#and you don't have to know this shit and you'll never even be able to use it any way without jumping through so many hoops

[khorneschosen]

You're asking to have an argument about Trump's previous term to this one.

When it's quite clear the issue is about which side has the most empathy, common sense, and tolerance.

And when it comes to common sense y'all have none common sense belongs to a philosophy that you no longer practice or believe in.

It's a bumpkin version of rationalism, which Marxist outright deny the existence of. So you guys don't have common sense because you guys aren't rationalist or for that matter rational. Hence why existentialism formed as a reaction to the fact that the prophecy of Marx never came to fruition.

The masses and the proletarian never revolted on mass capitalism didn't become one giant monopoly nor is it really in danger of ever becoming a monopoly where the state is not involved.

What's more the standard living and wealth of the people living under capitalism or even quasi or broken capitalism are still doing better than all the people states of the world Even when those people states have access to a great deal of resources from the rest of the world.

This is by the way why market socialism is the big new hot push, what they really should call it however is modern Chinese socialism.

And however has the exact same problems of a socialist government with fewer tools to be able to deal with it. It's basically the state controls you and you control the factories but we control you so we control the factories anyway. Which is remarkably how national socialism works, you know it as fascism.

And then when it comes to empathy you guys have what can only really be described as transactional collective empathy. If a person or a group does what you say you have a great deal of empathy for them so much so that you'll let them get away with anything however if any member of that group goes against you or is even really just neutral and a way that you can't abide, even a small way you have no empathy for them.

And we've seen that when it comes to cishet white men for a while, and Asians and Jews recently, and even more recently Arabs and Hispanics who do not vote Democrat.

What I'm really describing here is just an in-group preference based on political or philosophical lines, But even then it's more based around whether or not that particular group is useful to you. Because despite everything destiny is one of your guys and y'all treat him like shit, because at times he dares to challenge you guys on some of your worst excesses and on your own terms. In a way that you simply cannot ignore. You can't rightly call him a conservative because the evidence of your own eyes and mind do not allow you to.

This too by the way goes for tolerance, The one axiom that you seem to have in group and outgroup preferences for being your politics and how useful someone is to the cause, you have no tolerance for it.

Meanwhile conservatives come from various different areas of influence. The Protestant and Catholics have long had their doctrine changed to better meet and work with reality. The capitalists are hard realists to the point of irrational pragmatism at times. And the nationalists are operating on a very old form of your system but they do it just for the people within their own nation. Which is just demanding that the benefactors be within their national boundaries.

Oh and liberals have a strong philosophical tradition that goes back to the enlightenment. Of course I mean classical liberals rather than communist calling themselves liberal because it's a lot easier than calling themselves a communist.

So as far as logic goes they're nowhere near as bad.

And as for empathy they are by definition conservatives they are being challenged and at every point of the challenge they have allowed you to challenge them in ways that they frankly shouldn't have. That their own code would have allowed them to crush you at any point and yet refuse to out of empathy intolerance for your kind.

And we're talking collectively right we're not talking about individual examples because if that's the case we'll be here all night but in the broadest strokes conservatives do have empathy tolerance and they're far more logical. I mean even scientific studies have shown that they have more risk assessment which you define is fear for the sake of your propaganda but really it's just risk assessment. Which one we're dealing with the country that is the leader of the free world and if its economy goes tits up, will destroy the free world and an economic collapse from which it will never recover from I don't say that fear or risk assessment is misplaced.

Like baseline conservative is infinitely more rational. Baseline libertarian is infinitely more rational because they at least acknowledge the reality of economics or culture. Y'all routinely ignore the risks or even cost of your actions and policies and ideologically do not believe in rationality.

So yeah leftist and I do mean leftist are less rational, less empathetic and less tolerant.

Also if you want me to get to your second question reword it a little bit, it's confusing how it's currently written.

[lairofsentinel]

Since this user's posts seem to have been deleted in previous opportunities I copy-paste their words here because they express exactly what I feel about this game. Dragon Age has died, unfortunately.

I'm a big time Dragon Age lover and have enjoyed every game in the series. Personally, I think Inquisition is the best in the series. And I was excited for Veilguard right up until I actually began playing it. Now, I want to clear things up at the start as to what I look for and believe makes a good Dragon Age game. To start, I DON'T CARE ABOUT COMBAT. I. Do. Not. Care.

You can make it Origins tactical. DA2 fast tactical. DAI hybrid. God of War action, I don't care. Dragon Age has always had combat that was...fine. A nice distraction and breakup in between the bits I actually care about: narrative ROLEPLAYING, story, characters, and exploration. I don't give a crap how great the combat is if the narrative roleplaying and writing are poor, I'm not playing BioWare titles for amazing gameplay. I am here for the story, the characters, and the roleplaying. Truth is, for a time I considered DATV's combat to be the best in the series.

And this is why I feel the game is a terrible Dragon Age, because it lacks or fails to respect those elements concerned with narrative roleplaying, story, characters, and exploration. Now, in many reviews and online videos you'll hear some reference often to the drop in writing quality. And a lot of time people will incorrectly say that the writing with the characters is to "modern" or "Marvel quippy" or not "dark" enough. I think these people are wrong, they recognize there is a drop in writing quality from previous games but aren't able to articulate why that is.

Dragon Age has never adopted any sort of faux medieval speech and vocabulary (though we'll get into this more later). This is a series that used "epic fail" as a thing someone uttered in the very first game. It's always had anachronistic dialogue and banter. So why is it such a drop then? Why is it considered poor? Simple. This is a game that does not believe in the world it has setup for over a decade. It does not believe in or engage properly with its own world and lore. I mean, look no further than the title "The Veilguard" a phrase that is never uttered by anyone in our group, and further proof it was a last minute marketing change. Compare to Inquisition where the title is apparent from the start in the game and has actual meaning.

You see, characters in DATV do not feel or react to events the way they should based on the lore. Why is no one constantly asking what the hell the Inquisitor is doing? The Inquisitor is kind of a BIG DEAL when it comes to Solas and Elven Gods, my Inquisitor drank from the WELL OF SORROWS! So why are we sitting around thinking at the start, "hmm lemme think who I can contact who might know more." The Herald of Andraste! They know more Rook, the guy that is technically your boss. The Inquisitor! Who else have you been working for this entire time? Who do you think told Varric to recruit you?!

But even removing the Inquisitor, the Elven Gods being real and also near synonymous with the old Tevinter Gods is kind of a BIG DEAL. It was only a theory fans crafted long ago that slowly revealed itself to be true. And it completely upends known religious dogma on all sides. Yet, why aren't people we meet going through a massive existential crisis? For instance, the Veil Jumpers we initially meet were presumably told off-screen about Fen'Harel, and are seemingly cool with this massive knowledge alone. But then we talk about those two other Gods being released and they're like, "well, shit those two aren't good." As if they have any clue if the fables about those Gods are real when we previously just upended everything they thought about the Dreadwolf! Why are you acting like this is another Tuesday?! Your entire religion is wrong. In that same conversation, Strife notes "Solas might be a bastard, but compared to the Evunaris? Let's just say they weren't know for being kind rulers."

My brother in Anduril, what are you talking about! Elven religion teaches that Elgar'nan was so beloved by the Earth that it "the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things." And that he fought the jealous Sun that tried to burn the land and all beasts away. Custom says that he and Mythal, "created the world as we know it" after defeating the Sun. He is literally described as one of the "good" Gods. WHY ARE YOU ASSUMING HE IS EVIL! It's like finding out Satan is real, but not as evil as have come to believe and then being told Jesus Christ is back and a devout Christian going, "well shit, that can't be good." WHAT?!

The same goes for Andraste and the Chant of Light, it took me 30 hours of playing before ONE character mentioned Andraste and the implications with the Chant and it was never brought up again. Our entire party is seemingly made up of unphased atheists. Now compare to something like Inquisition which explored this aspect HARD and was amazing for it. You'd get into great debates with religious figures and party members about the implications of Corypheus actually being a Tevinter Magister of old. And you'd talk about what it means towards the religious dogma preached and how much is true. And these intense political and religious discussions are present in every previous game, and not confined to a single conversation with one party member where it is seemingly resolved.

These conversations do not happen in DATV because there is no depth to the writing or engagement with the world. The Elven Gods are evil and need to be stopped. That's it. We don't need to think about the implications this has on Dalish customs and religion. Fuck it, all the Dalish are going to still wear their Vallaslin slave brand tattoos. Let's forget about Trespasser implying Solas was removing them from followers coming to join him. Let's even forget they were likely all told at this point that they are slave brands, nope still going to wear them yet speak blasphemy with every sentence against our Gods. No one cares about Andraste or The Maker or the Chant. Big deal if these Elven Gods contradict the overwhelming majority religion in Thedas. Not a single party member has religious or cultural objections to killing the Elven Gods; not a problem. Not one single elf wants to join Solas in tearing down The Veil and getting immortality again?

Again, let's forget about Trespasser setting up Solas gathering MANY Elven followers from Dalish clans who would be super inclined to join him after experiencing CENTURIES of discrimination and slavery by humans. The better question is what Elves wouldn't join Solas at the start? And what Elves wouldn't look at the other two Gods and go, "meh, maybe we should give them a try. They can't be worse than humans, right?" In DA2 you had elves joining The Qun to escape the discrimination of humans, but not ONE ELF wants to join Solas or Elgar'nan? Those Ancient Elves in the Temple of Mythal? I guess they all died, right?

This extends to EVERY single element of Dragon Age that previously had depth to it, it now has been completely removed. Those murdering Antivan Crows? Oh, they're just good Italian Mob Family that protect their city. Tevinter? Yes, it has poor people, but we're trying to do better. Oh, slavery? No, no we don't show that here. The Qun? The what now? No, they are all Antaam now, and so that means they are all generic evil warlords. No, they don't even attempt to follow their own hardcore view of The Qun like when Templars split from the Chantry, they're just warlords now that like plunder. Dwarves and their rigid Caste society? We don't do that here. Elves and racism across Thedas? Elves used to experience racism? News to me, what's a Shemlen? Never heard of that term, we like all humans. Pirates? That is insensitive, we are Lords of Fortune and we are sure to return any cultural artifacts found to their rightful owners; it belongs in a museum after all. The fucking Fade and spirits? Wait, you mean its different than generic fantasy spirit world? I'm sorry, that's too complicated here.

This either intentional disregard of the lore or plain ignorance also extends to environmental design. The asset reuse from Inquisition is particularly hilarious and must speak to the developers not having time after the switch from MP. Why are the same statues found in Val Royeaux in DAI also in Tevinter and Antiva? Why are those stupid Fen'Harel Wolf statues EVERYWHERE? Even in the catacombs of other Elven Gods! There are no statues of Elgar'nan or Ghilan'nain. Nothing for June or Anduril. Dirthamen. Falon'Din. Nothing. No, the only Gods that seem to get statues are coincidentally the ones who already had assets created for DAI or past titles that could be reused. Hmmm.

This continues into character designs too, why do the Veiljumpers and Shadow Dragons all dress richly? They are supposed to be poor as fuck. There's a codex entry about Veiljumpers finding a lost cache of old ancient elven armor and weapons and so boom they all get to dress like High Elven Lords and not the dirty, poor, wandering Dalish clans they are supposed to come from. Why do this? There isn't even an attempt to explaining why the Shadow Dragons, an organization supposed to be secretive, has branded clothing in bright rich colors and fabrics for all members. Naturally, it must be incredibly difficult for Tevinter authorities to not identify them.

