand on his navel moves to wrap around his hip, pressing bruises into the dark skin and moving him with ease so that his stomach and abdomen are flush against the wall again. There’s a loud thud as Gaz’s chest hits the wall, and he shivers when he realises his crotch is pressed against the hole again.

You’re listening to the scuffle and muffled speaking from your cold side of the wall; but soon a sharp whistle breaks you out of it, making you perk up at the sound. It’s weirdly muffled, and you look up to see that the sergeant’s body seems to be covering the hole. Maybe that’s why it’s so muffled. Ghost pulls his hips back, and whistles again. And the sound of quick, continuous clicking comes through the hole clear as day. Realisation pours over you like a bucket of ice. He’s calling you over like a dog, cajoled back into position behind the hole like it’s what you’ve been trained to do. And like any trained dog, you heel. Crawling over as best you can, dick swinging between your legs as you flush, just to sit back on your heels behind the wall. Your hands press against each side of the hole, giving you slight stability. One hand ball into a fist and knocks on the wall, to confirm your position. A chuckle welcomes you. Then the sergeant’s hips are pressed against the wall once more, and you moan at the sight.

The taste of the sergeant is mouth-watering when you lean in to drag your tongue back over his folds. You take your time, dragging the tip of it over his hole and flicking the underside of his cock in the updrag. The sound of a yell being cut off is your reward, and consequently you share in the ecstasy of it by wrapping your chapped lips over his pulsing t-dick, and straining your ears to hear the sound of Ghost and Gaz.

On the other side, Gaz’s cheek is pressed against the cold wall. Held there by Ghost’s marred hand wrapped around his jaw and nape, keeping him pinned. His other hand resting and pushing against his lower back, brown eyes tracing the unnatural curve of the Sergeant’s spine.

“That gymnast background certainly comes in handy, Sergeant,” he murmurs into his ear, balaclava pulled up to rest on the bridge of his nose, “can’t imagine any other man with an arch like this.”

He feels the rough fabric of Ghost’s pants press against the bare skin of his ass, the Lieutenant’s hips slotting against him seamlessly. The hard bulge pressing right above the crease of his ass is heavy, barely kept in his trousers by whatever pair of underwear the man had decided to wear today. He’d rock his ass back to feel it better, if he could. But the firm hand on the base of his spine keeps him pinned and pliable against the wall, only really bothering to try and weakly push his luck by rubbing against Ghost as best as he can. The action causes his hips to move away from the hole just slightly, and yet the whine that claws its way out of your throat is deafening in both rooms. And Gaz can’t help but rut against your desperate tongue as you chase after the taste of him.

Maybe it’s the way Gaz keeps squirming and undulating in his hold, or maybe it’s the wet, desperate sounds you keep making from your own side of the wall. But Ghost can’t help but bring a hand down to loosen the buttons of his jeans and push the thick fabric down just enough for the bulge in his briefs to poke out. He’s quick to pull out his dick, slapping it down to rest back between the dimples on Gaz’s lower back. His cock is heavy, thick in the palm of his hand. The tip is an angry red, and leaking all over the Sergeant’s pretty skin; he moves both his hands to grip at his hips, and sinks each thumb into the dip of Garrick’s back dimples just to watch the way the sergeant shivers and arches his hips further into his grasp. It’s tempting, to just guide his dick lower and lower and just sink into that wet heat that the poor soldier is lapping up on the other side. Sink all eight inches in there and leave something for the boy to lap up once he’s done. But he’s a smarter man than that, a more unyielding man than those young cadets who would sink their dick into any wet hole without thinking of the consequences. So he buries his face into Gaz’s shoulder instead, nipping and dragging crooked teeth over tense muscle. He turns his head, beginning to tease and lick at the little spot beneath Gaz’s ear, over his jaw.

“‘M gonna fuck your thighs, Sergeant,” he breathes, voice rough and thick, like sandpaper, “and you’re gonna let our little dog on the other side service us both.”

It’s an order that he can’t even follow. All he can do is moan and move to press his legs tightly together, to give Ghost something slick to fuck himself into. Because his slick is all over his inner thighs, stray drops of it crawl down the side of his leg just to get soaked up by his field uniform trousers. He pushes his ass back, his head tilting back to rest the back of it on the thick plane of Ghost’s shoulder. Exposing the tender curve of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple. He feels Ghost drags his dick down past the curve of his ass and begins to prod the head between his thighs. Slowly, excruciatingly so, his thick cock sinks between his thighs. Rubbing and pressing on his pussy lips, and the tip bumping fleetingly against the sensitive underside and crown of his clit. His thighs buck and tense, and Ghost has to press his forehead between Gaz’s shoulder blades to stop himself from moving too fast. He wants to enjoy it, to savour the slick pressure of Gaz’s inner thighs around his dick, the fat and muscle wrapping perfectly around his dick and he’s afraid that once his hips press against Gaz’s ass, that the tip of his dick might not even peek out on the other side. It’s warm and wet, and he can feel each muscle ripple and flex as Gaz fights to keep himself still. He almost wishes he’d have sunk himself into Gaz’s wet cunt instead, and can imagine just how hot and silky his walls would feel around him. How he’d tremble and shake to fit his fat cock in. But this is just as good. To feel the Sergeant’s thighs around him and knowing that the soldier on the other side of the wall will lick at the head of his cock too, eager to please his higher-ups.

You draw back, nose, mouth and chin wet with Gaz’s slick and eyes half-lidded in pleasure. The pressure in your trousers is agonizing, and so you reach down to undo your trousers, as you watch Gaz’s lower body through the hole. You watch, as his thighs twitch, and as between them, something causes the surrounding muscle and fat to dent and furrow, until the head of Ghost’s cock peeks through just the tiniest amount. The red tip squished between dark thighs and dripped precum down the crease of them. And it looks so tasty, you can't help but lick your lips. Just a little push more, and the tip fully pokes out from between his thighs. And you're too focused on your own pleasure, too wrapped up in the feeling of finally fishing out your own erection from the confines of your underwear, that all you do is watch as Ghost seems to begin thrusting at an even pace. Just watching the head disappear every other second, and matching the pace with your hand around your cock. Gaz's own dick pulses with each thrust, so neglected that you can see each throb run down the small length of it.

There's a sharp whistle, quick and unforgiving. And you dive back in, palming yourself as you bury your face back between Gaz's legs. It's a hard job, this time. Trying to focus on both Gaz's cock and the tip of Ghost's, switching frequently as to not leave one or the other too neglected. Because every time you get lost in the taste of Ghost’s spongy head, Gaz’s whines grow in volume and he smacks his hips brashly into the wall. And if you focus too long on suckling on Gaz’s clit, Ghost’s knuckles rap against the wall as if to remind you to service them both; to forgo favouritism and give him a little helping hand, too.

