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goodgirlofglory · 2 years

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Taking what he wants/One-shot

(Edit: This has grown to a multiple part series - /Masterpost/)

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: non-con, dub-con, smut, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of violence, explicit descriptions of blood, vaginal sex, anal fingering, oral (female recieving), unprotected sex (wrap before use, guys), creampie, choking, praise kink, felching, Steve’s unrelenting (and hot as hell woof)

Word count: 5,6k

Summary: On a regular, unsuspecting night, a bloodied stranger falls into your apartment. As you help him clean his wounds, you find yourself at his mercy, struggling against his strength, his intentions, and your own, secret want.

Note: Your media consumption is your own responsibility, but I advise you to not engage if the contents of the warnings trigger you. Not beta-read, we die like men. My work is not to be distributed outside my blog.

I say this is soft!dark!Steve Rogers since it has heavy non-con and dub-con vibes in the beginning, but Steve isn’t as physically forceful as I’ve written him before. Head the warning, darlings. Take care<3

This is a sort-of prequel to To give you what you need, so go give that a read if you like this one<3

Edit: We have a third installment now, Keeping you. There might come more parts to this story later as well ;)

Reblogs, likes and comments are amazing<33

It was late. Too late. Fuck.

Well it was only about one in the morning, and you had the day off tomorrow, so it wasn’t a problem, really. But you were planning on getting up early to catch the sunrise out on the hill, so you brushed your teeth and your hair rather rushed in order to get to bed as quickly as possible.

You were just about to turn the lights off in the hallway before slipping into your bedroom, when a quiet sound came from your front door. A knock, you realized with a flash of nerves as you glanced at the clock again. Oh no, that could not be good.

You wanted to ignore it, but a second later, it came again, louder this time, a fist hard against the wood. You jumped at the sudden force of it. You didn’t know anyone who’d come banging on your door this late. Not without messaging first. Maybe not even then would they bang loud enough on your door for your neighbor to hear it.

A weird sense of embarrassment filled you as you wondered what your neighbor might think of the noise coming from your door. Your feet carried you over to stop the noise before you’d thought it through, and you unlocked and cracked the door slightly open.

The door was pushed inwards immediately and you stumbled back as the force of it, completely unable to stop the intruder barging in. You made an alarmed noise of complaint before a hand clutched your shoulder, and your eyes met the stare of the most piercing, blue eyes you’d ever seen. He was inches away, his breath labored as the onslaught of smoke and earthly cedar filled your nose.

“Please,” the stranger said, soft voice a stark contrast to his forceful actions, “I need help, and I need shelter. I’m a secret agent, and I need a place to hide for the night. To get this cleaned, if anything,” he said, jostling his shoulder slightly and wincing from it.

You looked down at his shoulder, then further down his arm and finally at the hand clutching your shoulder. It was gushing red from blood, quickly staining your shirt and making you queasy. Looking back up, you noticed a red and dirty cut above his brow, the skin of his cheekbone scratched and bloodied, caked in mud as well. His short cut hair was messy and blond under a layer of dust and dirt.

“Please, miss, I wouldn’t come barging in like this if it wasn’t entirely necessary. Yours was the first home I came upon with lights still lit,” he continued after a beat and you felt unfathomably sorry for him in that moment. You nodded and he let go of your shoulder, sighing in relief.

“Of course. Kitchen’s this way, I have a small medical kit there, it’s all I have,” you said, gesturing dumbly towards the kitchen as your mind still reeled with the adrenaline of this total stranger inside your home, no matter how polite he was and how extraordinary the situation seemed. Surely anybody would help a bloody stranger on their doorstep. It was your duty, right?

“I’m sure it’ll do fine. Thank you,” he said with a smile.

He gestured for you to lead on, and followed behind you. As he straightened to follow, you took note of his attire. Black suit of some kind, seemed like a thick fabric with a heap of clasps and pockets all over. And across the chest, silver stripes and a bright, silver star in the middle. Seemed like something a cosplayer would wear, you thought quietly to yourself. Certainly not something you’d seen anyone wear before.

“Sit there,” you told him, pointing to one of the chairs at the table in your humble kitchen. You fished out the small medical kit from under the sink, dusting it off and remembering this was the first time you’d needed it in the five years since you’d bought it.

Making your way to the table, you noted how your hands shook slightly.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did he have to come to your house. You were never good with blood, or stressful situations - or people.

It didn’t make it better that you could feel his eyes on you as you started to unpack the med kit, taking out the scissors, cotton balls, gauze and disinfectant. Looking up, you saw you were right. The stranger was regarding you silently, watching you with a carefully neutral gaze. He seemed calm like a windless sky, and the churning inside you worsened at that for some reason.

“Ehm, maybe you should..um, take of your..top or whatever, and…” you stumbled awkwardly, pointing stupidly to his shoulder where you saw the rift in the fabric, the fabric glistening wet with blood in the low light.

“Right,” he said, smiling a bit again as he started unfastening visible and invisible straps around his shoulder and chest, soon peeling the fabric back with a grunt. He pulled the top part of his suit off until his entire upper body was uncovered. You hadn’t expected to react to his naked skin at all, but you found yourself a little flushed at it. The downright massive muscles of his arms and the definition of his chest told you whatever he did, he needed to be fit. But this was not the moment to be distracted by a half naked man in your apartment. Not when the skin on the left side of his chest and arm was painted a light red hue in blood. What looked like a nasty gash tore diagonally from the top of his shoulder down half-way across his left pec. You heaved a breath as your stomach flipped.

“That looks really bad,” you whispered, not able to tear your eyes away from the wound.