This lack of depth and verisimilitude, naturally, affects all the characters. Because in this game you cannot roleplay and you cannot ask questions. In Dragon Age Inquisition, once you started the game, you could immediately interrogate Varric about what happened to every DA2 character despite the Inquisitor never meeting them, you know because it respects its players. You could speak to shop keepers, blacksmiths, your horse master. You could interrogate every single person to learn more about them and the world. The same goes for your player character in DA2 and Origins. You show in Denermin and find yourself knee deep in a quest to help Wade the Blacksmith craft the perfect armor. Here you can't actually speak to a single shopkeeper to ask questions and get some lore bits. You can't ask party members questions about their background, religious beliefs, upbringing, their factions, etc. You can't ask any returning characters any questions either about what they've been doing. Enter a brand new area? Great, you're not asking anyone questions about this never before seen place.

How does a lost Dwarven thaig survive every single blight? How are their immortal lichs in Neverra? How long has that been a thing? Why haven't they told anyone about the Elven gods or any other knowledge they've accumulated in an immortal lifespan? If immortality is so "easy" why can't Solas just do that to restore the Elves? Why are the Venatori, Tevinter Supremacists, following Elven Gods? Wouldn't that be a major identity crisis? Why would Antaam, who still preach the Qun, follow an Elven God that speaks blasphemy with ever breadth? Sshhhh, no questions. You get what is directly told to you and that's it, no follow-up questions.

Party members do not conflict with each other or interrogate each other's beliefs which is why their banter feels inconsequential and meaningless. Lucanis is a assassin, he kills people for money. The same organization that marked Zevran for death for failing a contract. The same one that took him as a kid and trained him to murder, often brutally, for coin. And yet no one really seems to care. He's just a nice Italian assassin from a nice assassin organization. Who cares. Let's instead talk about cooking, at length. Harding, a devout follower of Andraste, has no qualms with Elven Gods wreaking havoc on known religion. We get one conversation you can tell her to believe what she wants, and that's the end of that debate. Bellara also gets about two whole conversations about the conflict concerning her Gods wreaking havoc, both easily resolved. We don't need to think about any larger implications or doubt her loyalty when the Elven pantheon are seeking to restore her people that have been discriminated against since forever. Emmerich, a necromancer of Neverra, apparently has no religious belief. A codex entry even states that those of the Mourn Watch don't know where the soul goes after death. They don't like to think about it. Buddy, Mortalitasi belief is literally that our souls return to the Void alongside The Maker, but to keep balance a exchange must be wrought with The Fade to allow a spirit to house the now empty vessel. How do you not know the religion and customs of your own faction and land? This man has a whole quest line about funerary rights, yet not ONCE mentions religion and what he believes happens after death?! Sshhhh, no questions. No thinking.

Hey, remember The Fade? Remember how mages go to dream there every night. Remember how The Black City is always visible there? No? Well, we don't either. You won't see The Black City in The Fade. You might see it in The Crossroads in a closed off section, even though it is NOT The Fade. Oh, we're going to have you physically enter The Fade in multiple quest lines and no one will think it's a big deal. No, you still can't see The Black City. Now, The Fade is reduced to nothing more than your generic fantasy spirit world. It has none of the previous rules and lore that bound it before. Demons can bind to non-mages and we won't attempt to explain it. Solas fucks with The Veil and not a single mage notices a change in their dreams when they sleep at night. No biggie.

Lastly, let's return at last to the actual minutiae of writing. I stated at the start the writing isn't bad because of Marvel quippiness, which the series has always had. I was partly lying. Yes, the series has always had anachronistic dialogue. It has had meme language in its own previous titles. But, it was just that, a small joke here and there. For the most part the series actually tried to use it's own sort of "older" speech patterns. I think a perfect example has to do with Taash, she eventually finds her own identity and declares she is proudly "non-binary." Literally stating, "so, I'm non-binary." I have no issue with this sort of inclusivity in Dragon Age, it's what the series is known for. Yet, why does that sound wrong? Simple, it's far too anachronistic. It doesn't belong in Dragon Age. In Inquisition, Dorian let's us know he's gay. But he doesn't say, "I'm gay!" or "I'm a homosexual" those terms would not exist in his world. Instead he says, "I prefer the company of men."

And it's these little subtle changes in writing that makes it feel all the more different. We went from "I once ventured in to The Fade to serve the Old Gods of Tevinter in person. I found there only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. Now I shall return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world gone wrong. Pray that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods. And it was empty."

To: "Well, shit. That can't be good."

So, what do we have when all is said and done? Well, we have a decent generic fantasy action game. An intentional attempt by the developers to remove every edge from the world of Dragon Age in place of a very simple, easy to understand world with not much depth beyond what you see. You don't need to think, just play and have fun. This is beyond turning a MP game into a SP game, which so blatantly obvious in this game. DA2 was developed in 16 months, but is carried strong by its writing. You see, nothing prevented them from just acknowledging their own world they created. It costs very little to write around what already exists. Even if you can't make no assets or redesign the world. Writing is cheap and having characters voice these elements is not as costly as a redesign. No, they chose to remove the edge in every element because this was design intentionally for the masses with easy to understand world and zero depth.

But I wanted to play Dragon Age. I wanted to get into intense religious debates with party members as known lore is completely upended. I wanted to debate Elvish clans deciding to join Solas or the other Gods due to their treatment by human society. I wanted to debate the ethics of necromancy with the Mortalitasi of Neverra's Crypts. I wanted to engage in intense debating with Solas on the ethics of his goal. I wanted to see Tevinter react to a real push for anti-slavery and actually see the slavery in the slave capital of the world. I wanted to butt heads with the Antivan Crows and call them out for the murderers they are. I wanted to see the Black Divine and debate the Chant of Light with them. I wanted to speak to the Archon of Tevinter and see how he felt about the Venatori's past efforts in Inquisition. Hey, what happened to Meredith Reborn in Kirkwall and her idol and Red Templar worshipers? Forget about it.

We got none of this. I got a game that is pretty much disrespectful of its own world. I waited 10 years for this? Why even bother if this is the result? They may as well have just killed every previous character we ever knew, including Solas, offscreen and started anew with this game. Because as a Dragon Age game and sequel, it's terrible and no returning character is how they should be.

And when we get to the ending, that's pretty much what they did. Everything you did in all the past games? Well, that was pointless. Everyone is probably dead. King Alistair. Gaspard. Celene. King Bhelen. The Arl of Redcliffe. The Divine. The Circle of Magi. The Templars. The Seekers. Everything, everyone, and every organization that existed in the South is likely dead and destroyed. And now Dragon Age can become what they wanted, a generic fantasy IP.

But I just wanted to play Dragon Age.

[heys0ulmate]

veneration (this faith's got me high)

pairing: sofia falcone/gigante x f!reader

summary: sofia isn't the same anymore- but you've waited too long for her to care.

warnings: uhh .. unnegotiated/dubcon, gun usage, slight bondage, passing out, im sure im missing stuff, not proofread, major abuse of italics sorry lmao

word count: 4.6K

A/N: this is the first part of what i PLAN to be a series, tho im not sure when the next part(s) will be out. i legitimately havent published a fic in over a decade so im sorry that its like. poorly structured LOL. not much smut in this one sorry yall. title from holy by zolita btw. also this was posted prematurely by accident cus it was still in my drafts but oh well

〰️

You don't recognize the room you're in, but you feel no danger. All you feel is giddiness and bliss.

There's something warm next to you. Sofia.

Her red, pretty lips are moving, corners curled up slightly, but you can't hear her. You laugh despite the fact, because it feels right. The joy in your chest overwhelming.

She's closer, now. You're laughing hysterically, to the point of tears. It's getting hard to breathe.

Sofia cups your face. She looks scared, but you still can't hear what she's saying. You can't speak- all you can do is laugh and choke for air.

The room changes.

It's crowded.

You spot Sofia from across the galley.

Something in you tells you to run to her, as fast as you can, like you'll die if you don't. It's an all-consuming type of panic, the inability to breathe slowly creeping back.

You push past the crowd, but the more progress you make, the larger the room seems to grow.

The crowd parts, and you see her. She's leaving the room, hand in hand with her father. Her lips are parted in a scream that you still can't hear.

"Sofia!" You shriek, running as fast as you can now that the people have cleared a path.

You're inches away from Sofia and the grip her father has on her when you suddenly hear her voice loud and clear from behind you.

"She's not here anymore."

You bolt up from your bed, gasping for air and flailing under your blanket, desperately trying to wrestle it off.

It takes a minute to gather your bearings.

"Shit," you mutter to yourself, rubbing your eyes.

It shouldn't phase you. You can't remember a single night in the past ten goddamn years that you haven't woken up from a some sort of dream-turned nightmare about Sofia. But something about this one seemed to stick to you like summer heat, an uncomfortable, lingering sensation that seems to amplify the harder you try to ignore it.

"She's not here anymore."

It rings through your head like a catchy song as you stumble into the kitchen for a glass of water.

In the ten years since Sofia was taken from you, you haven't heard her voice even once. You weren't allowed visitation as a non-family member, and phone calls were prohibited for the same reason.

It was almost if the sanctions had carried over into your psyche, some form of cruel punishment that prevented you from hearing her even in your dreams.

At least you were able to see her at night.

You'd never grown used to the inevitable, debilitating dread that suffocated you each time you awoke, but you still looked forward to falling asleep each night, knowing it'd grant you a brief illusion of having Sofia by your side again.

"She's not here anymore."

You try not to think to hard about it, to instead appreciate the blessing of being graced with her voice, even if it was just subconscious. You tell yourself it's probably just a result of the weeks recent events; the flooding of Gotham city. The death of Carmine Falcone.

The impact of it all must have rattled you.

That's all.

But... you can't shake the nagging feeling that there was something more.

It's then that your phone rings on your bedside table. *BRRR*

You set your water cup down with a huff, shuffling your feet slowly towards your bedroom. You're in no rush to pick up. Who the fuck call at this time of night; and without warning?

In your experience, this meant one of two things: the call was your basic, run of the mill scam attempt, or a reporter who had found your number and was desperate for some kind of story. Not that you'd ever give them one, of course. Even when Sofia was still around, and your relationship was somewhat in the public eye, you never discussed anything with journalists of any kind.

After Sofia was sent to Arkham, the scrutiny on you had increased. You went from being the occasionally mentioned girlfriend of Carmine Falcone's daughter, to 'the woman who loved The Hangman.'

Generally, the public saw you as a pseudo-victim; someone who had been manipulated by The Hangman, paraded to maintain a false image, and used as a front to keep Sofia's cover. They didn't believe you when you claimed to have been with Sofia on three of the nights that those women were killed. "The poor girl- who knows what that woman subjected her to, to make her lie for her?"

The year following her arrest was the peak of your exposure. You were relentlessly assaulted with press whenever you went outside, and you had to change your cell phone number four times.

Everyone was dying for an inside scoop on what it was like to know The Hangman intimately.

By the second year, you were more comfortable leaving the house. You moved just outside of Gotham, and slowly, the pressure for statements and interviews died down the longer Sofia was away. You still get the occasional phone call, someone hoping that now that it's been 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 years, maybe you'd be willing to share your 'story.'

You'd hang up immediately every time, until you got to the point where you just stopped picking up.

*BRRRRR*

You approach your bedside table with every intention to hit the reject button, squinting at the brightness of your screen in the dark of your room.

That's when you see the caller ID.

*000*

You pause.

So far, every telemarketer, every scammer, reporter, and journalist, were listed as either Unknown Caller, or a string of numbers.

The only time you received calls with three digit numbers was when it was Alberto.

A part of you hesitates. Alberto does this, sometimes, though it's become more sparse over the years: he goes on a bender, gets too in his feelings, and calls from a nurner phone and leaves you a barrage of voice and text messages. It's always the same, with him going on coked-up rant about how he's going to get Sofia out one day and wrong everyone who wronged her.

Outside of that, though, Alberto never called. When Sofia was sent away, Alberto had begun simultaneously spiraling and attempting to survive and thrive in the Falcone family. Between the drugs and job, Alberto became a lot more isolated than he used to be. Any attempt on your part to reach out wasn't successful. He stopped responding from the number you'd had saved, keeping communication one-sided.