Gaz’s first orgasm of the night comes from a stroke of pure luck. The length of Ghost’s cock shifts and gets pushed up higher by the fat of his dark thighs, and the head catches on the underside of Gaz’s own cock, just as teeth graze the sensitive bundle of nerves of his crown when you drag away from it. The sight he makes is picture worthy, makes the Lieutenant wish he’d brought his camera along. Swollen, teeth-bitten lips falling open in a breathless gasp, as Gaz’s pretty brown eyes roll back and his eyelids drop and close to leave just a sliver of white visible. His Adam's apple bobs, the skin highlighted by the thin-coating of sweat just to tempt Ghost into sinking his teeth into him and never letting go. Each muscle in his body tenses and contorts, the dim light through the window defining each line of tense ligaments, even despite the late hour.

But it doesn’t matter how pretty he looks as he comes undone; or maybe it’s because of how pretty it looks that Ghost wants to continue. But whichever one it is, the outcome is the same. Ghost’s hands wrapping around those twitching hips and rutting harder and harder, angling himself to hit that sweet spot with each thrust, just to hear the cries and yells from the sergeant. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore that they have to be quiet, not when the sound of Gaz being double teamed by a goddamn rookie and his own Lieutenant was so delightful. Ripping down the Sergeant’s charismatic persona, just to work him into depravity. Working him enough that he seems to be dragged into the second orgasm of the night.

His eyes are unfocused as he feels a pressure in his abdomen. It takes a few more mind numbing thrusts, and another stronger yet disappointingly empty orgasm for Gaz to realise that not everything is going straight as planned. The pressure in his bladder is unavoidable now and, as Ghost crowds him closer to the wall, the constant shoving makes it much clearer and much more painful. But it’s hard to talk around the fog in his head, tongue heavy and unresponsive as it begins to loll out of his mouth. He gasps wetly, hands moving clumsily again to push at Ghost’s hips and to try and push your head away too. There’s a loud whine from you, as Gaz’s hand finds your mouth and pushes against it. Your tongue lapping at the space between his fingers in an attempt to appease him. Ghost is less lenient. He chooses, instead, to dip his head down and sink his teeth into Gaz’s nape, fingers digging hard into the fat of his hips in a way that’ll bruise and sting in the next coming days with any movement.

“Lieutenant-”

A growl reverates through his spine, turning to shivers half way.

“LT, please- I need-” There’s his hand again, scrambling to hook into the loop of Ghost’s jeans and push him back. “Just a minute, please! I need to- to use the bathroom. Won’t take long at all just-”

“What’s stopping you?”

Gaz’s forehead smacks into the wall. Eyes shaking with the effort to focus despite LT’s cockhead sliding against his.

“Well?”

“I don’t, I don’t think I understa-and, LT.”

Ghost leans further into him, like he’s trying to mould the shape of Gaz into his front. Like he’s trying to carve the shape of him into his chest. The hand on his right hip slides around to lay flat against his stomach before dragging down and down. Until his index and middle fingers are framing his t-dick, pinching it between the fat digits and causing Gaz’s knees to buckle. He pulls it up, ignoring the pulsing that Gaz is sure he can feel even through those thick calluses dragging into his sensitive skin.

“Go then. I’m sure our boy will appreciate the drink too.”

Gaz’s hand slips from your face then. His fingers drag down your lower face until they drop entirely off of it. Once freed, you’re happy to sink your face back between his folds, lapping at the space between the Lieutenant’s fingers to give attention to the Sergeant’s clit. And he cries. Fat globs running down his already sweat-soaked face, overwhelmed by the feeling of so many things hitting him at once. An orgasm rips through him, a weak moan falling off his lips as he tries to regain his bearings.

The Lieutenant’s cock digs deeper between his thighs, and he can feel Ghost’s other hand move it up closer to his folds. He can’t see it, with how blurry his vision is with tears. He can feel the pressure double, his dick feeling sore and bruised from the sheer amount of pressure and stimulation it’s taking. Unused to it all, having jumped from jerking off every two nights to being taken apart by two military personnels who seemed to know his body better than himself. And it’s getting harder to hold himself back, his brain is too scrambled and he’s a good soldier, a good boy. And-

"Piss, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

The words, mixed with the fourth orgasm of the night, act as a sort of sedative. Like the type he’d seen Captains and medics use with unrulier soldiers, the sort that took seconds to send a body limp. And that’s what it feels like, as his body drops just for Ghost to pick up the slack once more, one arm coming to hold him upright. The other-

His hand is still holding his crotch, fingers pulling his dick up to keep his folds open as his bladder empties right on your face. You aren’t stupid, had heard Gaz’s useless begging. And despite your dignity, if you truly had any left, you lap up that too. It’s hot, and bitter, and would be gross, if you were any less dirty. But like any good dog, you lick up the treat as it comes, giving up on getting it all in your mouth and settling on the fact that you’ll just have to be covered in it. It runs down your lower face and past your neck, soaking up the front of your shirt and spilling onto your sweatpants and boxers. It goes on forever, until the stream begins to lessen and dribble, until all there is left are a few little droplets. Which you clean up of course.

You pull away then, a strangled groan leaving you as your hand tightens around your hard dick, and pumps once, twice just to spill all over the dirty floor, mixing with the piss and the sweat.

“Good boy, soldier. Stay there.”

There’s the sound of a body being set down on the floor, soft mumblings that you can’t quite make out through the wall. Then footsteps, petering out slowly until all you can hear is your own heartbeat in between your ears and the soft breathing of somebody on the other side. Probably Gaz. Then there’s the sound of the door, and light from the hallway streaming in from it.

The silhouette of Ghost in the doorway should be terrifying. And really, it does send your heart hammering in your chest. But your dick also twitches feebly between your thighs, slowly chubbing up again from its softened state. You can’t help but glance down at yourself. But there’s nothing left to salvage. Your clothes are dark from the piss and sweat soaking the material, and you just look a mess. The mere seconds it takes the Lieutenant to amble over to you it’s useless for you to do anything but watch, rapt, as his body begins to loom over you. He stops just a few inches from you, face level with his hips and with his dick, still sticking out from the gap of his zipper and rock hard.

“You look filthy,” he says without preamble, “didn’t know we raised street dogs.”

You shiver, eyes half-lidded and wet. You cough weakly, face tilting to look at the floor. His hand comes down to rest on your head, before curling his hand to pull your face up to meet his again. The other hand grabs at your chin, the thumb dragging over your jaw before digging into your cheek and prying your mouth open. Saliva connects your tongue to the roof.

“You’re gonna let me use you to get off,” he mumbles, fingers tightening around your jaw, “and then I’m sure Gaz will be happy to use you again.”

He brings you closer, till the head of his dick traces your lower lip, precum shiny against the skin. Your tongue darts out to lick at it, and he takes it as a green light to sink his cock into your throat. It doesn’t take long at all, really. His dick throbbing in your mouth by the fourth thrust, his hands moving to hold the sides of your head by the time your throat begins hurting. He’s using you as a fleshlight, unforgiving and relentless. He sinks the full length as he comes, his balls slapping on your chin and becoming slick with whatever come you fail to swallow and instead let dribble past the corners of your mouth.

He pulls back, and you gasp. Licking at your mouth for whatever you can reach that way. You look up, to Gaz leaning against the wall behind Ghost.

"Round two?”

Credit to Cafekitsune for their gorgeous dividers!