“Actually, it’s pretty clean. Shouldn’t take long to heal,” he said, and you had to look up to check if he was kidding or not. He was looking at the wound with what seemed like mild professional interest at best. It didn’t look like he was kidding. He looked up to meet your eyes, and his glinted with something at catching your gaze. You couldn’t help your intuition telling you something about that was off. But what?

“Oh,” you simply said, not having any experience with wounds to argue with.

You awkwardly neared him and gave him a piece of cotton to do whatever he deemed appropriate with. He took it, smiled at you again and started wiping around the wound.

“Do you have some water?” he asked after a moment.

You nodded, practically sprinting to the sink to get some distance between yourself and the blood. Coming back with a bowl of water, you sat awkwardly across from him as he went about cleaning his wound, passing on more cotton and wet tissues as he asked for them, watching with that sort of masochism that made people enjoy horror stories.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers,” he said.

Names. You hadn’t given your names until then.

“Y/n,” you said back, trying to smile politely and not being entirely convinced by yourself.

“Who gave you that, anyway?” you followed up with, trying to gloss over not giving him your last name. Not that it would keep you anonymous in any way. He knew where you lived, for christ’s sake.

“Some lunatic with a sword,” he snorted, a small laughter lacking any humor leaving his mouth.

You fell silent after that. His gaze met yours from time to time, and they seemed so calm, almost dreamy as they lingered on yours. It was like he wasn’t wounded at all, and you two had known each other for years. It made your skin prickle slightly, catching him looking at you almost like a lover would.

“Could you help me wrap the gauze?” he asked, breaking you out of your thoughts. You immediately got up to comply, jittery with pent up energy. It made you mourn slightly how late the hour had gotten. You probably wouldn’t be able to sleep after this anyways.

You moved closer to him to start wrapping the gauze around his shoulder, under his armpit and across his chest and back. The cedar scent from before enveloped you again, but it was much more heady this time, dominating in a way scents rarely were to you. It made you almost embarrassed to smell, it was so…close.

Everything was close now, too close. You bent forward to reach around his obscenely broad chest to pass the bundle of gaze from one hand to the other, and your lips almost touched the skin of his neck, his own breath tickling the hair behind your ears. You could swear he turned his face slightly towards yours as you leaned back, and you were so close. So very close, too close for comfort, and you swallowed thickly, revealingly, before dropping your eyes.

You fastened the gauze with a safety pin and leaned back, finally feeling like you could breathe again. He didn’t let you keep your reprieve for long, though. He gestured towards his face and gave you a sheepish smile.

He hissed as you first dabbed the cotton ball to the cut above his brow.

“Would you mind? It’s kinda tricky doing it right when I can’t, ya’know, see my face,” he said. Your first thought was to fetch a mirror. You could hold a mirror and then he could clean his own wounds. But that was stupid. Get it together, y/n, you can clean this poor, injured strangers cuts without having a panic attack.

“Um, sure,” you hesitantly agreed. Unelegantly, you poured some disinfectant on a cotton ball. The cuts didn’t look like they needed much more than a cleaning, just getting the dirt out. You tried leaning over the table, but couldn’t quite reach. Getting on your feet, you made your way around the table. You deliberately stepped on the side of him rather than in between his legs, which he had widened slightly at your approach. You tried not to linger on that move, the invitation in it, the intimacy, failing as the warmth of his skin seemed to bleed across the small distance and into your body.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, sizzling with anxiety.

“No, it’s fine, please continue,” he said. He closed his eyes as you kept going.

You quickly swabbed at the cut, cleaning the dust and dirt away, trying not to let the skin of your fingertips come into contact with the skin on his face. It seemed imminently important to not make skin og skin contact with him, and you couldn’t quite understand why.

But then you needed to reach the scratched up patch on the opposite cheekbone, and you swallowed thickly as you reached across, face moving even closer to his.

Too close.

This scratch needed less cleaning, no deep breach of skin, and you hopefully looked forward to the moment you could retreat across the table.

But then his eyes opened and your gaze drew to meet his. You looked into each others eyes for a long moment, and then your eyes flicked down to his mouth before you had a chance to control it. His lips were in a neutral line, but there was a tiny amount of saliva shining on the bottom lip, like he had been biting it. Looking back up, his eyes were steady as they reconnected with yours, watching.

Shit.

“Thank you. You did really well,” he said, his voice low, rumbling, and the words made you shiver despite yourself. Shit. You desperately hoped it hadn’t showed, cheeks heating up, and the silence droned on for another, painfully long moment.

You straightened, joints stiff, and fled across the table to sit again.

“Well, that’s it,” you said pointlessly, trying to fill the air with something other than the thick tension that had built despite your best efforts. You were uneasy, wanting the stranger to leave without knowing how to ask him. He’d said he needed somewhere to crash the whole night. And you had said ‘of course’. Surely others wouldn’t throw him out at this point?

“I should get out of your hair now,” he said, and relief washed over you. You couldn’t help the following pang of guilt though, at being so relieved this injured stranger would leave you alone after doing nothing more than require your help.

You got up from your seat and made to move out of the kitchen, hoping he would follow you to the front door without any more fuzz - so that you could go to bed and try and forget this whole thing.

You stopped by the portal out to the living room.

“Um, good, I mean, if you're sure, you -”

Turning around, you found yourself suddenly crowded against the wall, Steve standing mere inches away. He was so tall, towering over you in a way that made you instantly shrink in on yourself, reaching back to clutch at the wall you couldn’t move around.

“Um, I…”

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked, hands coming up to lean on the wall on either side of your head. His suit was still half-way off, the naked skin so close it had your own skin crawling.