Still, every week, you texted him the same thing at the same time. Sunday, 9AM, an hour before you knew Sofia had visitation hours. Tell Sofia I love her, please.

You'd never get a response, but you never really expected to, either. You had no way of confirming if he was seeing your messages. The only way you knew Alberto still even thought of you or knew your number was with the increasingly infrequent, triple digit ID calls.

Either way, the occasional drug fueled messages always left you feeling even more depressed. Knowing Alberto was suffering just as much as you didn't bring any sort of comfort; it just reminded you of your own pain.

*BRRRRR*

Between the unease from your dream and timing of the call, though, every instinct in your body is telling you to pick up the phone.

Your hands tremble as you clumsily smash the answer button with your thumb, bringing the phone up to your ear.

"Hello?" You wait with baited breath as you hear Alberto on the other side of the line. "...'Berto?" There's nothing but silence for a moment.

Then, you hear him clear his throat. "I, uh-" There's a pause, and a sniff. "I'm gettin' her out, [Y/N]."

You're heart pounds almost painfully. "Y-you mean-"

"Yeah," Alberto confirms with a disbelieving laugh, as if he can't wrap his own head around it. "Yeah," he says again, more firmly this time, confirming everything you've wanted, pleaded, prayed for, for ten years. "She's comin' home."

The news breaks two days later.

Two days of silence from Alberto after he dropped that fucking bomb on you.

You aren't sure if you're in shock, or if it literally hasn't quite hit you yet. Maybe it's because, despite a part of you accepting you'd never see her again, you always had faith in your heart that she'd come back to you. That naive hope kept you alive for ten years.

You aren't sure what to do with yourself, now. You've grown so accustomed to just... existing. Holding hope, with nothing to really do with it. This sort of feels likes that, but with more anticipation knowing what's to come.

Except, it doesn't.

She comes home, yes. You watch the reports about it, read the headlines, hear the outcries. But you don't see her. You don't hear from her, or Alberto, and you're resigned to waiting for one of them to reach out.

After a few days, you grew impatient. The anxiety you'd felt from waiting around had turned into a sort of panic, an all consuming need to make any attempt to quell your nerves.

Why hadn't you heard anything? Had something gone wrong? Did they forget?

You'd gone to the Falcone residence. It was fucking packed with news casters, journalists, rioters and spectators. It had taken you a while to shove your way through the mob, and when you had, you were turned away like everyone else.

You went back the next day, and the next, and the results were the same.

And then, Alberto dies.

You think the shock will return, but all you can think is Sofia, Sofia, Sofia. Your Sofia. Your girl, who must be hurting so tremendously right now, who you can't cradle and comfort.

It seems your deep seeded need to be by Sofia's side reignites some of your more rational thinking, though, and you consider your options.

The crowds of cameras and protesters should disperse by the time the sun goes down, you'd assume, giving you more of a shot to see her.

So, you decide to return to the Falcone's late that evening, when the moon has settled and the stars are at their brightest.

Despite the time, it seems the family is well awake, as all the lights can be seen as you walk up the driveway. You hear voices, though you're too far away to tell if they're shouts from behind the walls, or conversations outside.

Soon, two of the guards notice you approaching. "Hey!" One hollars, hoisting up his gun as he stalks towards you. "What are you doin' here? You got business with Luca?"

You should probably be more concerned about the possibility of being shot by a paranoid guard, but your adrenaline is pumping too hard to care.

"Uh- no, I'm- I don't," you stutter. "I wanna see Sofia."

As the second guard approaches, you hear a soft chuckle. "Ah, yeah, I remember you," he drawls, before turning towards the other man. "Used to hang around Sofia," he explains to him, making the other relax his posture slightly.

"She's not available," the first one grunts, "probably won't be for a while."

Being turned down does little to deter you. "So she's here? Just, not available?" You ask hopefully. They don't get a chance to respond. "That's fine. I can wait."

You make a bold move to squeeze past them, speed walking over to the grand stair case in front of the house with purpose.

Behind you, the guards bicker. You don't hear what they say, outside of something about 'letting Ms. Falcone decide,' but based on the lack of pushback, you assume the one who remembered you was suggesting the other guard leave it be.

You're perfectly content to sit for as long as you need to. You've waited a decade for Sofia; you can wait a few hours- or even until the morning- to finally see her after all this time.

To your surprise, though, you only wait for about 45 minutes.

The front doors of the mansion swing open, and you hear the click of heels stomping down the steps.

"Fuckin' pricks," someone mutters, and you immediately recognize the voice.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you stand on shaky legs, and you can't turn around to face her fast enough. You almost lose you balance in the process, but catch yourself in time for Sofia to notice your presence.

She has a cigarette halfway to her lips as she stares at you, an unreadable expression on her face.

You blink.

She blinks.

"You're..." her voice sounds empty for a moment. Then she shakes her head a little, blinking hard a few times and huffing. "What are you doing here, [Y/N]?"

You open your mouth, but your brain is moving a mile a minute. Nothing comes out, and you just gape at her like a fish for a few moments. "Uhhhh..." you trail off dumbly, but you're too frozen to even feel stupid about it.

Sofia rolls her eyes. "Come on," she says as she resumes her walk past you, lighting up her cigarette as she does. "I'm not staying too far from here at the moment."

You practically trip over yourself in your rush to follow Sofia. It's a bit of a struggle to keep up with her pace, but you manage. The car is parked at the end of the driveway. A burly man is propped against the hood, and he moves around to the back door when he sees Sofia quickly approaching. He opens it for her with a quick acknowledgment as she slides in smoothly, and remains silent as you clumsily follow suit.

Sofia keeps her eyes fixed out the window as the man gets into the drivers seat. You can't help but stare at her, though, something akin to awe making it impossible to look away.

A few minutes into the drive, you see Sofia tentatively shift her eyes towards you. She looks on guard, as though unnerved by your eyes on her.

Still, she says nothing. Her gaze stays trained on the passing scenery for the remainder of the ride, like she's stubbornly making an effort to ignore your blatant staring.

Sofia hardly waits until the car is parked to unbuckle and hastily exist the vehicle once it's pulled in front of her building. You rush to get your door open, jogging a little to catch up to her.

You're paid no mind as Sofia struts inside and walks to the kitchen. It's almost like you're invisible, a silent, unseen witness.

Sofia moves around the kitchen with a practiced ease, retrieving a glass and wine bottle that she pops open, pouring a sizeable amount. She takes a long, long sip, her head tilting back until the contents of her glass are almost completely gone.

Then, she sighs, her shoulders relaxing a bit as she embraces the warmth of the alcohol.

Finally, she looks at you, indifference written all over her face. "You didn't give me an answer earlier," she states simply.

You take a small step forward. "Sofia..." You blink hard, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions.

Sofia is looking at you. You see her. You hear her.

You take another step, and another, until your knees buckle in front of her. "Sofia," it's an almost reverant sound that makes Sofia inhale sharply.

She's so close.

You wrap your arms around her legs as you kneel before her, nuzzling against her thighs.

"Sofia," you say again, just as softly.

You can breathe again. After ten long, dreadful years, you finally feel like the air in your lungs is pure and real.

Sofia freezes. She's unsure of how to process this.

You're here. In front of her- willingly.

It feels wrong; you bowing before her when you have no idea who she is anymore.

"Cut it out," she mutters, lightly pushing your head away and taking a small step back.

You remain on your knees, looking up at her with half lidded eyes.

The adoration in them makes Sofia uncomfortable.

"Get off the floor," Sofia says, her tone indescribable. "You aren't an animal." She turns to top off her wine glass, takes a sip, and leaves the room.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself, but you slowly move towards the direction she headed in. You find her in a room down the hall, an open, office-adjacent space. She's sitting on a loveseat in the center of the room, staring blankly ahead as she sips away.

You pause in the doorway to observe her for a minute, wondering if she's aware that you've followed. You decide to let your presence be known, taking a few confident steps forward.

Sofia doesn't look at you when she speaks.

"Whatever you're here for," she starts, "you won't find."

"No," you find yourself saying. "No, Sofia, I..." you trail off as you come closer. "I... I just want you."

Sofia's jaw clenches. "You don't know what that means anymore," she spits, before taking another sip of her wine, attempting to grow the irrational anger brewing inside her.

There's a certain, panicked heat that comes over you then, feeling unheard and misunderstood. "No, no," you say hastily. "No, Sofia, please," you drop in front of her again. "Please, Sofia. I don't care what that- what that means. All I care about is you."

Sofia scoffs, her temper getting the best of her. She grips your hair without thinking, pulling your head off her lap to look up at her. "You want me to show you what it means?" She hisses, eyes wide and manic. "Okay. Take your clothes off."

You're momentarily stunned, not expecting Sofia's request. "What? Ah-!" Sofia yanks your hair again, gritting her teeth as she speaks. "Take off your fucking clothes," she repeats.

Her tone sends you into motion, and you scramble to remove your top. Sofia settles back against the couch as she watches you undress for her, keeping her features schooled.

Once you're bare, you shift on your knees a bit, unsure of what to do. Being naked in front of Sofia certainly isn't new, but, it's also been ten years since you've last been intimate with her. You never anticipated it happening again like... this. Sofia never acted this way with you in the last. Usually, she undressed you herself, slowly and with kisses on each inch of skin she revealed. She had been teasing, sure, but never so stern.

It stirred something in you that you couldn't place your finger on. All you know is, you certainly aren't complaining.

So, you stay still, not wanting to do anything without instruction lest Sofia decide she's no longer willing to entertain you. You bask in Sofia's predatory gaze, letting her drink in your exposed body.

Soon, though, you start to squrim a bit. It's not cold, per say, but the air was just brisk enough on your bare skin that you couldn't ignore the slight chill.

You shiver a little, and Sofia smirks.

"You cold?" She asks knowingly. Sofia keeps her eyes on you as she reaches for her wine glass, standing as she does.

You tense a little as she begins to stalk closer to you, a small sneer on her face.

She's behind you, now, but you don't dare to move your head, not even when you hear the clink of her wine glass on the ground. Instead, you stay still and complacent as Sofia picks up your discarded shirt and begins to wrap it around your wrists. You moan inadvertently at the feeling of her skin on yours, but Sofia takes a deep breath. She ignores the sound, instead making quick work of restraining your hands behind your back.

When she's done, Sofia picks her glass back up as she towers over you. There's a dark, empty look in her eye that sends a chill down your spine.

Sofia, of course, notices this.

She smirks. "Is that it? You chilly, sweetheart?" Her voice is patronizing and full of faux concern.

You're not sure if she wants an answer or not, but aren't given a chance to respond either way, Sofia suddenly splashing the remenants of the wine from her glass onto you.

You flinch, and gasp loudly at the cold sensation. You're hands instinctively move to rub at eyes in an attempt to clear your vision, but you find yourself tugging fruitlessly at the shirt Sofia had binded your wrists. The wine soaking your face and dampening your hair ends trickles down your body, erupting goosebumps in it's wake.

You're still blinking heavily in an attempt to normalize your seeing when hear a breathy cackle. You feel her pinch your jaw, a strong grip on you as she licks a filthy stripe up your face, lapping up the spilt wine. She releases you, the sound of footsteps echoing through the room as Sofia struts past you and towards the desk by the window. You can't see what she's retrieving, your eyesight blurry and unfocused.

By the time Sofia circles back, you've mostly regainedy your vision. You don't have any time to visually process what she has in her hand, though, as she wastes no time in forcing the barrel of her handgun past your parted, panting lips, and into your mouth.

"It's a terrible feeling. Isn't it?" The gun presses a little harder, and you cringe at the feeling of rough metal pressing against your tongue. "Nothing left to hide behind," Sofia drawls, her voice is surprisingly even, though her words feel weighted.

You blink up at her with an unnerving lack of fear.