[beemovieerotica]

sorry to start discourse again but I'm going to keep making the comparison between maleness and whiteness when other transmascs try to genuinely argue that they're being discriminated against because they're male, until it sinks in

conversation that just happened: guy acknowledged that society is set up to let men succeed, and minorities are upset about this. sometimes they direct their frustration at individual men for being complicit in the system. guy argues that this is something that needs to be addressed and we need to fight back against anti-male hatred.

conversation that is also happening amongst white people: society is set up to let white people succeed, and minorities are upset about this. sometimes they direct their frustration at individual white people for being complicit in the system. white people also argue that "hatred toward white people" is a substantial problem that needs to be addressed.

what's the difference? both are reactions to immense structural power, and the perceived aggressors are acting on isolated impulse without societal support. they face consequences for challenging someone who has maleness / whiteness on their side and are fighting upward against embedded cultural pressures. for all intents and purposes, the hatred is occurring in smaller communities outside the mainstream, where those expressing animosity do not determine the material conditions of the recipient, e.g. access to housing, job opportunities, etc.

there are intersections with each of these identities that will alter the circumstances, but with all other things being equal, two people expressing animosity toward each other who differ on one of these axes will experience the asymmetry of societal / institutional power. society will favor a white able bodied trans man over a white able bodied trans woman. society will favor a white nonbinary autistic person over a brown nonbinary autistic person. you can qualify your specific experience with other facets of your identity but you cannot outright negate the benefits ascribed to you by maleness and/or whiteness, no matter the level of attachment you feel toward that label.

does it suck to have people dislike you? sure does. does it suck to have people assume you're part of the problem when you're doing your best not to? of course. does this warrant a response on the level of "I'm facing *discrimination* for being white/male"? no, and I'm sorry that people in your community are being rude. but you need to understand that using terms that allude to widescale inequalities for something that is happening to you on an interpersonal level is at best naive, and at worst minimizing the constant struggle that other marginalized people go through on the other side of the axis - and someone's occasional lapse in composure when they say something harsh to you in response to their daily confrontation with mind-numbing bigotry is not the point.

this equally goes for measures meant to correct for historical institutional & social inequalities: if you are genuinely looking at support services and opportunities for women and thinking that it's a point of discrimination that you're not allowed to access these now that you're a man, please also consider the majority opinion in this country where white people believe that colleges reserving spots for black people is unfairly discriminating against them. the reactions to institutional inequalities, and the efforts to re-balance the scales, are not themselves discrimination warranting your contempt.

[stevieschrodinger]

TW for Eddie getting hurt (but he's okay). And Human Trafficking.

Link to part Two

Steve leans against Carol's desk, "here are your messages, I fobbed off the Times interview - they're going to email you their questions instead." He's listening to Carol, but he's watching, frowning.

There's a man in his office.

"Lunch call with the Singapore office is on. Your suite for the gala is back from the dry cleaners, it's in your bathroom."

"Right, the gala," Steve answers absently. It's a corner office, lots of glass, so it's impossible to miss the man in his office. The man who is calmly, right now, looking at the framed photo Steve has of his parents. It's basically a prop, Steve never got on with them, but that is not the point. Some random guy is touching Steve's shit.

"And my nine thirty?"

"Had to move it, don't worry, they were fine about it."

"Right," Carol's leaning over the desk now, watching the man right along with Steve, "I assume that's why you had to cancel my nine thirty."

"Uh hu," she's tapping her nails on the top of the desk, and she's so fucking infuriating, if she wasn't so fucking good at her job Steve would have booted her years ago.

"You're going to make me ask aren't you??

Carol gives him a massive shit eating grin, "ask what, sir?"

"Jesus fucking christ," Steve sighs, "who is that in my office."

"Not sure," Carol shrugs, grinning because she's pleased she's being such a dick, "security brought him up," she leans over the desk, whispering like she's imparting a secret, "pretty sure they said something that sounded like FBI."

And then she sits down, tapping at her computer and painting her nails or doing whatever it is she does all day. Harassing mail boys, probably. God she's like a fucking shark, but that what Steve gets, he wanted a competent secretary, what he got was a fucking guard dog.

Steve's not complaining. He'd been weary of hiring a female Alpha and then shoving her behind a desk, but it turns out Carol is terrifyingly efficient and fucking fearless, so it's kind of a win win.

Steve stares at the man in his office for a second longer, trying to figure out what the fuck he's done. he wonders if he's somehow accidentally committed major tax fraud, or something. He's pretty sure he hasn't, but the panic spiral is sitting there, looking inviting, anyway.

Steve goes into his office, and the man turns. He's tall, well built, kind of portly with age, maybe, but Steve still wouldn't fuck with the guy. He's not wearing blockers of any sort, so Steve's office now smells of strange, uninvited, Alpha. Great.

"Jim Hopper," he says, extending his hand, "FBI."

"Steve Harrington," Steve replies, even though he's certain it's pointless, this guy knows exactly who he is.

The guy is already producing paperwork as Steve takes his seat on the other side of his desk, "standard non disclosure, Mr. Harrington."

Steve gives it a once over, he's signed enough of these, and been involved with the legal team enough, that he feels confident enough. He signs it, knowing he won't get any answers until he does.

"I'll get right to it, time is tight. I've been working to dismantle an Omega trade ring for nearly eighteen months now. We're almost ready to move, teams are in place, inks drying on the warrants, cells are all picked out."

Steve nods, okay. He knew Omega trade was a thing, a barbaric, highly illegal thing. Human trafficking of the worst form, he gestures for Hopper to continue.

"If we go in now, we will likely get a few of the higher ups, we'll rescue approximately two dozen Omega, it'll be a success." Steve goes to speak, wondering what the fuck this has to do with him, Hopper waves him down, "we've been here before; I've made this mistake once before. If we don't get the people at the top, this thing will grow back in a years time. I want them all."

Steve gets that. His head is spinning a little. He knows things like this go on, you see about it on the news, but it does sound a bit...like a spy movie.

Hopper puts a photograph on Steve's desk, "you know this man?"

And Steve does. They're not what Steve would call friends; more of a good tempered rivalry. And yeah, Steve had Daddy's money, but Tommy had his Daddy's company. They came up at the same time, went after the same deals. Move in the same circles, Steve's known him for years. Steve's disliked him for years, "you're not suggesting Tommy Hagan is...the head of some sort of, human slavery outfit?" Knowing how ruthless Tommy can be, how questionable his methods are...Steve's still struggling to see him as...this.

"I'm not suggesting it. I'm telling you as fact. You've known him a long time, and we have to move fast. The charity gala tonight, you'll both be there."

"Right, sure, but I don't exactly see what I can do about this."

"Hagan moves the...high end product. Very exclusive, very expensive. They keep them at a ranch, just out of state," and that's kind of uncomfortable, because Steve's been to the ranch for a business lunch, so he knows exactly the place Hopper is talking about. And, jesus, Steve had thought at the time Tommy had a lot of Omega staff. A lot of really well behaved Omega staff - at the time, Steve thought Tommy was just being his usual dick self. Just showing off wealth. Fuck, if some of those Omega were actually, like, prisoners- "drop a hint to Hagan, tonight. Tell him you're getting itchy, fancy yourself an Omega. A traditional one, timid. Say whatever you need to say, get yourself an invite out there."