Too close, too close, too close…

How could you answer that without looking like a heartless asshole?

“I…you said you would,” you said.

“I said ‘I should’. But I think you might want me to stay,” he said, and his smile was almost sly, nothing like those he’d given you earlier.

“I don’t,” you heard yourself whisper, and you were surprised you’d even been able to get the words out. “I don’t,” you repeated, a little louder now. Surely he’d leave now, you’d said you didn’t want him there?

Steve regarded you for a moment, and then leaned in, slowly, until his lips brushed against the sensitive shell of your ear as he spoke.

“We’ll see,” he murmured, the vibrations of his voice rumbling into your body, making electricity zap down your spine along with sudden, white hot panic. For a moment you saw the whole situation as if you stood across the room, and the premonition of danger startled your body into action.

You ducked under his arm and bolted around the corner, efficiently dodging furniture, bounding for the front door. You made it, wrenching it open an inch when a hand behind you reached over your shoulder and easily pushed the door back shut. You wrenched at it, breath hitching as it didn’t move, your strength nothing compared to Steve’s.

No, no, no, no. Why did you open it in the first place? What were you thinking?!

A frustrated whimper left you as you fruitlessly gave the door knob another jam. A moment later you felt warmth enveloping your back as Steve took another step closer, and then his whole body was slowly pressing against yours, trapping you against the door in a hot, tight lock.

“Shh, none of that,” he said low, measured, his voice slow and comforting. His face pushed into the hair at the top of your head and he inhaled, deep and slow. You fought the tremor at him smelling you so unabashedly.

“You’ll do well, won’t you? Be good,” he said. You couldn’t help trembling this time, leaving you mortified at the effect of his words. Those words.

He chuckled lightly into your hair, his other hand coming up to brush it away from your nape. His fingertips grazed your skin and you couldn’t breathe with how much the tingles fuzzed on your skin, like champagne.

No, please…

You bucked back against him, thrashing as you tried to get out of the tight press of his body and the front door. He budged slightly and you made to slip away when one of his hands came up, flipped you around with such force that your shoulder sang out in a jolt of pain as it hit the door, and then his hand, big and warm and calloused, wrapped around your neck.

Your eyes grew wide as you reached up to claw at his hand as it applied pressure, the constriction of your throat making your mind scream in panic. He was killing you. Actually killing you. You would be dead within moments. This was it.

Your eyes met Steve’s, still calm, but shining with intent now, with determination. In the back of your panic stricken mind you noticed how wide his pupils were, how the black seemed to drown the blue of his irises.

A strangled rasp came from your throat as you tried to draw breath, and he eased the pressure, heavenly air, thick and soothing, entering your body.

“None of that,” he repeated. “This will be so much better if you just let it happen.”

“Let what happen?” you asked, and your voice was shaking now, dread slowly replacing panic.

“Me taking what I want,” he answered rather easily. “Which is what I suspect you want too,” he continued, whispering it like a secret, a secret he told on your behalf.

You jolted in his grip, his huge hand like a leash around your throat now, no longer constricting, but keeping you put nonetheless, leaving your body to squirm slightly in place, pressed to the door as you still were.

This was completely insane. He was a stranger. In your home, uninvited in the middle of the night. And now he was either going to either kill you or take what he wanted, which you could imagine what was.

There was something moving in your body now, something other than the panic and dread, some deep tingling awareness you didn’t want to name. Didn’t want to admit to. But it was there, growing under his watchful, knowing gaze, his promise that you would be good. That he would tell you how you could be.

“Is that what you want? For me to take what I want? For you to be a good girl, letting me take it, give it to me like I know you can?” he continued, studying your reaction as he so skillfully pushed your buttons, buttons you couldn’t fathom how he knew about, how he’d discovered. Had you been so revealing?

Your breath hitched and you pressed your thighs together in a subtle effort to relieve some of the tension in your lower body, the restlessness you felt there. His mouth drew up on one side, like a sly fox, letting you know he saw everything.

“Oh, you’ve been neglected. No one’s taken care of you in a long time. Given you what you deserved. Letting you show how good you can be,” he continued, a serious yet comforting tilt to his voice, and it made anticipation grow hot inside you suddenly and violently.

It was true. It had been so long. So long since anyone remotely worth it; anyone who really saw you.

“I can do that. I want to do that. I want you to show me how good you can be, y/n. Show me how well you can take it,” he whispered, stepping nearer again so his breath fanned across your face as he spoke.

The onslaught of his scent, the thick and heady nature of it, drawing you into an embrace, made the air thick with his musky smell. It made you draw a deep inhale, followed by a shaky exhale, something pulsing deep inside you. You were suddenly, painfully aware of your sparse attire, only wearing your long sleeping t-shirt that reached just below your bum, and a pair of panties, floral pattern if you recalled correctly. Your clothes made up practically no barrier at all.

“Do you want that?” he asked, and in the moment he seemed genuine in his inquiry. Like it would actually matter what you answered. Like you had to make the choice.

A flash of fear tore through you, but this time it was from the potential loss of what you now had suspected was inevitable. What if you said no and he went away? Could you risk that when what he’d just said before seemed like the much needed absolution you’d been secretly praying for?

You couldn’t risk it. No matter that you hadn’t wanted it in the first place, had never invited it. That there was still a large part of you howling for your escape, to get away from this dangerous, violent stranger, to not let him take anything.

You gave a tiny nod. A nod so tiny you hoped he would miss it. So tiny that anyone else that might’ve been in the room would miss it. Your admission, your surrender.

Steve noticed, though, of course.