Sofia bares on with a tilt of her head. "The guards at Arkham stripped us bare every morning," she states, and your heart clenches at the thought. "It was humiliating," Sofia continues, a subtle anger brewing in her voice with each punctuated annunciation, "being turned into a thing."

Sofia shoves the gun hard enough to make you gag, and presses forward until you're bending backwards. Sofia straddles you, her grip on the gun digesting your movements. She has you sprawled on your back, hands twisted painfully under you, pressed between your spine and the hardwood floor.

Sofia lowers her face, her wild eyes inches from yours. "You think," she growls, "that I'm still who you knew?" She smiles, though there's no joy in it. "That I'm not just a thing?"

Apparently, it wasn't a rhetorically question, as Sofia yanks the gun out of your mouth.

You sputter for a second, before rushing to respond, "no," you gasp. "I- I don't expect you to- to be the same, Sofia, I don't." Your voice cracks a bit, and you pray that your eyes convey your earnesty. "I don't care that you- you don't feel like yourself, Sofia, if you feel different, now. I love you. I love you. I love you, Sofia," you insist, your voice soft.

Sofia regards you for a long minute, and you wait with abated breath to see how she'd react.

For a moment, you think she's heard you. Really heard, and believed you- believed in your unconditional love and devotion for her. There's a hopeful, but guarded look in her eye, something akin to a skittish street cat assessing if it should trust the hand reaching out to pet it. But, just as quickly as it appeared, it's gone.

Sofia's features go hard again, and she moves her face away, straightening her back and kneeling over you.

"You don't get it," she says- simply, quietly, almost as if to herself.

You part your lips to protest, but Sofia is quicker, and slaps her hand over your mouth. "Don't," she warns.

Sofia hates it. The way you don't even struggle under her; the way you just take it, like you understand what this means.

Why don't you get it? Do you really not understand what kind of horrors she was exposed to? What they did to her; what they turned her into?

It pisses her off.

How dare you, how dare you, prance back into her life, expecting her to be untouched by the hell that was Arkham?

Do you think she's naive? That she'd truly believe, after all this time, you'd still want her? Want her for who she actually is now?

You don't even fucking know her anymore.

Fuck.

It infuriates her for so many reasons that she refuses to acknowledge right now.

Instead, she let's herself embrace the unbridled rage that's always threatening to erupt inside her.

"Alright!" She exclaims, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading across her face. "You love me?" She taunts. "You think you want me?"

She shoves herself off of you to pull her underwear down her legs. You're heart thuds as she slips off her fur coat and hikes up her dress. Sofia easily drops back down, straddling your face and gripping your hair with one hand. "Show me, then." With that, she lowers herself completely, smothering your face in her cunt.

Your primal instincts kick in, then, and you press forward, your tongue eagerly swiping through her folds.

Jesus fuck, you think somewhere in the back of your mind. Finally, finally, finally.

You hadn't realized how much you craved the taste of Sofia until this very moment. It feels like you're starving, like you haven't eaten in ten goddamn years, and Sofia is the first meal you've been granted.

Your ministrations are messy and desperate. You can hardly think straight, overwhelmed by the taste and scent and feel of Sofia. All you do is lick and suck and moan, embracing the pure bliss you feel. The rapidly decreasing supply of oxygen in your lungs is easy to ignore when you finally have the privilege of pleasuring Sofia again.

Sofia's eyebrows furrow. You won't struggle under her. You won't look up with panicked eyes, even as she deprives you of air, even as she suffocates you.

You don't get it.

Sofia narrows her eyes and her hips buck forward. It's almost violent, the way she fucks your face, riding harder and harder. She grunts softly, losing inhibition as she watches her slickness spread all over your face.

Still, you only whine as though you're the one being pleasured.

Why don't you fucking get it.

Sofia tightens her grip in your hair, pushing your face impossibly closer against her cunt as she feels her climax approaching. She's panting harshly through her noise, controlling the means threatening to spill out of her.

Just then, your eyes slugglishly blink open and lock with hers. It's clear that you're moments away from passing out, and Sofia can only stare down at the dazed look in your eyes.

Still, there's no fear there. There's nothing but adoration.

Your eyes roll back, and your eyelids flutter shut. Sofia's breath hitches as your body goes limp under her.

It's then that she cums, her body tensing and jerking. A ragged moan escapes her as she grinds and grinds against you, using your unconscious body to draw the waves of pleasure out.

Sofia slumps off of you, sitting by your side as she recovers from the exertion. She just sits for a while, until her breathing regulates, and she gathers the courage to look over at you.

You're still passed out, but the slight rise and fall of your chest tells Sofia you are, in fact, alive.

It doesn't do much to relieve Sofia- not when there's a sick, familiar feeling of dread forming in the pit of her stomach.

No.

Sofia squeezes her eyes shut.

This isn't supposed to matter.

This doesn't mean anything.

Sofia stands, and smooths out her dress. She can't afford to have regrets; to have... things that make her question herself.

That's not her anymore.

Sofia takes a deep breath.

She squares her shoulders, and doesn't spare you a second glance as she forces herself to leave the room.

[enbysiriusblack]

i bet you think about me is so regulily fr

[muu-kun]

I don't know what the implications of being someone's affiliated blog entails, but I'm sure being one is very nice.

[bredforloyalty]

i have to use tumblr less some of you are becoming like healthy stable fully realized people (or always have been) and i'm happy for you and cheering you on and acknowledging the pieces of advice that appear on my dash but tbh it makes me feel.. not good. due to my headspace these last few weeks or months or years

[neuromantis]

why does every tech company, soft or hard, nowadays insists on blackboxing their users?

i know why, it's a rhetorical question.

but i know my phone has the function, the os on it allows for it's use. but i also have to do research for hours on practically unusable even with plugins search engins to find out which exact third-party app to install and which buttons to click to access my PHONE'S BASIC OUT-OF-THE-BOX functionality??

tech literacy is truly and well dead, killed by everyone, from no-name chinese app developers, to big names like apple and google.

i want my privacy options in plain view. i also want basic bare-bone tech functionality in plain view.

[ddejavvu]

Cant stop thinking about Logan bending Wades darling little sister (in her 20s) over the kitchen table while Waded out on a mission. That is all I can think about right now

Insatiable - Logan Howlett x Reader

send me logan requests!

contents/warnings: smut, minors dni. age gap (legal; reader is in her 20's, logan is like... 200 years old.), wilson!reader, dirty talk, slight breeding mentioned

The only reason you're able to do it in the kitchen is because Wade isn't home, and you'd managed to shut the door on his pathetically endearing little dog. Mary Puppins is probably tearing up Wade's poor excuse for a comforter right now, and Logan is tearing up- well.

You.

Your pussy.

You're bent so far over the counter that your tits are cold, your nipples stiff and sensitive against the countertop. The pressure against them hurts, or maybe it's a lack of other stimulation against them- either way, they're stinging and you wish to right yourself and tug mercilessly at them.

But Logan's weight- not the full load, or you'd be crushed - is holding you down, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the smooth counter for purchase that you'll never find as you're rocked steadily into the cabinets below.

Logan's cock is buried so deep inside of you that you're not sure he'll ever get it out again, but then he does, and then he thrusts back in and you're hit all over again with a sense of shit, I didn't know I went that deep. He's found your limit, stretched your cunt to the breaking point with his impressive length, and his facial hair tickles the side of your face as he takes your cunt from behind.

Your face smacks painfully against the cabinets over the counter and Logan reaches a hand up to cover your forehead, "Shit, be careful. Head down, honey, there you go. Wouldn't want Big Brother finding an imprint of your face in the wood."

"Whaddya think he'd say?" Logan's suddenly snickering, a gruff delight to his voice as he rams his cock inside you once more, thrusting at a steady, merciless pace, "Shit, if he knew my old ass had his sweet little sister pinned up against the counter..."

Wade would kill him. Or try valiantly to, as it's been established before by Wade's best efforts that Logan is one difficult motherfucker to kill. But you don't fancy a bloodbath even if the vessel will survive, so you tuck yourself tight to the counter so that you won't have to explain to Wade why the cupboard door is off its hinges.

Leaning forwards more only pushes your ass out further, and Logan groans, dick twitching, as he's able to thrust more viciously beneath the curve of your ass. He's humping you like a dog, a depraved pace set as he chases an impending orgasm.

"Taking you in your brother's house- aagh, shit," Logan grunts, nose nudging against the back of your neck as he inhales your sweat, "God he's gonna drop his swords on this fucking counter as soon as he walks through the door, not- not even gonna know your tits were smashed up against it. He's gonna get coke from that cabinet in an hour," Logan's voice is strained, moreso the faster he pumps his hips, and all you can do is cry out as he ravages your cunt, "He's never gonna know I made his sister cream up against it. Never gonna know I fucked my fuckin' babies into you here, aah- agh-I-!"

Logan bites, hard against your shoulder, catching some of your neck in the process and introducing yet another blindingly painful sensation that turns into sick, twisted pleasure between your legs. Your cunt is spent, barely capable of another orgasm after you'd already had two fucked out of you before, but it gives you its best shot as Logan's thick, warm cum gushes into you, immediately too much for your poor pussy to handle as it drips down your thighs instead.

Logan relinquishes your shoulder with a low groan, his breath coming hot and heavy as he pants, "You alright?"

"Yeah," You whimper, legs shaking as Logan holds you steady, "I- I don't think I can stand anymore."

"That's okay." Logan hums, gentler now that he's fucked himself calm. He peels you off of the counter, supporting your body weight as he half-walks, half-drags you down the hallway towards his bedroom, "Next round's on my bed, sweetheart. You won't need to move a muscle."

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[sugume]

CONJUGAL VISIT w/jujutsu Kiasen

Description: in which an inmate of a prison or jail is permitted to spend several hours or days in private with a visitors

More: Fem!Reader, explicit content, unprotected sex, some d/s dynamics with Toji, American prison system? (idk if other countries allow this lol?) 

☾ Ryomen Sukuna 

He's been in solitary for so long that you start to think you'll never see him again. He finally fixes his attitude enough to come in contact with others and eventually gets some visitation rights. Get used to having sex with him here because the guards inform you he isn't leaving for a long time.

 “s’too much Kuna!” You whine into the flat pillow but your boyfriend Sukuna could care less and keeps pounding into you from behind.

“Think I care slut? Been away from this pussy for months now, shut up and take what I give you.” He grits out, pushing deeper into your back with one hand, fisting your hair with the other. He’d be damned if you tell him what to do after all this time away. Do you know how spineless he had to act in order to get this visit, on his ‘best behavior’, desperate to finally be able to sink in some cunt after being surrounded by irrelevant men and guards with their heads up their asses?

“Feels s’good,” you moan when Sukuna hits your special spot. “I’m gonna cum!”

“That fast slut, it hasn't even been ten minutes” He chuckles, leaning down to bite your shoulder.

“Missed you, ‘Kuna, c-cant cum ‘out you.”

“Can’t do shit without me, bet you can’t even function out there without me,” He groans in your hair, you don't understand half of what he’s saying you just nod mindlessly and slam your hips back on his cock.

“Then cum on my cock, whore.”

☾ Gojo Satoru 

He's on a mission that requires him to go to jail. The prison warden is in on it, but that doesn't mean your boyfriend doesn't want to experience the "real deal." He convinces the warden to allow him weekly fuck sessions because he says he can't complete the mission without them.

“i-Im gonna cum ‘Toru!” you whine aloud, to far gone to be embarrassed that your boyfriend is fucking you on scratchy sheets in a bed that probably hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in years or the fact that multiple other girls have probably been in the same position you’re in with other inmates, on the same bed.

“So tight love, haven't you been using your dildos in my absence?’ he questions as he thrusts into your glistening cunt. Watching as you throw your head back, tears running down your cheeks.

“They’re too small ‘Toru!” You wrap your legs around his hard ass trying to get him as deep as he can.