Steve takes a deep breath, nodding. He can do that. He can play that; he might have to wear blockers, his opinion of Tommy is in the gutter on a good day, never-mind this.

"That's all you need?"

Hopper shifts forward in his chair, "look, you're ideal. On the periphery, you've known each other a long time, but not well. He knows exactly the kind of clout you have, your bank balance, you're the perfect person to do this."

It's not hard to find information on Steve Harrington, he's thirty first on the Forbes 100 list, but clearly Hopper, at the very least, has taken notice.

"How do you know I'm not already involved?"

Hopper snorts, "kid. We know. Also, you just asked me that question, and your balls ain't that brassy."

Steve can't deny it, he shrugs, "so, what else?"

"Get an invite. Go there wearing a wire. Meet Tommy, pick an Omega. You'll be trusted; we will fit a listening device. Hagan's wriggled out of this sort of thing before; evidence like that, there'll be no court in the country that won't convict him."

Steve feels awkward. He knows there's a device on him somewhere; Hopper had taken his phone for ten minutes, and brought it back with a different suit jacket for him to wear.

That had been at half five this morning, standing on Steve's back porch. And as he pulls into the ranch, he has the air con on full blast because fucking hell, he's sweaty when he's nervous.

Hopper had made this sound easy; the ranch is pretty safe. Only a couple of armed guards. Plus, he's Steve Harrington; you can't just disappear a guy like Steve.

Hopper had sounded so certain, the cherry of his cigarette bright in the pre dawn mist. He'd even slapped Steve's shoulder, told him he was saving lives. Steve had felt like a fucking super hero for about twenty minutes, until reality and fucking nerves had swamped him.

But here he is, walking up the front steps to the ranch house, Tommy Hagan grinning big, "hope you brought the black card," Tommy jokes as they bro hug.

Because that's not creepy.

Tommy had given Steve a smirk at the Gala last night, was confident he had exactly what Steve was looking for. Knew, for the right price, exactly what would scratch Steve's itch. Not like he was talking about real fucking human beings or anything.

Steve's real glad he went thick on the blockers; he's certain Tommy would be choking on the scent of his disgust by now.

They bring them in during lunch. Steve sitting, eating fucking cornbread and home made slaw and he just can't. He nibbles, feeling sick with nerves. Tommy doesn't even seem to notice. Steve can't help but stare at him, someone he's known most of his life and now...he's been revealed as something vile and subhuman. Steve has to work hard to keep the disgust off his face.

Something that gets even more difficult when the Omega are brought it and lined up, all wearing the same diaphanous nightdresses regardless of gender. Every single one of them could be a contender for the most beautiful thing Steve's ever seen. Every single one of them could be a model, or something.

They're lined up in height order; the last one in, the tallest, a male Omega. He's limping.

He's leaving bloody footprints on the fancy parquet flooring.

Tommy must catch Steve's face, "the unruly ones need to be disciplined, and that one is more...difficult than most. Refuses to learn. And we don't want to damage the product anywhere that'll be visible, obviously."

Steve has to breathe through his nose so he doesn't throw up. All the Omega are wearing blockers; probably because the scent of Omega distress would be so off putting.

Tommy waves a hand, "get him out of here, he's bleeding on the rug," and the Omega winces, as he turns. he's got lots of shiny dark curls. Everything about all the Omega is pristine, perfectly maintained hair, nails, flawless skin. The smear of blood on his ankle is even more stark for it, and Steve can't help but stare as the Omega gamely takes what looks like a very painful, shuffling step away again.

"Him," Steve says before he can stop himself, "I want him."

The Omega turns back, looking at Steve with huge, beautiful brown eyes. He's hopeful and fearful all at once, and it tears Steve up inside. He wants to buy all of them, get all of them out of here, but knows he can't. If he does anything to raise suspicion he could fuck the whole thing.

At least he has Hopper's word that the rest of them will be out of here by the end of today.

Tommy scoffs, "Steve, come on, have a proper look. Don't pick that one. Get a pretty one."

Steve wants to swear at Tommy because they're all fucking pretty, ridiculously so, "no, he'll do."

"Oh," Tommy laughs, "I get it, just gonna' wreck him anyway, right? That's fair, can always get another," and he's laughing again and suddenly Steve is dragged into a very detailed conversation about how to move funds - from where and to where, which Steve does. It's an amount of money that under any other circumstances would make Steve's eyes water - but in the face of a human being in pain, Steve doesn't even blink.

It doesn't feel like Steve takes a breath until he's on the interstate, the Omega curled up on the seat next to him. No possessions, no clothes, no bag.

Nothing.

And that had gutted Steve as much as anything else.

"Look, uh, hey, you have a name?"

"Eddie," the Omega answers quietly.

"Right. Eddie. So. This is...well it's going to sound a bit wild but...I'm kind of here for the FBI. I mean. I don't work for them, or anything, but...I was...asked, I guess, to get evidence. So don't worry about everyone else, they're getting rescued later so. That's. A thing, I guess?"

Eddie's just blinking at him.

"Yea. Yeah, I guess that's a lot to take in. But we can talk about it...later? Do you have family? Like, shit, do you have somewhere to go? I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to actually like...buy, a person. Couldn't leave you there though."

"I've...I've got an uncle. Haven't seen him for years. I don't...know."

"Right, right okay. We can talk to Hopper about it," Steve spots a drive through, "you hungry?"

Eddie turns and sees the McDonald's, "oh fuck me yes," he breathes with such vehemence that Steve laughs, "I haven't left the ranch for two years, and they never let us eat anything like that, it's bad for our skin. Plus, we have to stay thin and pretty."

That kills Steve's laughter stone dead.

Hopper rubs at his forehead, "you were not supposed to buy a human being."

"I know but-" Steve turns, Eddie standing behind him, which on it's own makes Steve wince. Eddie's barefoot on the asphalt, half hidden behind Steve, still wearing nothing but that scrap of white fabric. It's now a little smeared with the fry grease Eddie had shamelessly wiped off his fingers. Steve hands over his phone and the suite jacket.

Hopper waves him off, "you did good."

Hopper does something to the back of Steve's phone, peeling something away from it, before giving it back, "somewhere I can take you kid? Any family?"

"I only have an uncle, but I don't...it's been years, I haven't seen him since I was little."

Hopper rubs is hand over his face, the rasp of stubble loud, before he lights another cigarette, "I'll have to find you a motel somewhere while we figure this out."

"He can stay with me." Steve's volunteering before he can really think it though, "I've got...a lot of space," he trails off. He did just rescue this Omega after all, he's not just going to abandon him to be alone somewhere. Somewhere that might not even be safe for a lone Omega.

Hopper raises an eyebrow at Eddie, Eddie shrugs, "not like I've had any better offers lately."

Hopper snorts, but he hands over a business card, "this is highly unorthodox, but...I don't care. I've got bigger things to worry about. Text me any details the kid can give you on the uncle. I'll be in touch."