He huffed a small laugh, almost disbelievingly.

“My god,” he whispered, before leaning in.

His lips pressed on yours, and the contact had your whole face flushing suddenly. Whatever you’d expected, a rather soft kiss wasn’t it. Still you couldn’t bring yourself to reciprocate, making you awkwardly still as Steve worked his lips over yours again, vying for entrance. Both his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs coming down to apply pressure at your chin and jaw. The moment your lips opened from the down push of his fingers, his tongue was in your mouth, hot, heavy and searching. It was too much, too slick.

You reeled back, trying to get your bearings, your mind trying so hard to keep up with everything that was happening. What you had seemingly agreed to, and what you hadn’t. His hands tightened as he held your face more sturdy, and a whimper left you.

“Hmm, maybe I need to train you before I can expect you to be good,” he said musingly to himself. He suddenly flipped you back over, pushing your face into the door with a huge hand at the back of your head.

“You will not refuse me,” he said as his free hand reached down to pull your shirt up over your ass to pool at your waist, the cool night air suddenly biting on your newly exposed skin.

“I will get what I want, whether you give it or not. Though I’d prefer if you gave it,” he said, taking your panties in his fist and janking hard. Your body jolted in pain as the material snapped, leaving you bare for the world.

You heaved for breath, fear and shock and horror pulsing through your veins, along with something else. Something that horrified you even more…anticipation. For his discipline.

Your panties were disregarded somewhere on the floor, and you heard the rustling of fabric behind you. Your body squirmed again, and you were scrambling to keep up, but everything was moving too fast. You’re not ready, he should see that.

“If you don’t give it willingly, this won’t be pleasant for you. And I want it to be. So, so pleasant for you,” he husked in your ear, voice growing hoarse as he stepped closer again, and then his hand was down between your cheeks, seeking out your cunt.

Finding it, he groaned in your ear, a low and rumbling sound, and then there was another pressure there, so intently pushing forward, in.

“No, no, please, wait-” you rushed out on a shaky breath, but it was too late.

He breached, and then his cock was sliding in, slowly, steadily against your barely lubricated walls, making your flesh give way to his want.

Pushing half-way in, he stopped, and the pressure was like nothing you’d felt before, his girth astonishing. You wondered what it looked like for a moment before you could help yourself.

Steve grunted behind you, pulling slightly out, and the drag of his cock inside you had your knees threatening to turn shaky.

The hand not keeping your face pushed against the door, wrapped around your hip and pushed you slightly to tilt your hips backward, and then he slid all the way in, burying to the hilt, making your breath lodge in your throat painfully.

You let out an alarmed sound as you tried to squirm away from the invasion, only managing to massage yourself on his cock. He made an answering hum.

“Oh my god…you feel incredible. Don’t worry, sweets, I’ll make it good for you. But first I need to teach you what happens when you don’t comply,” he rumbled in your ear, pulling back to thrust back in. And then again, and again, and again, and you were heaving for breath against the pain of his cock against your non-wet walls, and the screaming of your nerves at the movement.

He started to pick up a steady rhythm, one hand on your hip to keep your ass canted back, able to receive his whole rod as it speared you, and one on your head, effectively pinning you to the front door as he worked away.

He grew more forceful, pulling almost completely out before pistoning back in, quicker, harder, and your flesh gave more way to it now, pliant for him, surrendering in every way, the slap of his hips against your ass evidence. Small grunts and moans were freely spilling from his mouth, making a tingle inside you grow. You’d never been with someone so vocal, someone so inherently erotic in their responses, so honest and eager in their show of pleasure. The pain was slowly tinged by pleasure, and you wondered just how much of a masochist you secretly were.

The air was growing stuffy with your exertion, with the smell of sweat and musk and sex, and along with the ever dominating smell of Steve’s cedar scent it was intoxicating, making your cheeks heat with how good it smelled, how much you liked it.

You found yourself holding still for him, still for it, wanting the force of it, on the verge of pushing back against it to get more.

“There we are,” he said, and you could hear he was pleased.

Please say it, say the words.

“Finally admitting that you, uhn, want it, huh?” he taunted, his pace growing erratic as he plowed you, the door starting to rattle in front of you by the force.

“Finally letting yourself give in to it, give it to me,” he continued, voice strained. You wondered if he was nearing the edge, something inside you growing frantic at the thought, anticipating his pleasure at you being…being…

“Taking it so well, being so good for it. For me,” he forced out through gritted teeth, and then he thrusted all the way in, moving in a filthy grind, pushing impossibly deeper, crowding you against the door as a down right feral growl left his mouth. His forehead, hot and sweaty, pushed into the crook of your neck, his open mouth warm and wet on the skin there.

Goosebumps rose on the flesh all down your spine, and you shook violently, his words churning inside you, releasing a wave of thick, overwhelming pleasure like white hot lava.

You couldn’t help your moan as his cock pulsed inside you, and you knew he was coming. Coming inside you, deep inside you, giving you his pleasure, giving you his praise.

Your hands braced on the door started to push back, and you squirmed your whole body trying to get more friction, to get more of him, more. You weren’t ready for it to end, and you were desperate for your own release. You could feel it deep in your loins, sparking like electricity through your lower abdomen. A half-moan, half-sob left you.

He kissed the sweat covered nape of your neck, a soothing hum vibrating against the skin there.

“There, there, baby, don’t fret,” he whispered, breath still labored.

He pulled out, his hands leaving your body, and you almost cried out at the loss of it. You started to turn back, searching for it, for something that could get you over the edge.