“Aww, they can't make you cum as hard as I can, can they love?” he pouts against your swollen lips. You shake your head furiously, listening to the sounds your squelching cunt makes when he thrust back in, his balls slapping hard against your ass.

“Think i'll ask if I can get out early on good behavior. I can't leave my girl unsatisfied now.” He chuckles before diving his tongue into your mouth.  

☾ Toji Fushiguro 

Your mans got locked up again! This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last. You don’t know how he convinces the guards to allow you to visit time and time again, but you won't complain. You always miss him when he's gone every few months. The guard just sighs when he sees you’re here for visitation again

“You miss me, little girl?” he grins, sticking thick fingers in your already sopping cunt. “You know I always miss you when you’re gone, daddy.” You gasp, your back hitting the cold concrete wall behind you when Toji curls into your g-spot. 

“So so bad.” you whine, grinding your aching clit on his hard stomach, legs tightening around his slim waist when you find the perfect spot.

“You wanna cum little girl?” he asks while marking up your neck. He needs others to know you’re taken and if he can't be around you at the moment he’ll make it known another way.

“Yes Toji!” You scream.

“Yes what?” He stops his fingers.

“Yes daddy,” you whisper, moving your hips desperate to not lose the orgasm you were chasing. “Please make me come daddy, please!” 

“That's what I thought little girl” He says before continuing his movements and biting down on your heavy bottom lip.

☾ Choso Kamo

Too ashamed that he ended up in prison to allow you to visit him for a while. After much reassurance from you that you don’t look at him differently he finally comes out of his shell and makes friends. Get’s out early on good behavior.

“You think someones watching?” You mumble, looking back at the camera in the corner of the dark lit room.

“F-fuck baby, don’t fuckin’ stop,” Choso whines, gripping your waist, trying to make you bounce on his stiff cock. ‘Who cares if they are, baby? They won’t touch.”

You turn back around and grin down at your boyfriend “mmm, isn't that how you got in here in the first place Choso, beating up a man for touching me?” You start grinding on his cock again.

“Do anything for you, baby.” He moans gripping your waist when your tight walls start squeezing down on him, trying hard not to bust a nut so quickly.

“Yeah,” you moan out, feeling his cock twitch in you. “Now you’re stuck in here for months away from me.” You pout and claw at his chest when Choso starts to bounce you on his cock. God, if only he didn’t beat that man up you’d have this every night.

“Worth it.” He looks up at the camera, imagining the security guard looking down at your ass recoil when he slams you down on his cock

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Retiring the US debt would retire the US dollar

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

One of the most consequential series of investigative journalism of this decade was the Propublica series that Jesse Eisinger helmed, in which Eisinger and colleagues analyzed a trove of leaked IRS tax returns for the richest people in America:

https://www.propublica.org/series/the-secret-irs-files

The Secret IRS Files revealed the fact that many of America's oligarchs pay no tax at all. Some of them even get subsidies intended for poor families, like Jeff Bezos, whose tax affairs are so scammy that he was able to claim to be among the working poor and receive a federal Child Tax Credit, a $4,000 gift from the American public to one of the richest men who ever lived:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-secret-irs-files-trove-of-never-before-seen-records-reveal-how-the-wealthiest-avoid-income-tax

As important as the numbers revealed by the Secret IRS Files were, I found the explanations even more interesting. The 99.9999% of us who never make contact with the secretive elite wealth management and tax cheating industry know, in the abstract, that there's something scammy going on in those esoteric cults of wealth accumulation, but we're pretty vague on the details. When I pondered the "tax loopholes" that the rich were exploiting, I pictured, you know, long lists of equations salted with Greek symbols, completely beyond my ken.

But when Propublica's series laid these secret tactics out, I learned that they were incredibly stupid ruses, tricks so thin that the only way they could possibly fool the IRS is if the IRS just didn't give a shit (and they truly didn't – after decades of cuts and attacks, the IRS was far more likely to audit a family earning less than $30k/year than a billionaire).

This has become a somewhat familiar experience. If you read the Panama Papers, the Paradise Papers, Luxleaks, Swissleaks, or any of the other spectacular leaks from the oligarch-industrial complex, you'll have seen the same thing: the rich employ the most tissue-thin ruses, and the tax authorities gobble them up. It's like the tax collectors don't want to fight with these ultrawealthy monsters whose net worth is larger than most nations, and merely require some excuse to allow them to cheat, anything they can scribble in the box explaining why they are worth billions and paying little, or nothing, or even entitled to free public money from programs intended to lift hungry children out of poverty.

It was this experience that fueled my interest in forensic accounting, which led to my bestselling techno-crime-thriller series starring the two-fisted, scambusting forensic accountant Martin Hench, who made his debut in 2022's Red Team Blues:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The double outrage of finding out how badly the powerful are ripping off the rest of us, and how stupid and transparent their accounting tricks are, is at the center of Chokepoint Capitalism, the book about how tech and entertainment companies steal from creative workers (and how to stop them) that Rebecca Giblin and I co-authored, which also came out in 2022:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Now that I've written four novels and a nonfiction book about finance scams, I think I can safely call myself a oligarch ripoff hobbyist. I find this stuff endlessly fascinating, enraging, and, most importantly, energizing. So naturally, when PJ Vogt devoted two episodes of his excellent Search Engine podcast to the subject last week, I gobbled them up:

https://www.searchengine.show/listen/search-engine-1/why-is-it-so-hard-to-tax-billionaires-part-1

I love the way Vogt unpacks complex subjects. Maybe you've had the experience of following a commentator and admiring their knowledge of subjects you're unfamiliar with, only have them cover something you're an expert in and find them making a bunch of errors (this is basically the experience of using an LLM, which can give you authoritative seeming answers when the subject is one you're unfamiliar with, but which reveals itself to be a Bullshit Machine as soon as you ask it about something whose lore you know backwards and forwards).

Well, Vogt has covered many subjects that I am an expert in, and I had the opposite experience, finding that even when he covers my own specialist topics, I still learn something. I don't always agree with him, but always find those disagreements productive in that they make me clarify my own interests. (Full disclosure: I was one of Vogt's experts on his previous podcast, Reply All, talking about the inkjet printerization of everything:)

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/brho54

Vogt's series on taxing billionaires was no exception. His interview subjects (including Eisinger) were very good, and he got into a lot of great detail on the leaker himself, Charles Littlejohn, who plead guilty and was sentenced to five years:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/charles-littlejohn-irs-whistleblower-pro-publica-tax-evasion-prosecution

Vogt also delved into the history of the federal income tax, how it was sold to the American public, and a rather hilarious story of Republican Congressional gamesmanship that backfired spectacularly. I'd never encountered this stuff before and boy was it interesting.

But then Vogt got into the nature of taxation, and its relationship to the federal debt, another subject I've written about extensively, and that's where one of those productive disagreements emerged. Yesterday, I set out to write him a brief note unpacking this objection and ended up writing a giant essay (sorry, PJ!), and this morning I found myself still thinking about it. So I thought, why not clean up the email a little and publish it here?

As much as I enjoyed these episodes, I took serious exception to one – fairly important! – aspect of your analysis: the relationship of taxes to the national debt.

There's two ways of approaching this question, which I think of as akin to classical vs quantum physics. In the orthodox, classical telling, the government taxes us to pay for programs. This is crudely true at 10,000 feet and as a rule of thumb, it's fine in many cases. But on the ground – at the quantum level, in this analogy – the opposite is actually going on.

There is only one source of US dollars: the US Treasury (you can try and make your own dollars, but they'll put you in prison for a long-ass time if they catch you.).

If dollars can only originate with the US government, then it follows that:

a) The US government doesn't need our taxes to get US dollars (for the same reason Apple doesn't need us to redeem our iTunes cards to get more iTunes gift codes);

b) All the dollars in circulation start with spending by the US government (taxes can't be paid until dollars are first spent by their issuer, the US government); and

c) That spending must happen before anyone has been taxed, because the way dollars enter circulation is through spending.

You've probably heard people say, "Government spending isn't like household spending." That is obviously true: households are currency users while governments are currency issuers.

But the implications of this are very interesting.

First, the total dollars in circulation are:

a) All the dollars the government has ever spent into existence funding programs, transferring to the states, and paying its own employees, minus

b) All the dollars that the government has taxed away from us, and subsequently annihilated.

(Because governments spend money into existence and tax money out of existence.)

The net of dollars the government spends in a given year minus the dollars the government taxes out of existence that year is called "the national deficit." The total of all those national deficits is called "the national debt." All the dollars in circulation today are the result of this national debt. If the US government didn't have a debt, there would be no dollars in circulation.

The only way to eliminate the national debt is to tax every dollar in circulation out of existence. Because the national debt is "all the dollars the government has ever spent," minus "all the dollars the government has ever taxed." In accounting terms, "The US deficit is the public's credit."

When billionaires like Warren Buffet tell Jesse Eisinger that he doesn't pay tax because "he thinks his money is better spent on charitable works rather than contributing to an insignificant reduction of the deficit," he is, at best, technically wrong about why we tax, and at worst, he's telling a self-serving lie. The US government doesn't need to eliminate its debt. Doing so would be catastrophic. "Retiring the US debt" is the same thing as "retiring the US dollar."

So if the USG isn't taxing to retire its debts, why does it tax? Because when the USG – or any other currency issuer – creates a token, that token is, on its face, useless. If I offered to sell you some "Corycoins," you would quite rightly say that Corycoins have no value and thus you don't need any of them.

For a token to be liquid – for it to be redeemable for valuable things, like labor, goods and services – there needs to be something that someone desires that can be purchased with that token. Remember when Disney issued "Disney dollars" that you could only spend at Disney theme parks? They traded more or less at face value, even outside of Disney parks, because everyone knew someone who was planning a Disney vacation and could make use of those Disney tokens.

But if you go down to a local carny and play skeeball and win a fistful of tickets, you'll find it hard to trade those with anyone outside of the skeeball counter, especially once you leave the carny. There's two reasons for this:

1) The things you can get at the skeeball counter are pretty crappy so most people don't desire them; and ' 2) Most people aren't planning on visiting the carny, so there's no way for them to redeem the skeeball tickets even if they want the stuff behind the counter (this is also why it's hard to sell your Iranian rials if you bring them back to the US – there's not much you can buy in Iran, and even someone you wanted to buy something there, it's really hard for US citizens to get to Iran).

But when a sovereign currency issuer – one with the power of the law behind it – demands a tax denominated in its own currency, they create demand for that token. Everyone desires USD because almost everyone in the USA has to pay taxes in USD to the government every year, or they will go to prison. That fact is why there is such a liquid market for USD. Far more people want USD to pay their taxes than will ever want Disney dollars to spend on Dole Whips, and even if you are hoping to buy a Dole Whip in Fantasyland, that desire is far less important to you than your desire not to go to prison for dodging your taxes.

Even if you're not paying taxes, you know someone who is. The underlying liquidity of the USD is inextricably tied to taxation, and that's the first reason we tax. By issuing a token – the USD – and then laying on a tax that can only be paid in that token (you cannot pay federal income tax in anything except USD – not crypto, not euros, not rials – only USD), the US government creates demand for that token.

And because the US government is the only source of dollars, the US government can purchase anything that is within its sovereign territory. Anything denominated in US dollars is available to the US government: the labor of every US-residing person, the land and resources in US territory, and the goods produced within the US borders. The US doesn't need to tax us to buy these things (remember, it makes new money by typing numbers into a spreadsheet at the Federal Reserve). But it does tax us, and if the taxes it levies don't equal the spending it's making, it also sells us T-bills to make up the shortfall.

So the US government kinda acts like classical physics is true, that is, like it is a household and thus a currency user, and not a currency issuer. If it spends more than it taxes, it "borrows" (issues T-bills) to make up the difference. Why does it do this? To fight inflation.