And then Hopper just...drives away. It's maybe an hour and a half drive back from here, since Steve had to go out of his way for this clandestine meeting in an abandoned car lot.

"So is there anything you...want? Need?"

Eddie seems to think about it for a second, plucking at his nightshirt, "I mean, I don't have any cash, obviously, and I heard how much money you shelled out- I mean, do you think you can comp me from the FBI? Man, you didn't even get a receipt for me."

Steve starts laughing first, then Eddie joins in.

At Eddie's request they get milkshakes on the way home.

[bambisnc]

          . . swimming through the cherry sky

° ˖ ➴ “forget whatever you think you knew. vampires exist.”

### . STARRING ⌢ n.rk ⋆ suggestive? + 1.3k // unedited + roommate trope + blood drinking ˖ ✧

🗨️ .. ⌞ XOXO ⌝ vamki enthusiasts hi + alt vrs hidden somewhere in txt + [m.list]

you've had your suspicions for a while now. the irregular, conspicuous late nights. the stains that eerily resemble dried blood and something else you can’t quite name but feel in your bones. an instinct that something was odd.

but bless your heart, you just can't bring yourself to actually accuse your roommate, nishimura riki, of anything.

besides, what would you have even said, anyway? 

"hey, roommate! what a wonderful day it is today, huh? the weather sure is … happening! by the way, if i may ask, is there any chance that you might be a bloodthirsty, monstrous creature? just curious haha!"

yeah. that wouldn't work. obviously.

not that you had the ability to even stay in the same room as him long enough to put together a few coherent words. but merely the air around him was enough to have shivers running down your spine. and yet, the worst part of it all? 

he’s never actually tried anything to cause harm to you. never once warranted your fears. which only makes you feel like you’re losing your damn mind.

so you do the only thing you can do. watch from a distance; observe. bide your time and keep trying to piece things together while ensuring to stay as far away as you possibly can. which, considering you live together, is pretty much next to impossible.

and then, after months of feeling like the tension would just about eat you alive, something finally happens. 

it had been a relatively slow day. your roommate had kept to himself as usual, doing nothing out of the ordinary. nothing you could consider hard proof, that is. 

having decided on an early night for yourself, you were in bed, adorned with comfortable night clothes. that was when you’d heard it. 

a dull thump! 

followed up, as if on cue, by a low, guttural groan. the pain in the raspy noise was clear enough to make your stomach twist. against your better judgement, curse you for being soft-hearted, you leave the comfort the safety of your room and towards the adjacent hallway. the door in front of you was slightly ajar, ink like shadows spilling out.

and then you see him.

hunched over, collapsed by the edge of his bed, barely able to hold himself up. riki looks too pale – ashen, almost, like all the warmth has been drained from his body. his breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps. he looks like he’s seconds from death’s door.

your entrance wasn’t as quiet as you’d meant for it to be however. he lifts his head, with a considerable amount of exertion, letting his gaze – dark, unreadable – meet yours. when he speaks, it’s hushed. completely unlike the usual confident drawl he uses otherwise. 

“it’s dangerous for you to be in here when i’m like this.”

“what-” you swallow down all the questions bubbling inside your throat. “... are you okay?..”

sure, this was probably the only opportunity you’d have with him this vulnerable but, you can’t bring yourself to take advantage of his weakened state. you venture a little closer to him, to properly be able to appraise his condition, despite your entire being begging you not to.

barely being able to hear his answer, you lean closer still to be able to pick up on the yet again hesitant, reluctant mumble, “i … haven’t fed in a while.”

your heart goes cold. you can all but feel the blood rushing into your ears as you struggle to process what riki just said. obviously, he doesn’t mean that in the literal sense. right?

but before you can even reach a conclusion, decide whether or not to let your flight instinct take control and rush out of here, call someone, anyone for help — with a fluid motion, you find your positions completely switched.

your back meets the hard edge of the bed with a jolt. he kneels in front of you now, towering. his frame eclipses yours, one arm braced on the bed, the other steadying himself on the floor. you can tell he isn’t even putting much effort, but he’s able to cage you in without even trying. no longer can you delude yourself into thinking you have any semblance of control over the situation. 

there’s no mistaking it. not with that look in his eyes, the pupils fast dilating – were they always tinged that slight shade of … red? there can be no more excuses, no more pretending that you’re just being paranoid. because this … 

… this is real.

“this isn’t happening. it can’t be.” you whisper, as if saying it out loud will manifest it into existence. as if it’ll wake you up from whatever bad fever dream this is.

he looks almost amused, for a second. lips twitching as if he finds your denial to be funny. 

and then he’s leaning in closer, closer until … something sharp grazes against your delicate neck. your breath hitches sharply at the sensation. 

“forget whatever you think you knew.” his voice is steadier than it was earlier. more certain, more sure of itself. “vampires exist.” ...

where riki’s lips ghost over your neck, his touch is featherlight but somehow still constricting. he tilts your head slightly, movements agonizingly slow exposing it even more to himself.

“can i?..” his voice is strained, as he grits out the words but you appreciate the warning. 

even if it might not be of any actual meaning, “do i have a choice?”

“not really, no. i’m sorry.” 

and then, a sharp, electric sting as his fangs pierce your skin.

the pain flashes for only a moment, though, before a haze-like dizziness takes its place. sinking into your bones, making your limbs go weaker than they felt before.

his free hand shifts from the floor – after he gains some semblance of his former strength, you assume – and he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers digging into the skin as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the living world. it’s a strange sensation, to say the least. the action is rhythmic, if nothing else. 

only when a soft, barely audible gasp escapes you does he pull away, fangs retracting. 

his tongue licks against the open wound in what you would only later discover was supposed to be a means to soothe. before you even realize it, you’re reaching for him, clutching onto his shirt, albeit rather weakly in some sort of attempt of grounding yourself.

you don’t know what to say about it. you don’t even know how to feel.

but what you do know is that he’s still looking at you. eyes dark, lips stained red with your blood, chest rising and falling like he’s just barely holding himself together. 

looking at him like this, it’s clear as day that he needs more. the struggle, the desperation, the way he seems to be at war with himself. 

so you do what any good roommate would do, the words leaving you before you can second guess your decision. you offer yourself to him. 

“take what you need.”

his expression flickers. hesitation, shock, relief, aching. “you don’t have to—” he sounds like he wants to refuse, like he knows he should refuse. 

but when you tilt your head back slightly, just enough for the previous mark to be visible, you practically hear his resolve crack.

riki presses in close again, with more an ease this time and as the alien sensation you’re growing more and more familiar to takes over, you exhale a breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

“you.. fuck.” his voice is muffled between slow, languid sucks – unhurried, this time. more deliberate. “you’re a terrible roommate.” 

you huff out as best as you can, in your (slightly lightheaded) condition “hah... why is that?”  a pause. his thumb swipes over the place his lips had been seconds earlier, as if reassuring himself of your pulse. “because this means i owe you.”

𐙚 . regulars : none yet! ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[roseblog-rog]

I Guess I Do Belong in the Woman’s Room.

It’s always a scary endeavor: going into a public restroom as a trans person. There’s always that fear of being outed or shunned or screamed at or punished or SOMETHING. So many risks, all for pissing. But I digress, I have no time to worry due to how badly I have to go.