“No, no, stay like that,” he said warmly before both his hands wrapped around your hips. You turned your head and met his gaze, pupils blown, heavy-lidded, as he got down on his knees. The sigh of relief leaving you as you realized what he was going to do had him huffing a pleased laugh in return.

“Yes, darlin’, that’s exactly right” he said encouragingly, and you couldn’t help the heat tingling your cheeks at it.

A small part of you was embarrassed being so intimately exposed to him, his face right there, seeing everything, smelling everything. But another, larger part of you wanted him there, wanted him closer, wanted him to taste.

He did as you wanted a moment later, leaning forward and letting his tongue tentatively lap at your center as his hands moved down to spread your cheeks wide, exposing you further. Your head hit the door with a soft thunk at the pleasure of his warm, wet tongue on your skin.

He diligently mapped out your cunt with his tongue, and you could feel his cum leaking out of you, onto his tongue and then smearing over your flesh, making you slippery with it, dripping with it. He moaned against your mound and you shivered, the vibrations good, but not enough.

“M-more,” you whispered.

He grunted before pulling away.

“What was that?” he asked, voice rough, but smiling. He was no doubt smiling.

“More, please,” you reiterated, flushing hot with humiliation. Humiliation at being so needy for it, for this stranger that had forced on you what you hadn’t asked for in the first place, and then making you desperate for it.

“Yes,” he hissed.

His hands gave your asscheeks a healthy squeeze before he dove in again, this time lapping more intently on you, locating your clit and sucking it softly into his mouth, making you keen.

One of his thumbs inched inwards and located the furly, tight hole of your ass. You bucked away at the first touch of it, so foreign, so wrong.

He tightened his hold on you, giving a warning noise, muffled where he was burying his face between your legs. You slowly inched back into it, fighting the tremors wrecking your body as his thumb relocated your asshole, lightly stroking around the sensitive skin before prodding softly, tongue still working away at your clit.

A wretched moan left you, and your knees threatened to give out. There was still a small trickle of cum leaking out of you, and all the sensations combined were overwhelming, too much and not enough at the same time, making you scared of how much you needed it.

His mouth left your clit to lick up your crack. He spat on your asshole, and then laughed, intrigued and pleased when you squeaked in surprise. You felt his tongue again, and now it was hot and slippery on your back entrance, laving more spit on it, drenching it around his own thumb.

“Turn around,” he said suddenly, already maneuvering your body around to lean your back against the front door. God, you were still in the fucking hall way.

“Take that off,” he said, and you immediately tore your shirt off, somehow craving the feeling of being exposed for him now.

“Good,” he said as his eyes rowed over your naked body, making you tingle all over again, heat sizzling on your cheeks at the praise both in his voice and his eyes.

He grabbed your leg and draped it over his shoulder, leaning in to lap at your swollen clit again, and you gasped at how it made your nerve endings sing. You wobbled slightly balanced on one leg, and he steadied you with one hand on your leg as your hands scrambled for purchase at his head.

He grunted, and you weaved your fingers into his hair, eliciting another, slightly more fervent grunt.

It was all so good, so mind-numbingly good, making your breath thick with pleasure humming along deep within every muscle in your body. He lapped intently at your clit, building a rhythm, having tingles of pleasure turn into pulses of a building pressure inside you. You were right there, cramming for it, wanting it so bad.

A finger moved back and located your slicked up asshole, and you knew you were going to blow, could feel the edge crumbling.

His finger stroked your entrance, petted it, as his mouth gave off momentarily.

“Look at me. If you don’t want me to stop, keep looking at me,” he said, and he sounded almost as gone as you were.

“Fuck,” you huffed, and he hummed mischieviously before the finger gently stroking your asshole pushed inside, all the way to the second knuckle in one, smooth push. Your huff turned into a whine as your body seized at the intrusion, the muscles of your ass clamping down on his digit in spasms, not knowing how to handle the sensation. Your eyes squeezed close and his finger stilled.

“Ah, ah, ah, what did I just say?” he asked.

You forced your eyes open to meet his again, and was rewarded by a smile, before his mouth returned to your clit. You clutched his hair, moving along with him as he quickly brought you back to the edge.

Your mouth opened on a silent whine as his finger started to steadily move in and out of your ass, and you could feel your cunt leaking your own slick now. You realized every reaction, every sound, every twitch you made was open for him to see now. That he was eagerly drinking every reaction he drew from your body.

He licked at your clit once, twice more and then you came, the edge exploding away. You drew a shuddering breath only for it to force itself out on an almost alarmed sound as your clit pulsed, your cunt clamped around nothing and your asshole spasmed rhythmically around his finger, wave after wave of toe-curling pleasure surging through your body. Your knees gave out, and Steve brought his free hand up to effectively pin you to the door, the leg draped over his shoulder shaking. He moaned as he kept his tongue on your clit, just letting it pulse against it, drawing out your orgasm as you jolted on it, jolted on his finger as it sent electricity up your spine from where it was languidly pushing in and out of you, milking your orgasm out of you.

You collapsed against the door, Steve pulling his finger out to catch you as you slumped down to the floor, aftershocks of the orgasm making you light headed. You had never had an orgasm like that before.

Steve caught you and draped you across his lap, cradling you close. You could feel his half-hard cock against your belly, and some part of you wondered what that might feel like in your ass.

What the hell is wrong with me, you thought helplessly and you stayed pliant in Steve’s arms, still feeling tingly.

“Do you see now, sweetheart, how good it can be when you give in?” he asked, his head dipping to catch your eyes with his. You could do nothing more but nod.

He smiled and kissed you, his tongue invading your mouth. You wondered if you could taste his cum, or if the salty tang was all your own. Steve broke the kiss to look at you again.