The US government has no monetary constraints, it can make as many dollars as it cares to (by typing numbers into a spreadsheet). But the US government is fiscally constrained, because it can only buy things that are denominated in US dollars (this is why it's such a big deal that global oil is priced in USD – it means the US government can buy oil from anywhere, not only the USA, just by typing numbers into a spreadsheet).

The supply of dollars is infinite, but the supply of labor and goods denominated in US dollars is finite, and, what's more, the people inside the USA expect to use that labor and goods for their own needs. If the US government issues so many dollars that it can outbid every private construction company for the labor of electricians, bricklayers, crane drivers, etc, and puts them all to work building federal buildings, there will be no private construction.

Indeed, every time the US government bids against the private sector for anything – labor, resources, land, finished goods – the price of that thing goes up. That's one way to get inflation (and it's why inflation hawks are so horny for slashing government spending – to get government bidders out of the auction for goods, services and labor).

But while the supply of goods for sale in US dollars is finite, it's not fixed. If the US government takes away some of the private sector's productive capacity in order to build interstates, train skilled professionals, treat sick people so they can go to work (or at least not burden their working-age relations), etc, then the supply of goods and services denominated in USD goes up, and that makes more fiscal space, meaning the government and the private sector can both consume more of those goods and services and still not bid against one another, thus creating no inflationary pressure.

Thus, taxes create liquidity for US dollars, but they do something else that's really important: they reduce the spending power of the private sector. If the US only ever spent money into existence and never taxed it out of existence, that would create incredible inflation, because the supply of dollars would go up and up and up, while the supply of goods and services you could buy with dollars would grow much more slowly, because the US government wouldn't have the looming threat of taxes with which to coerce us into doing the work to build highways, care for the sick, or teach people how to be doctors, engineers, etc.

Taxes coercively reduce the purchasing power of the private sector (they're a stick). T-bills do the same thing, but voluntarily (they the carrot).

A T-bill is a bargain offered by the US government: "Voluntarily park your money instead of spending it. That will create fiscal space for us to buy things without bidding against you, because it removes your money from circulation temporarily. That means we, the US government, can buy more stuff and use it to increase the amount of goods and services you can buy with your money when the bond matures, while keeping the supply of dollars and the supply of dollar-denominated stuff in rough equilibrium."

So a bond isn't a debt – it's more like a savings account. When you move money from your checking to your savings, you reduce its liquidity, meaning the bank can treat it as a reserve without worrying quite so much about you spending it. In exchange, the bank gives you some interest, as a carrot.

I know, I know, this is a big-ass wall of text. Congrats if you made it this far! But here's the upshot. We should tax billionaires, because it will reduce their economic power and thus their political power.

But we absolutely don't need to tax billionaires to have nice things. For example: the US government could hire every single unemployed person without creating inflationary pressure on wages, because inflation only happens when the US government tries to buy something that the private sector is also trying to buy, bidding up the price. To be "unemployed" is to have labor that the private sector isn't trying to buy. They're synonyms. By definition, the feds could put every unemployed person to work (say, training one another to be teachers, construction workers, etc – and then going out and taking care of the sick, addressing the housing crisis, etc etc) without buying any labor that the private sector is also trying to buy.

What's even more true than this is that our taxes are not going to reduce the national debt. That guest you had who said, "Even if we tax billionaires, we will never pay off the national debt,"" was 100% right, because the national debt equals all the money in circulation.

Which is why that guest was also very, very wrong when she said, "We will have to tax normal people too in order to pay off the debt." We don't have to pay off the debt. We shouldn't pay off the debt. We can't pay off the debt. Paying off the debt is another way of saying "eliminating the dollar."

Taxation isn't a way for the government to pay for things. Taxation is a way to create demand for US dollars, to convince people to sell goods and services to the US government, and to constrain private sector spending, which creates fiscal space for the US government to buy goods and services without bidding up their prices.

And in a "classical physics" sense, all of the preceding is kinda a way of saying, "Taxes pay for government spending." As a rough approximation, you can think of taxes like this and generally not get into trouble.

But when you start to make policy – when you contemplate when, whether, and how much to tax billionaires – you leave behind the crude, high-level approximation and descend into the nitty-gritty world of things as they are, and you need to jettison the convenience of the easy-to-grasp approximation.

If you're interested in learning more about this, you can tune into this TED Talk by Stephanie Kelton, formerly formerly advisor to the Senate Budget Committee chair, now back teaching and researching econ at University of Missouri at Kansas City:

https://www.ted.com/talks/stephanie_kelton_the_big_myth_of_government_deficits?subtitle=en

Stephanie has written a great book about this, The Deficit Myth:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/14/everybody-poops/#deficit-myth

There's a really good feature length doc about it too, called "Finding the Money":

https://findingmoneyfilm.com/

If you'd like to read more of my own work on this, here's a column I wrote about the nature of currency in light of Web3, crypto, etc:

https://locusmag.com/2022/09/cory-doctorow-moneylike/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/21/we-can-have-nice-things/#public-funds-not-taxpayer-dollars

[ms-spkhd]

Robin plucks a fry from the container and dunks it into her vanilla milkshake. "Look, I'm probably the last person you should ask about this."

Steve frowns. "Who else, then?"

"I don't know, Eddie?"

"Nope, no, absolutely not." Shaking his head emphatically, Steve swipes the fry from Robin's fingers. He stuffs it into his mouth in frustration.

"Hey, what the fuck!"

"I can't ask Eddie because he's the problem," Steve says through a mouthful of fries.

"I thought the problem is that you're gay now."

Steve levels her with a lethal stare and Robin rolls her eyes. She can't believe that this is fucking happening to her. "I'm not gay. At least fully. I like girls."

"Okay--" Robin throws her hands in the air in exasperation. "So you can't consult Eddie because, what? He's the one who turned you gay?"

"Half gay?"

"Fuck it, half gay, I guess. You like Eddie and you want to ask him out but you can barely figure yourself out."

"There's gotta be a word for that, right?" Steve asks. Robin blinks at him. He blinks back with equal fervor as she reaches for another fry and swirls it into her milkshake. "Come on, you're a lesbian, you gotta know this."

Robin groans before taking a bite into her ice cream fry. "Just because I'm a lesbian doesn't mean I have any authority on this."

"You gotta know more than I do, at least."

"Okay, I'm gonna level with you, Steve. I like boobs. I know that there's a word for a girl liking boobs because assholes like to sling it around"--Steve opens his mouth to interject--"but, just because, I'm more learned than those assholes doesn't mean I know shit about dip. Sure, I like foreign films and listen to Patti Smith, but I don't know anything about the larger concepts. I'm not your guru on this."

Steve frowns. Bites his lip and pinches his nose. "No, you're right."

"I don't know anything about guys liking other guys, and I guess there's gotta be something that defines your predicament, but we're two dingbats living in the middle of nowhere. We don't have a roadmap or anything."

You know, for the longest time, Robin thought she would be alone in all this. She remembers pressing her face into the pillow and sobbing until the whole damn thing became moist with puddles of tears and snot, because no one would ever understand the way she really felt. She'd have to pretend for the rest of her life.

When she grew older, she knew that one day, she was gonna run off to the city and find girls like her who would get it. But she's never been able to go to the city for herself, couldn't afford a license or a car, so it was just her. Lonely Robin Buckley who loved girls who didn't even think of her.

But Steve's looking back at her now the same way he looked at her in the bathroom back at Starcourt and he's asking her how to live his own life. Fuck, she doesn't even know how to start hers yet.

"You know," she says, swallowing, "one day we'll figure it out. You and I."

Steve cocks an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Figure out the mysteries of the universe and everything?"

Robin chuckles and tosses a fry in Steve's direction. She says, "How about we figure out how you'll woo Eddie first, tiger."

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

55 / 1.2k / first time meeting Ghost for medic reader

...

"Don't expect to be treated special," the skull-faced man tells you. " if someone needs patching, which is unlikely, don’t expect them to be a grateful patient." Ghost leads you through the halls, your medical bag slung over his shoulder. "And we don't care for small talk. Nor do we care how you do your job. Just do it. We don't care if you like us or not. Actually, I prefer you don't get any funny ideas about befriending me."

Is that all. Twenty minutes ago you arrived and already the Simon Riley so graciously rolls out the welcome wagon. You take it by the way he hefts your bag down that he's finished with his talk and you can get to work.

"That's perfectly fine," you tell him. Mildly, as if he didn't just tell you to mind your own fucking business in so many words. "Thank you. If you'll excuse me."

"I won't," he says. "The Captain tasked me with keeping an eye on you. Can't really do that if you walk away."

You halt and turn to peer at him. "I'm sorry?"

He doesn't even look at you. Instead, he begins casually cleaning an already shining knife. "Price told me to make sure you get nice and settled in. So I'm keeping watch."

Your jaw flexes. "Tell Captain Price I don't need a babysitter. You're dismissed."

He pauses The stare he gives you from behind that mask is halting. "You should really learn to be a bit more polite to your superiors. I don't take orders from you. If Price says you need supervision, I'm supervising."

"You're not my superior," you tell him. "And I'm not your recruit. I'm a contractor."

"Let me make one thing clear, medic," he growls. "Everyone on this base follows a chain of command, and that includes you. You might have a contract, you might not be a recruit, but on this team, you answer to the boss. And right now, he said I'm keeping an eye on you. So if you want to have words with me..."

He takes a step closer, leaning down to your eye level.

"I'd suggest you swallow them."

Even without the height difference, his gaze is like a physical weight. You stare back for a long moment. There's a challenge in those dark eyes, daring you to push him. He's looking for an excuse to put you in your place, and you know it.

You refuse to take the bait. Without saying a word, You turn your back and walk away, making your way toward the medical offices. He follows you, humming a tune and flipping the knife tip-first between his fingers.

If he wants to babysit, fine. It won't stop you from doing your goddamn job.

Days later, you're hard at work. It's near midnight. You've been on your feet for around 30 hours.

The door to the medical office slides open and Ghost walks in. It's clear from one look at him that he hadn't gotten any sleep either. He's been on a series of missions back to back for two days straight. With a deep sigh, he leans against the counter, arms folded over his chest.

"You're still awake?" he asks.

You glance at him. "You look like hell."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." His eyes sweep over you. He takes note of the dark circles under your eyes, the exhaustion clear on your face. It's obvious that you're just as tired as he is. "You've been at this too long. How long since you took a break?"

You look back down at your work. "Doesn't matter. There's still work to do."

He pushes himself off the counter and walks over to you. His footsteps are heavy on the floor. "This how you take care of yourself? Work until you pass out?"

"What's it to you? I do my job."

"You work yourself to exhaustion, you won't be able to do jack shit." He's now standing directly behind you. He looks down to see you're doing inventory of the medical supplies. He glances at how fast your fingers move, how you never stop. It's obvious that you're pushing yourself.

"I know what I'm doing."

"You're going to goddamn kill someone."

As you scan the list, you notice the tremors in your hands. Damn it.

"You have no room to talk." You turn around to stare him down so you don't have to keep seeing your own hands shake. Up close, he looks even worse. Christ, is that blood?

"Sit down," you command. "You're bleeding. You need a checkover."

He gives a deep sigh, tired. "S'not necessary."

He's downplaying the situation. Typical. But he does as he's told, sitting down on the exam table in front of you. There's no use trying to hide injuries from a medic.

You lift up the underside of his t-shirt to find the long cut stretching across his chest underneath. It was bandaged--though not well, and it's bleeding through. It isn't a life-threatening situation, but it'll need stitches, and it's definitely not the nothing he made it out to be.

"Hold this," you tell him, putting his shirt hem in his hand. "Keep still."

He winces. Despite his best efforts to hide the pain and discomfort, it's clear that it's more than a minor injury. He takes the shirt as instructed, holding it out of the way. He watches you in silence as you work, studying your focused expression and the methodical way you tend to his wound. You're not gentle by any means. But you're efficient. Even if it is annoying to have you fussing over him.