I enter the woman’s room to find a group of five girls doing makeup in the long mirror which spans the whole bathroom, lined with sinks and soap dispensers. The floor is white with recently cleaned tiles, the gray stalls packed together on the opposite side. The walls are a soft shade of pink that almost feels…comforting. Inviting.

Though no other people aside from the group appear to be in here, I move quick. I swiftly and quietly do my business and exit the stall to wash my hands, moving to the opposide side away from the group of girls, who are now giggling and applying their different colored lipstick. They’re all really fucking pretty, and I feel a warm blush creep up onto my face. I pray their laughter has nothing to do with me. That hope is short lived, however, as one of them—the one with red lips—speaks in a deep airy voice once I finish washing my hands.

“Hey girl, your fly is still open.”

Shit. Well that’s embarrassing. I nod and quickly fiddle with my zipper. I must’ve forgotten to zip it up after buttoning my pants with how much I was rushing to leave. Hopefully they didn’t notice my—

The one with pink lips speaks now, her voice being much higher and softer. “I’m sorry…but is that a bulge?”

Fuck. Now all five girls are glancing down at the bulge in my jeans. It looks so much more obvious in this new light. My face goes completely red.

“No! No. I uh…uhm…” I struggle to formulate an excuse, voice on the verge of cracking with how high and feminine I’m trying to make it combined with the tears starting to form my eyes. My worst fears were being realized, and the most embarrassing part is my gock begins twitching from all the attention.

Red chuckes and speaks again. “Hey, don’t worry girl. In case you haven’t noticed you’re not the only one packing here.”

The blunt response startles me, but with the invitation to look I now notice that all five of them also have bulges, though theirs are much harder than mine, which makes me shiver from…something.

“We didn’t mean to startle you.” Purple speaks in a rough, bright voice, elbowing Pink, who looks down in shame. “We were just, well,” she glances back down at my crotch and smirks “curious.”

“Yeah, sorry for the scary question. We get how it can be in public restrooms.” Pink looks incredibly guilty.

“Haha…yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to get so startled.” My voice settles in it’s natural state, which is still fairly feminine, though deep enough to warrant ‘suspicion’. The blush slowly fades from my face, the tears subside and my breath levels. I’m safe.

“Though I have to ask…why were you so afraid? You belong in here just like anyone else.” Blue pipes in with her quiet and monotone voice, raising an eyebrow at me.

I itch to leave, but something about the group is so comforting and intriguing that I endulge their curiosity. “Well…not really. I mean, I’m at a point in my transition where I’m much more feminine……” I trail off.

“But..?” Purple prompts.

“But I’m still so tall and lanky, my voice is deep, my stubble is annoyingly apparent…I guess I don’t feel pretty enough to be in here comfortably.”

The last member of the group, Orange, walks forward towards me at this response, clearly checking me out. I fidget in place as she gets closer. She’s taller than me, just an inch or two, but still noticeable as I slightly tilt my head up to look at her face. She’s beautiful. Her voice is so silky smooth it brings my blush right back onto my face.

“I think you’re pretty.”

I look down at the ground, my blush reaching embarrassing levels of red. I blush way too easily. “Thank you, uh, I think you’re pretty too.” I notice just how much my voice wobbles, whether it be from embarrassment or being so flustered.

Orange lifts her right hand up to my chin, using her pointer finger to gently lift my face back up to meet her gaze. I twitch again, ugh. “I mean it, how could you think you aren’t pretty enough to be here?”

She turns my body to face the mirror, and I really look at myself: my red and freckled face, my long blonde hair, my wide hips, my bulked up arms, my boobs…everything. Orange stands right behind me, softly smiling as she moves her hands down my waist. It feels so fucking good, I’ve always been so sensitive to touch…but…

“W..wait! I barely know you.” I stutter out as I move away from her. My hardening gock betrays my sentiment, but I ignore it.

Orange’s gaze softens. “That’s okay…forgive me for being so forward.” She glances down. “Though it seems like someone wants more.”

My face feels so hot I think I might just die. I can barely even get any words out, just mindless stutters. The only word I manage to speak before my mind completely blanks is “Please.”

Orange’s gaze darkens with a smirk. “Girls! Let’s help her realize just how pretty she is.”

The five of them now crowd around me, moving me so I once again face the mirror. I’m shaking, my now fully erect gock starting to drip as Red lifts my shirt off of me. Pink goes to undo my jean button and zipper while Black pulls them down. Blue undoes my bra while Orange once again begins feeling up my now exposed body. Despite the circumstances it feels so…freeing. So beautiful and—oh FUCK.

Red begins to kiss just above my right breast, leaving a very obvious lipstick mark. The five of them grin so simultaneously it’s almost terrifying. Almost. They all begin feeling me up while kissing me with their multicolored lips. I’m moaning and whimpering so much at this point that one of them exclaims “Looks like someone’s a noisemaker. She’s adorable!” However, my mind is so fuzzy and warm at this point that I can’t even tell who says it.

They’re pressed so closely against my shaking frame that it’s impossible for me to fall to my knees despite my wobbling. I can feel their hot bodies against mine, hear their heavy breathing as we all start to sweat. My skin begins to be covered with red and pink and purple and blue and orange. Little reminders of this wonderful group.

Soon enough one of them pulls my panties down and immediately makes an excited noise at my hard, dripping gock. “Holy shit! You’re gorgeous!” I then feel the now familiar sensation of a mouth being closed around it, a tongue starting to feel around it, and this earns several loud moans. The kisses from the other four girls get rougher and more sensual: sucking and biting and licking all over my quivering frame.

I feel bliss, seeing my naked body being marked and used and sucked by all these women, and I start to feel so beautiful. I notice the clear markings and lip stains…but I also notice my soft skin and nice curves and all the little things I don’t usually stop to look at. I notice how pretty and shiny my gock is, as each girl takes turns sucking on it.

I feel everything. There’s so much stimulus that I start shaking harder and moaning even more. I can barely hold myself up, but one of them is clutching me tightly by the hips to keep me from falling. “I want you to say how pretty you are.” Of course. Who am I to deny her?

“I’m pretty.” I barely get the words out.

“Again. Say it like you mean it.”

I feel myself teetering on the edge of an orgasm, a rare sensation for me with how far my transition is. I’m now completely coated in multicolored lips and bite marks and hickeys and various fluids. It’s…well, it’s pretty.

“I’m pretty!” I shout it this time, staring myself down in the mirror.

“One more time, you’re doing so good.”

“I’m pretty! I’m so fucking pretty!” I lock eyes with myself as I cum into whoever’s mouth is sucking me. I’m breathing so heavily I’m almost afraid for my safety…but these women are here for me. I’m okay.

They help me sit down and crowd closely around me, the scent of our sweat and their makeup becoming much more apparent. It’s all so wonderful and safe and relaxing that my eyes start to shut as they coddle me and play with my hair.

“It’s okay baby, you can rest.”