“The things I’m gonna do with you,” he mused, almost to himself, and brought a hand up to stroke your cheekbone almost lovingly with his thumb.

Steve was thrusting his cock up into you slowly, steadily, predictably. It was all you needed, overwhelmed, overstimulated and desperate for it, again and again. You were straddling his hips in your bed, arms lax on his chest as he held your face in his hands, studying you as he pumped his cock almost nonchalantly into your dripping, swollen pussy. You keened, not able to keep your eyes open, not able to keep your mouth close, drool dripping from your lip embarrassingly.

“Look at you,” he whispered, reaching up to give your open mouth a sweet, short kiss, almost a peck. You moaned, leaning in to get more, but he drew back, keeping your head in a steady lock. “So drunk off my cock, huh? Feel good?”

You nodded dumbly, feeling too good indeed to do anything but feel the tingle of pleasure in your cheeks, the hum of it on your chest and arms, the pulse of it in your entire lower body, every nerve tuning in to where Steve’s cock was slowly and impeccably pushing the sensations into you, feeling high on it, intoxicated, drunk.

“Good girl.”

A/N: Woooof, I enjoyed this one. Hope you did too ;*

This has turned into a miniseries with part two To give you what you need and part three Keeping you.

/Masterpost/

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfic #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers smut #soft!dark steve rogers #soft!dark steve rogers x reader #in the balance

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evanescentjasmine · 4 years

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I’m going to talk about a little pet peeve of mine with regard to portrayal of poc in fic, TMA specifically since that’s what I mostly read and write for.

I suppose I should first start by saying that, of course, poc are not a monolith, and I’m certain there are other poc who have many different views on this issue. And also this post is in no way meant to demonise, shame, or otherwise discourage people from writing poc in fic if they’re doing something differently. This is just a thing I’ve been noodling on for a while and have had several interesting conversations with friends about, and now that I think I’ve figured out why I have this pet peeve, I figured I’d gather my thoughts into a post.

As a result of the fact we have no canonical racial, ethnic, or religious backgrounds for our main TMA cast, we’ve ended up with many diverse headcanons, and it’s absolutely lovely to see. I’m all for more diversity and I’m always delighted to see people’s headcanons.

However, what often happens is I’ll be reading a fic and plodding along in a character’s PoV and get mention of their skin colour. And nothing else. I find this, personally, extremely jarring. In a short one-shot it makes sense, because you’re usually touching on one scenario and then dipping out. Likewise if the fic is in a different setting, is cracky, or is told from someone else’s PoV, that’s all fine. But if I’m reading a serious long-fic close in the poc’s head and...nothing? That’s just bizarre to me.

Your heritage, culture, religion, and background, all of those affect how you view the world, and how the world views you in return. How people treat you, how you carry yourself, what you’re conscious of, all of that shifts. And the weird thing is that many writers are aware of this when it comes to characters being ace or trans or neurodivergent—and I’m genuinely pleased by that, don’t get me wrong. Nothing has made my ace self happier than the casual aceness in TMA fics that often resonates so well with my experience. But just as gender, orientation, and neurodivergence change how a character interacts with their world, so do race, ethnicity, and religion.

As a child, I spent a couple of years in England while my mother was getting her degree. Though I started using Arabic less and less, my mother still spoke to me almost exclusively in Arabic at home. We still ate romy cheese and molokhia and the right kind of rice, though we missed out on other things. She managed to get an Egyptian channel on TV somehow, which means I still grew up with different cultural touchstones and make pop-culture references that I can’t share with my non-Arabic-speaking friends. She also became friends with just about every Egyptian in her university, so for those years I had a bevy of unrelated Uncles and Aunties from cities all over Egypt, banding together to go on outings or celebrate our holidays.

As an adult who sometimes travels abroad solo, and as a fair-skinned Arab who’s fluent in English, usually in a Western country the most I’ll get is puzzled people trying to parse my accent and convinced someone in my family came from somewhere. When they hear my name, though, that shifts. I get things like surprise, passive-aggressive digs at my home region, weird questions, insistence I don’t look Egyptian (which, what does that even mean?) or the ever-popular, ever-irritating: Oh, your English is so good!

At airports, with my Egyptian passport, it’s less benign. I am very commonly taken aside for extra security, all of which I expect and am prepared for, and which always confuses foreign friends who insisted beforehand that surely they wouldn’t pull me aside. Unspoken is the fact I, y’know, don’t look like what they imagine a terrorist would. But I’m Arab and that’s how it goes, despite my, er, more “Western” leaning presentation.

This would be an entirely different story if I were hijabi, or had darker skin, or a more pronounced accent. I am aware I’m absolutely awash with privilege. Likewise, it would be different if I had a non-Arab name and passport.

So it’s slightly baffling to me as to why a Jon who is Pakistani or Indian or Arab and/or Black British would go through life the exact same way a white British character would.

Now, I understand that race and ethnicity can be very fraught, and that many writers don’t want to step on toes or get things wrong or feel it isn’t their place to explore these things, and certainly I don’t think it’s a person’s place to explore The Struggles of X Background unless they also share said background. I’m not saying a fic should portray racism and microaggressions either (and if they do, please take care and tag them appropriately), but that past experiences of them would affect a character. A fic doesn’t have to be about the Arab Experience With Racism (™) to mention that, say, an Arab Jon headed to the airport in S3 for his world tour would have been very conscious to be as put together as he could, given the circumstances, and have all his things in order.