Though your work is hampered by your shaking hands and you're obviously frustrated about it. Your movements aren't as deft as they should be--not as quick as your eyes.

"Stay still," you snap.

"I'm not moving," he responds through gritted teeth.

Despite his best efforts to stay stoic, he frowns under his mask. Being patched up, sitting still and letting himself be tended to isn't something he's used to. Still, you're clearly in worse shape than he is. Somehow. His eyes dart from the sutures in his chest to your face.

You finish as quickly as you can. You know you've caused him unnecessary pain with this repair. But he shouldn't have gotten himself hurt in the first place. The cure should be more bitter than the cut, as far as you're concerned.

When you've snipped away the excess thread, you take a deep, slow breath, and it feels like whatever energy you had left escapes with it. You touch the stitches stretching across his pectoral muscle lightly. It jumps with the sudden tenderness. Then you apply a new bandage.

"There," you mutter. "Don't let it happen again."

"I don't plan on it." He scrutinizes your face again. Exhaustion and fatigue are etched into every feature. You're running on fumes. "You'd better go rest."

"Whatever happened to not caring about how I do my job?"

"Medic," he warns.

"I'm going," you mutter. "Don't you report this to Price again. I'm going."

"That's what I thought." He smooths his shirt down. He hides a smirk and rubs the aching stitches. "Don't let it happen again."

...

more Ghost / masterlist tag

[flowersforbucky]

acquainted

bucky barnes x reader (undercover stripper!reader x undercover bodyguard!bucky)

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal penetration, language, strip club setting, creepy dude being a piece of shit, violence and a brief mention of blood, protective/possessive bucky, reader is afab, no use of y/n, touch her and die trope, Bucky might have a slight lingerie kink... 18+ only!

The pulsating fuschia and lime green strobe lights illuminating the club had been making your eyes throb for the last three hours. EDM plays so loudly that you're surprised blood doesn't trickle down from your ears. Not to mention the suffocating combination of cheap perfume, body odor, cigars, and booze that permeates the air makes your empty stomach churn.

If you never step foot into another nightclub when this is all over, you'll consider yourself lucky. Not just any nightclub - one of New Orleans’ scummiest strip clubs.

Five goddamn nights of this operation and not a lick of progress.

Your objective was simple - obtain proof that the owner was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the club, and then call for the back-up squad parked a block away. So far, you had not been able to acquire any kind of definitive proof. No hints of anything shady going on behind the scenes, and you had yet to even see the owner make an appearance at any point since the mission began.

Everything seems as above board as a strip club can be.

One last night, you compromised with Fury. One last night and if it went as the last few have, you were done, and he owes you a few days of paid leave for putting you through this.

“If you don't stop picking at your garter belt, it's not going to have any sequins left.” Bucky's low voice murmurs through the communication device placed discreetly in your left ear.

“If you don't stop watching my every movement, you’re not going to have any unbroken toes left,” you threaten lightly, taking a sip of your drink - just a Shirley Temple, to keep up appearances. “Shoes like this could do a lot of damage.” You glance down at the pointy heels of the black velvet stilettos.

“Is that not my job?” he counters. You don't have to look over at where he's standing in the corner of the room to know he's smirking. “To not take my eyes off of you?”

“Then do your job. Watch me. You don't have to make comments on my sequins to do that.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “I'll be over here, admiring your sequins from afar. You won't even know I'm here.” The com line clicks off before you can retort.

Except you absolutely would know that he's here. Just as you have the previous four nights of this mission - painfully aware that he's here, tracking your every movement in the skimpiest outfits you've worn in your life, doing the most provocative dances imaginable, and flirting with men that you wouldn't touch with ten foot long poles in real life, all while he keeps to the sidelines in case something were to go wrong.

Keeps to the sidelines and just watches you. Even when one of the dancers approached him to ask if he'd be interested in a private dance once he's off the clock on the first night on the job.

Even when there's gorgeous, topless women crawling on the stage and all but humping the pole in his direct line of sight.

He isn't here to look out for them, of course. He is here solely to keep you safe if things were to go sideways. But you had assumed you would have caught him sneaking glances at the dozen other women at least once by now.

It's almost your turn to go up on stage. You've performed a solo set every night so far, and you still feel every bit as nervous as you did the first time.

You enjoy dancing, actually. In the comfort of your own room, when listening to music alone. When you go out with friends, occasionally. When you took ballet lessons as a child. This, however, was leagues out of your comfort zone.

“The creep from a couple nights ago is back,” Bucky's voice is a strained whisper in your ear.

“Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, Barnes. You could be referring to at least half of the men in here right now.”

“Sitting in front of the stage, to the left,” he mumbles back. “He's wearing a red wife-beater–”

“See him,” you interrupt, your eyes zeroing in on the short, stout, beady-eyed fuck who had been thrown out of the club night before last. One of the other security guards on duty chucked him out when he repeatedly got too handsy with one of the girls who had been giving him a lap dance.

“Fantastic,” you huff under your breath, as you finish touching up your lipgloss and reapplying the iridescent baby pink body glitter across your chest. “Just in time for my dance.”

You get up from your seat at the bar and adjust your lace bustier and thong as the announcer calls your stage name.

“He won't lay a finger on you,” Bucky assures you as you're walking up the steps of the platform.

There's a weak round of applause and a few whistles as you take your place on the center of the small stage. You give a vague nod in the direction of the DJ’s booth to indicate you're ready for your song to begin.

An upbeat but sensuous synth-pop song pours out of the speakers throughout the room and you begin to sway your hips.

You're hyper-aware of the fact that you can see Bucky making his way closer to you, away from his position in the back of the room. He settles when he's just a few tables behind the man in the red wife-beater.

There's an eruption of butterflies in the pit of your belly at how close he is. Each night prior to this, he has kept to lingering around the exits and the far wall towards the back of the club. Now, he's close enough that you can actually see his eyes following every languid movement that your body makes around the pole.

“Take your fucking top off!” a grating voice bellows from the audience. “We want to see your tits.”

You don't have to look to know who the voice belongs to. You decide to ignore him, hoping he would stop if you didn't give him any attention. You go to wrap your thighs around the pole again, preparing to spin–

“Did you not fucking hear me?” he shouts even louder this time, audible to everyone over the roaring music. “I said take your fucking–”

A flash of movement in your peripheral vision causes you to freeze around the pole. You turn your full attention to the ruckus, just in time to see Bucky fisting the man's greasy, shoulder length hair and pulling his head back. The music comes to an abrupt pause.

“You don't fucking talk to her like that,” Bucky snarls. “In fact, you don't talk to her at all, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe the same fucking air as her.”

The man is thrashing around, trying and failing miserably to get out of Bucky's grasp.

“Let me go you fucking–”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bucky snaps the man's head forward, sending his face crashing into the granite tabletop.

The instantaneous pool of blood that contrasts so starkly against the white stone snaps you out of your fear-stricken trance.

Bucky pulls his head back up, forcing the man to look up at him.

“It's not my fault she refuses to show off those perfect–”

You all but jump off the stage - miraculously not breaking an ankle in the six inch heels - and rush over to where Bucky still has the man's hair yanked into his fist.

Just as Bucky is beginning to shove the man's head downwards again, you place both of your hands on his chest, gently but effectively shoving him backwards. He immediately releases his grip on the man as the other few security guards on duty arrive to detain the pervert.

“Hey, hey,” you place your hands on his biceps, trying to turn his attention to you and away from the man who he's still glaring after, as he's hauled off by security. “I'm fine, yeah? Everything is fine,” you try to assure him, though you're not sure your shaky voice sounds very convincing. “He's just a creepy, entitled asshole.”

Noticing that Bucky is shaking beneath your touch, you rub your hands up and down his arms in hopes of calming him down.

He finally meets your gaze. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you as he takes a few deep breaths.

“Go get dressed,” he orders you calmly after a moment. “I’m getting you the fuck out of here.” You want to leave too badly to even think about objecting.

You make a beeline for the changing room, where you throw on a sweater and force your pants over your heels, not even bothering to change out of the lingerie and stilettos.

Bucky's waiting for you right outside the door as you sling your duffel bag across your shoulder.

“How mad do you think Fury will be that we are abandoning our positions?” you ask in a hushed tone as Bucky ushers you through the club, his metal arm wrapped around your waist.

“Not as mad as I am that he's had you doing this bullshit for no reason for almost a week now.”

You and Bucky exit the club as quickly as possible, ignoring the curious and confused stares of the other dancers and security guards. He guides you down the block, then through an alleyway where his motorcycle is parked in a heavy silence - other than the obnoxious clanking of your heels against the pavement.

Bucky straddles one leg over the seat of the bike, taking his place in the driver's position and then hands you the helmet.

“Wait,” you pause before putting it over your head. “I'm starving.” Your stomach growls, as if on cue. “Can we stop and get some take-out?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I just shattered that guy's nose and likely severely concussed him and then just dipped. Our cover is essentially blown, don't you think we should get back to the motel room and lay low until the morning?”

“There's a Chinese place open late just a few blocks from the motel–”

“If I say yes will you put on the helmet and get on the bike?”

Taking that as a win, you slide the helmet over your head and hop on behind him. You wrap your arms securely around his midsection in a tight hug and he takes off down Bourbon Street.

You spend the drive trying to ignore the thought that of all the times you've ridden on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle, you don't remember him ever feeling so tense beneath your touch.

Half an hour later, you're lounging on the rickety motel bed, stuffing your face full of sweet and sour chicken and vegetable fried rice while Bucky fills Sam in on what happened over the phone.

He sits in one of the small chairs at the singular table in the corner of the room, his posture rigid. He answers all of Sam's questions with clipped, one-word responses as he massages his temple between his thumb and forefinger.

He hangs up the phone, refusing to meet your gaze. Instead, he pretends to be interested in the episode of Family Guy playing on the old motel TV.

“Your egg rolls are going to get soggy,” you tell him, pushing the to-go box across the mattress towards him.

“I don't have an appetite right now,” he says, picking up the box of food as he stands. You grab his bicep in your hand as he begins to walk past where you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him. “Everything's okay. Really. Don't let that guy get to you–”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” He snaps, pulling his arm from your grasp. You sit back, too stunned by his reaction to know how to respond. You just stare after him as he crams his take-out box into the motel room's mini fridge.

“I shouldn't have reacted so harshly,” he says after a moment, still facing away from you. “I couldn't stop myself. He spoke to you that way, and I could have killed him and not thought twice about it. Probably would have if you hadn't intervened.”

He turns back to you. You're frozen in place.

“Do you know what that's like?” He asks, taking a step closer to you. “To feel like you aren't in control of your own body? To be so irrationally protective of someone that you'd kill for them without a second thought?”

You feel like all air has been stripped from your lungs. He's just inches away, staring down at you from where you sit on the edge of the mattress. The way he's looking at you makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

“Because that's what you do to me. That's how you make me feel.”

Heat pools between your legs.

“Come here,” you say - it sounds more like a question than a command.

He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, and pulls you up from the mattress by the tops of your arms so that your body is flush against his.

His mouth hovers over yours - not quite making contact, though you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

He takes his flesh hand and cups the side of your face with it, his thumb trailing across your bottom lip. His metal hand wanders down your back until it reaches the curve of your ass - grasping your cheek in a firm hold and squeezing until his touch borders between pleasure and pain.

“This is what I wanted to do to you every time I saw a man so much as glance in your direction in that club,” he whispers against your mouth. “I thought about bending you over the stage and making them watch me take you right then and there, but they didn't deserve to see that.”

“They aren't here to see us now,” you murmur as you bring your hand to cup the noticeable bulge of his jeans, eliciting a hiss from him. “So what are you going to do now?”