The last thought running through my mind is how pretty I am before I fade out of consciousness.

~~~

MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT WOAG!!! Because this is such a momentous occasion and I am so awesome, @xenasaur @lilithtransrights enjoy my cool lil thing.

[mikaela-the-slut-expert]

If you do take requests at this moment, can I request a Hualian x GN reader where reader feels like the third wheel, and when Hualian look further into reader, they find out that reader is hurting themselves/trying to change in the way they look

That Hualian would baby reader, like take sharp objects out of arm’s reach, or spoon feed reader when it’s time to eat. Giving reader kisses and words of affirmation every time they’re around

Lol, I’m feeling very angsty, but if this request is a little too far, you don’t have to do it (I hope you’re doing great! Make sure to drink enough water!) 🥰

Shape Shifting Heart

HuaLian x gn!reader

Ignore grammar mistakes

Slight OOC

Made up looks about reader for plot

Tyyy Pepsi zero has become my hydration 😔🙏

Also I'm so sorry for disappearing but I've had like the worst few months of my life ever so 😃🙏 bear with me

____________________________________

Being with Xie Lian and San Lang is the best thing that has ever happened to you. There's so much love to go around with three people and everyone is always taking care of each other! So you never listened to people being hateful about it, whether that be other gods or ghosts. You guys are happy and that all that matters right?

What happens when all of you aren't happy, when it's just one person bringing down the mood and the whole relationship? That's how you've been feeling lately. You haven't been much use to Xie Lian and San Lang these days. Often, you've been curled up in bed and staying hidden under the covers. For what reason? They don't know. You won't talk to them, and while Xie Lian and San Lang pride themselves on knowing you inside and out they can't figure out what's wrong.

You can't tell them. It's kind of embarrassing, humiliating even. How do you tell your lovers, "I feel like the third wheel, I feel neglected and left out" to the two kindest people you've ever met. Everything you do seems to make it worse and you're trying your best so you don't understand why it seems to put your relationship more on edge.

You had honestly just wanted to sulk and pout for a few days in bed over something silly. When they stopped visiting the bedroom it became a problem. All you do is lie here so what could possibly have made them want to leave you alone? You aren't even doing anything to warrant them off! Xie Lian and San Lang easily coddle each other all the time so why don't they think to do it with you? They stopped coming to the shared bedroom, even going as far to sleep in another bedroom together, but by themselves without you.

It only made you feel worse, are you so depressed and off putting they don't want to be near you now? Sadness becomes frustration and it fuels you to get out of bed in what has been weeks. You leave the room disheveled and groggy hoping to find one of your lovers to receive some affection, to you it feels like you haven't had in forever.

You find them together in the kitchen, an awfully domestic scene. Xie Lian cooking dinner and San Lang attached by the hip. The way San Lang holds Xie Lian's waist and stays close while Xie Lian bustles around the kitchen. Where you had once been and would usually love to hear the sound of their laughs and love filled giggles all it sounds like is mocking joy of what you once felt. How many nights has it been like this? How many nights have they been content without you?

"Making dinner without me?" You pipe up, leaning against the kitchen counter. Making dinner is a silly thing to be upset about. A part of you feels awful for being so jealous but the other doesn't. It's not like you're jealous of San Lang or jealous of Xie Lian. You don't spite a specific person. You're just jealous of the love they share, of their bond. You're envious of their happiness, you just want to be included too!

"Ah, y/n!", Xie Lian gives a wobbly smile, "Of course not" Xie Lian didn't know how to bring up that they've been trying to give you space. He doesn't know how to say it in a way that would sound reasonable to you. These days you've been a little irritated and you easily take words they say but add a whole new meaning to it. They know it's not your fault, it's one of your episodes maybe.

No one moves. They don't know whether to extend a hand to invite you or not but you seem to take it upon yourself. You walk closer and stick right up to Xie Lian's and San Lang's side. The tension - you can't tell if you're imagining it or not, you've been imagining a lot these days - is thick. "Well I feel a little better so I'll join from now on, what are you making?" You try to make conversation, you try to move closer in hopes that the domestic scene will just continue.

It doesn't. The room is tense and so are your lovers. You hate it. It makes you want to lash out, cry, and scream. Xie Lian and San Lang seem to be walking on eggshells around you and you don't know why. You've never gotten angry with them before, you've never been violent or aggressive with them so why are they acting like you're a ticking bomb?

San Lang attempts to break the tense atmosphere first. Wrapping hesitant hands around your waist and nuzzling into your hair, hair he will not mention is a bit notty. "We missed you" he murmurs into your long, bright locs. "We're glad you feel better" this seems to get the night moving smoothly again. It's pathetic how quickly you melt into San Lang's touch and preen at his words. It finally feels like you're included in the domestic picture they make.

The three of you eat dinner and enjoy it, Xie Lian's cooking has been getting a lot better but that's probably because you and San Lang were in the kitchen to help him. You're filled with a deep satisfaction when Xie Lian gently grabs your hand and all of you go to your shared bedroom together. Xie Lian pulls you into bed and They cuddle up next to you under the covers, placing gentle kisses on your face and shoulders.

You feel suddenly energetic because of the affection you're receiving. Making you giggle and kissing them back with new found passion. You won't lie you guys haven't had sex in a while so. . . You easily climb on San Lang, and straddle his hips. Kissing him eagerly and nipping against his lips. They weren't expecting you to be so eager but who are they to deny you.

Xie Lian gets behind you and slips off your robe, running his hands over your body. Your back, arms, hips, and thighs- your thighs. Xie Lian's hands freeze, and moves his hands as if he's been scalded. The sudden movement catches San Lang's attention and he sits up but he keeps you in his lap. "Gege what's wrong?" San Lang stares at Xie Lian and suddenly all the attention is off you. Somewhere inside you, you feel a little miffed at Xie Lian's reaction.

But you're concerned too so you turn your head to your other lover with concerned eyes, however Xie Lian is the one staring at you with pity. He turns on the light and sits next to San Lang. "His thighs, San Lang. . ." You scrunch your face. Of course that's what Xie Lian reacted so strongly about. While you were rotting in bed you were feeling so down in the dumps. So- so maybe you took it out on yourself and used your sword on your own skin.

It's not that big of a deal, they're already healed and just remain thick scars across your thighs but it matters to your lovers greatly. They've explored your body many times, and they know these are new. "Baobei, what happened?" Xie Lian cups your face with gentle hands but you turn your head the other way. You're irritated the night has stopped over something so trivial. "Nothing important, I was just feeling upset a few weeks ago, it's trivial now. Can't we just- can we not focus on that?"

Your face is scrunched in irritation and you try to roll your hips against San Lang but he removes you from his lap and onto the silk covers. You groan in frustration. The night was going perfectly and now it's all messed up! San Lang's eyes narrow as he gazes over your legs, and you swallow nervously. "This isn't something we can just ignore Y/n. You know that. . . Let's stop here for tonight" If it were San Lang saying it you wouldn't have minded as much but it's Xie Lian.