And there’s so much more to us besides. What stories did your character grow up with? What language was spoken at home? Do they also speak it? If not, how do they feel about that? What are their comfort foods? Their family traditions? The things they do without thinking? The obscure pop-culture opinions they can’t even begin to explain? (Ask me about the crossover between Egyptian political comedy and cosmic horror sometime…)

I’m not saying you’ll always get it right. Hell, I’m not saying I always get it right either. I’m sure someone can read one of my fics and be like, “nope, this isn’t true to me!” And that’s okay. The important thing, for me, is trying.

Because here’s the thing.

I want you to imagine reading a fic where I, a born and raised Egyptian, wrote white characters in, say, a suburb in the US as though they shared my personal experiences. It’s a multi-generational household, people of the same gender greet with a kiss on each cheek, lunch is the main meal, adults only move out when they get married, every older person they meet is Auntie or Uncle, every bathroom has a bidet, there’s a backdrop of Muslim assumptions and views of morality, and the characters discuss their Eid plans because, well, everyone celebrates Eid, obviously.

Weird, right?

So why is this normal the other way around?

Have you ever stopped to wonder why white (and often, especially American) experiences are considered the default? The universal inoffensive base on which the rest is built?

Yes, I understand that writers are trying to be inoffensive and respectful of other backgrounds. But actually, I find the usual method of having the only difference be their skin colour or features pretty reductive. We’re more than just a paint job or a sprinkle of flavour to add on top of the default. Many of us have fundamentally different life experiences and ignoring this contributes to that assumption of your experience being universal.

Yes, fic is supposed to be for fun and maybe you don’t want to have to think about all this, and I get that completely. I have all the respect in the world for writers who tag their TMA fics as an American AU, or who don’t mention anyone’s races. I get it. But when you have characters without a canonical race and you give them one, you’re making a decision, and I want you to think about it.

Yes, this is a lot of research, but the internet is full of people talking about themselves and their experiences. Read their articles, read their blogs, read their twitter threads, watch their videos, see what they have to say and use it as a jumping-off point. I’m really fond of the Writing With Color blog, so if you’re not sure where to start I’d recommend giving them a look.

Because writers outside of the Anglosphere already do this research in order to write in most fandoms. Writers of colour already put themselves in your shoes to write white characters. And frankly, given the amount of care that many white writers put into researching Britishisms, I don’t see why this can’t extend to other cultural differences as well.

#the magnus archives #tma #poc in fanfic #representation #tw racism #long post

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strongxsurvivors · 4 years

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MLM SHIPS, FETIZATION, AND MISOGYNY IN THE RPC.

This is a small, or not-so-small, rant about a problem ( in my opinion ) I see more and more often in both the rp community and the art community. As a member of both, I just can’t escape this issue and need to put out some food for thought for everyone to read.

Not all of you are going to agree with me. Maybe, some will want to add in their two cents. Maybe, it’ll go over someone’s head completely. I simply appreciate you putting the time into reading this and giving it, like, two seconds of thought. It may not be an issue for you or be completely unrelated to you, but this is an issue I’m sure others will be able to relate to.

I will preface this by saying that I am a twenty-five year old transman. I am bisexual. I have a degree in psychology and excelled in gender and sexuality psychology. THIS DOES NOT, BY ANY MEANS, MEAN I AM THE END ALL BE ALL OF INFO IN THESE SUBJECTS. My experience is my own and I will not gatekeep or instruct people how to think in concerns of these subjects. I am only saying these things simply to assure you that I am valid in my perspective because I am in these communities. Please, don’t think that I want to invalidate anyone or say that I am better than you because I am these things.

Alright, let’s get the ball rolling because I have a lot of feelings and thoughts on a lot of points.

The number one thing that finally set me off to make this post is the absolute WORSHIP of mlm ( male loving male ) ships in the rpc ( and art comm., but this ain’t about them rn ). I have seen, countless times, entire blogs dedicated to shipping male characters to male characters.

Now, initially, this isn’t a problem. Having a male homosexual ship or homosexual male characters is absolutely fine. Peep my blog, I obviously have some. But, it’s the act of taking a character that was originally female, cisbend them to be male, and shipping them with another male character that's the problem. What was wrong with the female character? You kept her personality but made her male? Why? Is it necessary? It’s the same character. If you are uncomfortable writing female-related smut, fade to black. Smut is not necessary if you are truly focused on the essence of this character.

By making this character male, you are essentially saying that the only problem was that she was female. That’s it. That is misogyny. If you are focusing on her as a character, her body shouldn’t matter. As if females equate to their body when sex and gender are two separate things. But, you are bringing females down by getting rid of this one thing. You are telling them they are not good enough. That, maybe, you would like them better if they were the same but male. Am I being extreme about this? Yes. But, I’m trying to drive home my point here.

Another point to make about fetishizing mlm ships is that, even if you state your character is bisexual, pansexual, etc., that does not give you a pass. If your whole blog has characters who want only male partners even if some are stated to be something other than homosexual, you’re fetishizing them. If you put no effort in exploring relationships with females — platonic, romantic, or otherwise — you may as well call them homosexual and call it a day. I’m not here to dictate how you should play your character, but it’s easy to see where your loyalties lie when there is no evidence of female characters on your blog that you’ve interacted with. Actions speak louder than words. Rpc may be made up of words, but make your words take action. Plenty of people complain about their females being ignored. Go help them. Make your characters be friends, enemies, a crime-fighting duo idk. Females exist, don’t act like they don’t.

Oh, and changing a canon mlm ship to a wlw ship by cisbending them doesn’t change things. You’re still saying that those male characters were better than the pre-existing female characters. I would recommend you focus on the actual females of whatever medium you’ve taken these characters from, or create ocs that are genuinely wlw. This is mostly a thing I see in the art community, but I have seen it in the rpc.