There's a dark grin spread across his face. He pushes you, softly but effectively, back down on the bed. You scout back a few inches on the mattress, and then bring one of your feet up to remove the stiletto heels that you'd completely forgotten to take off upon returning to the motel with your haul of Chinese food.

“Oh, no,” Bucky laughs lowly. “I want you to keep those on. I've grown to like those quite a bit.”

Your cheeks warm in both arousal and bashfulness. You begin to push your pants down your thighs as Bucky kneels on the ground and helps you maneuver the fabric around your shoes. The sweater that you threw over your bustier goes next.

You're left in the lingerie set that you wore at the club.

“Call me jealous,” Bucky sighs as he begins trailing sloppy kisses up the insides of your thighs. “Call me possessive, call me crazy..”

You lay back down against the scratchy comforter as Bucky gets closer and closer to where you're aching to have him the most.

“But I don't want anyone seeing you like this but me.”

He pulls the already soaked lace material of your thong to the side, exposing your cunt.

He licks up your center torturously slow, causing you to let out a sharp exhale. He repeats the motion, and then locks his lips around your clit. Your hands shoot to his hair, fisting your fingers through the short brunet strands.

He eats you until you're a mewling and squirming mess beneath him.

You come hard, clenching your thighs around his head and riding his face through your orgasm.

“Stand up,” you instruct him as soon as you can think semi-clearly.

He obeys without any hesitation. The warm glow of the singular lamp in the motel room highlights the way your slick coats the lower half of his face.

You get up on your hands and knees before him and he lets out an audible groan at the sight in front of him. He bends down enough to kiss you - cupping your face in both of his hands and tipping your head up to give him a better angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss - the ache between your thighs reappearing already.

He removes his hands from your face, unbuttoning his pants while still kissing you.

You pull away to help free his cock from the confines of his boxers. Your mouth waters at what's directly in front of you. He's impressively long and girthy, with a thick vein running up the side.

You pump him a few times in your hand, swirling your tongue around the pre-cum dripping from his slit. He's already putty in your hands - groaning above you and placing his metal hand around the back of your neck to keep you where he wants you.

After you've run your tongue up and down his length a few times, you spit on the tip of his cock and massage it over the entirety of his shaft before taking him as far into your mouth as you can in the first go. He throws his head back, moaning your name.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag before pulling back.

He curses under his breath, nudging himself slowly back towards your throat again.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he praises and you moan around his dick. He gradually increases the speed at which he pumps himself into your mouth, obscene noises echoing off of the thin motel room walls.

When he pulls out, you feel drool running down your neck and mascara-tinted tears leaking from your eyes.

“You're so gorgeous like this for me,” he tells you, and despite knowing that you look thoroughly fucked out, you believe him. “Will you turn around?”

You do as he asks, turning around on your hands and knees. You lower your chest down to the bed so that your ass is angled upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts under his breath. He grips your hips with both of his hands, yanking you to him. His erection juts against the cloth of your underwear.

He tugs them aside once more, giving him access to tease your slit with the head of his cock. You rock backwards, grinding against him. He brings his flesh hand around your stomach and reaches down to rub your clit as he begins to slowly fill you from behind.

He pauses for a moment once he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust to the fullness of him before he starts fucking into you.

The combination of him slamming into you at such an intense angle and massaging you so perfectly has your climax building shamefully fast.

You grunt his name, bouncing your ass to meet his thrusts. “I'm gonna come,” you mewl, knowing he's on the verge of doing the same as his movements become uneven.

One, two, three more pumps and you can feel your pussy clenching around him as you come together.

You pull off of him, collapsing onto the bed and rolling onto your back. He crawls over you, propping himself up on his arms above you.

“You know,” he stares down at you, his eyes trailing to your breasts that are now spilling out of the black lace bustier. “As much as I hated every second of that mission, I do hope I might get to see you in some of these outfits again.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist!!!

[yandere-daydreams]

an extended version of this post. hold your plushies tight tonight, folks.

The Yan!JJK Men With a Stuffed Animal Loving Darling.

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Sukuna, and Toji.

TW: Kidnapping, Stalking Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Non/Con, Non-Wholesome Activities Involving Stuffed Animals, and Generalized Freak Shit Activity.

Gojo likes to touch.

He just can't help it. He's never been able to keep his hands off of you, and that means he also can't keep his hands off of your used chapstick and dirty laundry and those cutesy, beady-eyed plushies you keep piled up in every corner of your bedroom - the ones he knows you cuddle to sleep every night, even if you deny when he asks. He likes to keep track of which is your current favorite, which one you're most likely to gravitate towards when you want something soft to hold - mostly just to keep track of your preferences, but also to know which member of your oh-so-precious, oh-so-cherished collection to target when he feels like there's been a little too much distance between the two of you, lately.

You might complain that he's too clingy, that he's too affectionate, that you don't want people to start to think you're anything more than friends, but your stuffed animals don't whine when he tears hole in the bottom of your current favorite and pumps all of his unappreciated affection into its poor, velvet-soft insides. That way, even when you're too cold-hearted to let Gojo cuddle you to sleep, you'll still have a little piece of him in your arms <3

Geto likes to keep his distance.

He's possessive by nature, but you already know that, wouldn't have ended up locked away in some secluded portion of his temple if he wasn't. He tries to be kind, to be considerate, to not let how tightly you cling to that threadbare childhood toy bother him, but it's difficult for him - it'd be difficult for anyone to see the person they love most show more affection to a filthy rag than they do to their doting captor lover, when you embrace that thing so tenderly while flinching away every time he attempts to touch you.

So, he does what he's sure you'd prefer, and he keeps his distance. Specifically, he resigns himself to an arm chair no less than ten whole feet from your shared bed as he tells you exactly how he wants you to hump your beloved childhood stuffed animal, what part of it he wants you to grind against until you soil on the very item you seem so intent on preserving over and over and over again, until he's had his fill. It's not that he doesn't want to touch you - no, he'd do anything to be able to kiss the tears off of your cheek as you hiccup out another fractured sob, to shove his cock down your throat as you mutter little, trembling apologies to an inanimate object - but apparently, he's not the one you want to be spending time with. He can only hope you'll have changed your mind, by the time he's ruined your little companion entirely.

Nanami likes to watch.

To be completely honest, he could care less about your preference towards stuffed animals. It's not that he doesn't find it endearing, but there are plenty of adults who like to collect cute things. You're nothing out of the ordinary - at least, not when it comes to what you do in your free time.

But, he does find it convenient - just how willing you are to accept anything cute and plush and pastel into your home without a second thought. It's difficult to find something that suits your tastes while still being large enough to store and hide a camera, but difficult doesn't mean impossible, and it only takes a few days' worth of effort before his velvet-soft, pastel pink teddy bear is posed happily on your bedside table and he's got a 24/7 view into the moments too private for you to knowingly share with him. He knows it's only a temporary solution, that either his camera will malfunction or you'll notice the strange bulkiness of your newest stuffed animal or he'll get tired of watching from a distance, but that's alright. Cameras can be replaced, paranoia can be soothed, and eventually, he won't have to resign himself to only watching, anymore.

Sukuna likes to dismember.

Piece by piece, limb by limb, thread by thread, preferably while you sob and claw at his wrists and beg him to stop. While other partners might be amused by such a childish pastime, you shouldn't need pastimes at all when you're with Sukuna - not when your attention is better off entirely devoted to him. He might soften later on, suggest you take an interest in something more appropriate for the lover of a king, but that'll only come after he's dismantled everything that's ever stolen your gaze away from him with a gleeful sort of malice. If you're tempted to point out his hypocrisy, mention that he's spent every second of every minute of his life indulging himself in every petty impulse that's ever passed across his mind, don't. Challenging his inclination towards destruction, however justified your complaints might be, will only make him more tempted to show you just how much of your life he can tear to pieces.

Toji likes to tease.

Despite everything, he might be the most likely to indulge your little fixation. He's too cocky to ever be jealous of material and stuffing, and he thinks it's cute - how tightly you cling to something that could never actually protect you from him, how reflexively you hide your face in the nearest swatch of faux fur whenever he gets a little too rough. When he inevitably decides you're too delicate to be left on your own, he might even get you a couple new stuffed animals as a 'welcome home' gift. He's just a considerate guy, like that.

And when he's got you face down, ass up, clinging to the plushie he all-but forced into your arms as soon as he decided he was going to fuck you brainless, he'll only degrade you a little for being such an empty-headed slut, so pretty and so stupid that no one ever had the heart to tell you that you're too old to be playing with toys. He'll coo and pout as you moan and sob into silky fur, asking why you suddenly 'don't like daddy's present' when you try to put any amount of distance between you and him (and, by association, the toy he's got you trapped against), and when you finally lose consciousness still holding onto your stuffed animal, he'll make sure to snap a few pictures; just a little something to show you when you wake up and want nothing to do with your new favorite plushie. You're lucky he's as nice as he is, as generous as he is. Anyone else would lose patience, but Toji's just gotta spoil his baby <3 <3 <3

[allovesthings]

In my opinion, the butt jokes are incredibly incredibly tired.

So here are several fun facts about Dick that you can use for comedic effects/running jokes instead:

His hatred of Capes. Listen we are talking about Dick wore a yellow cape for 9 to 10 years in universe Grayson. The moment he changed his costume, he straight refused to ever wear a cape again, the only time he had to wear one, it was as Batman and it was very very frustrating for him.

You know that when he watched the Incredibles with Lian and Roy or Damian and Edna Mode came on screen with her hatred of capes, this was his reaction:

Someone else finally understand him. She instantly became his favorite character.

His tendency to put unknown substances/evidence in his mouth and being able to identify it by taste and his knowledge of what Heroin taste like (yep still not over it).

It's both impressive (the fact that he can actually identify something by taste alone is impressive) and gross and even his closest friends don't understand why he is the way that he is, Do we think it's the Bat training or do we think it's just Dick (tm)... I feel like it has to be just Dick, right ? considering everything in Gotham is a toxin of some kind ? How many heart attack do we think he gave both Bruce and the Titans with that ?

Dick Grayson namer of superhero things: Listen, I just learned that Dick named the Arrowcave and now I just kinda love the idea of a running joke that every time a classic superhero in contact with Robin has a goofy name for something superhero related, it probably comes from the 9 year old superhero who thought it sounded cool.

The Titans are never letting that go and Dick doesn't want to talk about it (but he secretly still really like the names, they were cool when he was 9 and pretty practical when you think about it, thank you very much).

Everyone has a crush on him (tm): Honestly it is pretty funny that everyone and theirs entire family have a crush on Nightwing (and also pretty consistent canon since Raven in ntt). The reaction of the batfam is annoyed because that's gross, it's Dick, theirs brother/son, and the Titans are amused (Donna, Vic, Garth and maybe Wally) or maybe sorta part of the people who have had a crush on him (Kory obviously , Roy, Raven).

You do need to be careful with that, but I think if you do the opposite of what DC is usually doing, you'll be fine.

Also you can also includes the disastrous first date with supergirl in that. She also had a crush on him and they date was so horrible that he considered changing superhero identity because it was so embarrassing (truly one of the greatest plot-point on Superman/batman world finest honestly and this series is genuinely my favorite modern/current series)..

His petty side when he doesn't like someone: Listen, Dick has a petty side, ask Helena circa Outsiders (2003), Talia (always), Jason circa the late 2000s (Morrison era) and Azrael (also always). When he doesn't like people but has to work with them, he is going to be a little shit because they have to know he doesn't like them. it's important. and the comedic potential of Nightwing, one of the most competent, known and admired hero of the community being so petty is excellent. 10 out of 10, I need him to work with someone he hates again just for the fun of it.

The last one is just an headcanon and do not have basis in canon as far as I know:

Sometimes, as an adult, Nightwing says Holy shit in front of a classic superhero and that superhero does a double take because they are so used to him saying Holy goly batman (and that include Batman).