Xie Lian loves San Lang's body even with the scars on it so why won't he love yours?! "We don't have to stop! Just- ignore it, would you please?! I can get rid of them, I can look like whatever you want me to be! " You never notice when you start heaving for breath, when tears line your eyes and you try to cling to one of your lovers. You don't notice when you subconsciously change your body into something else because it's something you've always had the power to do.

So when your skin becomes smooth again, and unmarked it's something you don't even look over. But for Xie Lian and San Lang it's completely different. It's like looking at a stranger's body. Like looking at somebody who's never worked a day in their life, someone who has never gone to battle, something you are not but you're desperately trying to be. You have no scars, and the callouses on your hands have disappeared. They've memorized everything on you and now you've made yourself look completely different.

To you, it feels like they look at you with disgust and anger. You're breaking down and it's not something you're even registering. "Y/n stop!" San Lang gives up on keeping you on the bed and he lets you crawl into his lap, he cups your face with surprisingly gentle hands that contradict his angry voice. "Breathe Baobei" he rubs comforting circles into your hips and Xie Lian rubs your back. They're trying to get you to breathe and to stop hyperventilating.

San Lang never looks away from you, and he plants tiny kisses in your cheeks to get rid of your tears. When did you start crying? You don't remember. You eventually calm down from listening to your lovers instructions and their loving touches. When you're finally breathing normally again and the tension leaves your body they try talking to you again. Xie Lian rubs his fingers through your hair, he doesn't like how you've easily changed yourself. He misses your bright locs not the dark ones you've decided to take on. He kisses your head. "I want to talk to my Y/n now. Can I?" Xie Lian asks sweetly.

You've always been you but he wants to talk to his lover not the made up version of yourself. You sniffle and San Lang pats your waist. You take the encouragement and change back to your original body. When you make a weird noise in your throat that sounds close to a sob Xie Lian wraps around you and kisses your nape. "That's good Baobei, we're proud of you." San Lang and Xie Lian glance at each other and in that moment decide to drop the topic about your new found scars. They can only try to find the root of the issue now.

San Lang kisses your forehead and then below your eyes and then your lips. "Tell us what's wrong?" San Lang poses it as a question. As in, you don't have to but it would greatly help them if you did. You feel pathetic and selfish. You don't know why you broke down over something so silly and foolish. "I-I felt, I felt like a t-third wheel. You guys seem so happy without me and all I do is mess up, I'm sorry " you start to cry again and you rub at your eyes harshly but San Lang holds your wrists gently and keeps them away from your eyes.

Xie Lian kisses your shoulder. "There's nothing to be sorry for baobei. No one's at fault." He runs his hands over your thighs, making circles with his fingers. "We didn't mean to make you feel left out, we just wanted to give you space. We thought that's what you needed" Xie Lian explains softly. You nod and sniffle. That's more reasonable than whatever your mind came up with. San Lang pulls you closer by the waist. "If we make you feel like that tell us Baobei, we'll fix it immediately" he says with narrowed eyes. You know he isn't upset with you and he's probably beating himself up for not being able to tell. You kiss him deeply and sigh against his lips.

"M'sorry, I know you love me I just- my mind tells me awful things." You whisper in San Lang's lips and kiss him again. San Lang grunts and playfully tugs a piece of your hair. "Should I beat it up for you?" It makes you giggle.

🦊🪷

For the next few days and even few weeks they baby you endlessly. Xie Lian keeps an eye on sharp objects and makes sure you can't get into the weapons room. He also confiscated your sword and he won't even let you hold knives in the kitchen. The only sword you're allowed to be around is E'ming and they know you wouldn't do that to him or San Lang.

They have no problem with dragging you everywhere they go and often San Lang likes to feed you during meals. At first you blushed and insisted you could do it yourself but San Lang waved your concerns away and said "Let me take care of you". They coddle you a lot and one of them is always in the room with you. You know now that you need to work on your communication and not let your mind get to you. It was a big misunderstanding but San Lang and Xie Lian treat it as if it was a genuine problem.

You're suffocated with love but you wouldn't change it for the world.

[natureboy96]

Rhysand is Tamlin's abuser

I've been enjoying crackshipping and fun posts for the past few months, it's far more pleasant to interact within fandom this way I've found, but this thought came to me last night and it won't leave my head, so I simply have to go for another rant/long post about it.

The discussion about what happens Under the mountain is largely focused on what happens to Feyre, which is understandable as she's the POV character; the problem is, what happens there isn't about Feyre at all. Everything UtM is designed to break Tamlin, especially torturing Feyre. And Rhysand is a large part of that.

While Rhysand is sexually assaulting Feyre, he's also psychologically torturing Tamlin. Can you imagine how horrible it would be, being forced watch and witness this fragile human you've come to love, being turned into a sexual prop and toy, forced to dance and drink and vomit and dance again, every night for months on end, knowing that the slightest twitch could end up killing someone you care about, or hurting Feyre even worse? I wouldn't put it past Amarantha to leave Feyre with a few less limbs if Tamlin grimaced.

And the thing is, Rhysand not only knows that he's hurting Tamlin, but that he's doing it intentionally. He explains fully that he wants to protect Feyre, yes, but also that he wanted to make Tamlin suffer, to make him feel hate and pain. All those horrors that Rhysand drugs Feyre, so she doesn't have to witness it and be scarred by it? Tamlin has no choice but to look, and not react, and Rhysand knows it. Tamlin doesn't know anything about Rhysand's "evil mask" during and after UtM and only sees him for how he presented himself; a sexual predator who worked as hard as Amarantha did to break him, and continued to trigger his trauma after they were free.

But Rhysand has a grudge for what Tamlin did to his family, yeah? A grudge he's been holding on to for at most over four centuries (due to the lack of dates and timelines, the only clues we get for when things went down between their families was that it was after the war 500 years ago, and a few years after Tamlin "matures" as Rhys says it, which could be as early as Tam being 18 or 19) And that he doesn't know all the details about! a grudge he's had centuries to try and find out the truth about, but that he's chosen to assume the worst about Tamlin instead, and that ended with Tamlin's family dead in retaliation.

Rhysand being angry for what happened to his family (after getting revenge in retaliation) does not justify months of psychological torture.

And then in ACOMAF, instead of taking any accountability for the pain he caused either of them, he at most justifies how he treated Feyre, and entirely ignores the pain he caused Tamlin. Worse yet, he goes on to villainize Tamlin for dealing poorly with his PTSD, trauma that he had a direct hand in causing, and actively antagonizes him further to make it worse!

Tamlin should be held accountable for the pain he caused Feyre, and I would argue he pays for it well more than his actions warrant. Rhysand never takes or is held accountable for any of the pain he causes, not to Tamlin or Feyre (and later not to Nesta either). Beyond feeling bad in a monologue or again justifying his actions when confronted by the High Lords, he never has to answer for the harm he's caused and its handwaved away almost immediately on being addressed.

Rhysand and Tamlin hurt each others' families, Rhysand abuses Tamlin, who later abuses Feyre, who later abuses Tamlin back, and then the Night Court abuses Nesta, after she abused Feyre when they were poor and starving. It's just a cycle of abuse, but only some characters ever pay any actual, tangible price for it.

All of this is to say, I have found myself having far more sympathy for Tamlin reacting poorly to his PTSD than the person who gave it to him with psychological torture and then villainized him for it.