We’re going to move on now to some transphobic and trans fetishization, which is fewer and far between. I say a few because I barely see trans characters out there in the community. But, when I do, OH BOY.

Simply stating a character is trans and doing nothing to upkeep what you said does not make your character trans. I’m sorry. Taking a pre-existing character and changing their gender and calling them trans is a sticky situation. I will probably get hate for this, but what are you going to do? It’s Tumblr. I would just prefer to see more original trans characters out there, as if actual thought and development went into their creation.

What I mean by a sticky situation is this, and it goes back to a point I made earlier about cisbending characters to fit mlm ships: if you’re only making a character a transman to make him gay, that's fetishizing both mlm ships and trans people. I’m not saying a transperson can’t be gay and I’m not here to limit diverse characters — this is why I say this is a sticky situation. But, what I am saying is that if you only have muses that are involved in mlm ships and then you add a transmale character to also have an mlm ship based on faceclaims, it’s kinda sus.

Another thing I want to point out is if you are playing a trans character, refer to them by their chosen name and pronouns. You would think this is a no brainer, but you would be surprised. Even if your trans character is closeted, it is your job as the writer to write the correct name and pronouns. Other character interacting with your trans character could use their dead name and wrong pronouns — it makes sense, they don’t know your character is trans if they are closeted and non-passing. But, as you write your character, you and the reader are aware of your character’s true self. Neglecting to reflect your character’s true self through their chosen and name and pronouns is transphobic and harmful. Seeing things like this sends me into a whirlwind of dysphoria.

Changing a pre-existing character to nonbinary rather than cisbending them would be a recommendation from me and some others ( nonbinary individuals ) I’ve talked to. First off, there are very few nonbinary characters in general — media or otherwise. So, taking a pre-existing character and making them nonbinary is a nice thing to see. And, since the character is nonbinary, if they’re in a relationship with a male - the fetishization is redundant.

Now, who do I see making these wacky characters? Mostly cis females and trans men. I think it mostly stems from internalized misogyny as, when growing up, we’ve lived in societies where we are taught men are better than women. It can get to the point where cis females will glorify men so much that they have to have mlm ships. The same can be said for trans men. I’m not saying — as is often used against trans men — that this internalized misogyny / glorification of men has caused them to be trans. Obviously not. But, the internalized misogyny is still there enough to where they may either fear interacting with female characters. It might make them uncomfortable, dysphoric, or they just may think men are better. Women do not deserve to be the catalyst for someone’s discomfort. They are people. They are everywhere. They deserve to be loved. If they make you uncomfortable, if you think you are better than them, if you think men are better, I want you to sit down with yourself and think about this.

When I first realized that I was trans, I had some serious internalized misogyny going on. I would be uncomfortable writing female characters. I would be uncomfortable interacting with them. There was this discomfort that started to manifest in my behaviors and thoughts. Luckily, I had the best person in my life who told me that I was acting misogynistic and I needed to change. Pushing away females was me trying to come to terms with my transness. You don’t need to expel females away from you to imbed in yourself that you are trans. You don’t need to raise yourself above them as men have done for centuries. Do not become part of the problem. Accept the feminine parts of yourself, accept females, and I promise that the fear or resentment you may have with females and female characters will fade away.

Now, with all that being said, my last few words:

Being trans does not give you a pass to do the things I’ve mentioned. Being cis does not give you a pass. Being straight, gay, bi, etc does not give you a pass. If you are a gay man, I understand why you would only have male mlm ships. That doesn’t mean you can’t platonically interact with female characters. We all have made dumb mistakes and judgments in the past. I know for sure I’ve written some pretty cringe stuff in the past. It happens. The best we can do? Learn and take action on what we claim to have learned. Again, actions speak louder than words. Don’t piggy-back on posts that call out people for behavior like this when you participate in some of these behaviors yourself. Just because one person got called out and the spotlight is on them doesn’t mean you’re better than them or that you’ve been given a pass. If you read something like this, reflect on yourself and wonder — objectively — do you do some of these things? You may without realizing it or meaning to. In the end, I’m just a small blog that’s been around for seven years. I think we can get better as a community, but only if we help each other out. This is not a call out post. Call out and cancel culture is gross and counterproductive. I ain’t here for it. Call me out if you want, but what’ll that do? Nothing accept invalidate my opinion.

If you made it this far, I’m sorry. I took up a lot of your time probably. But, I want to thank you so much for reading this. As I said, you may agree, disagree, and not really get what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m saying half the time either. But, I appreciate you regardless. Please, stay safe and healthy. I hope you have a wonderful year ahead of you.

#indie rp #indie rpc #indie discourse #gingersnaps #idk what to tag so here we are

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serifsans · 3 years

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Vladimir’s bulk is warm and comfortable in a way nothing else is. It’d probably be downright luxurious to curl up on his lap in his true form but if there’s anything Jean-Paul hates, it’s letting their boyfriend (boyfriend, he calls him, as if either of them aren’t anything but too damn old, as if they don’t think of him as their husband, even if they dare not say it lest that change something and ruin everything.) see them when they aren’t wearing human form. It’s embarrassing, like being caught wearing bell-bottoms before they cycle back into fashion. They’ll let Vladimir see them now when they’re skulking around wearing ratty bathrobes so old they’re now antiques but JP draws the line as letting him see that silly pink dog.

(Also, they figure that if the regulators ever decide to mind-wipe him, it’s probably better if he has less memories of an obviously alien form. Maybe it won’t completely fry his brain then. JP’s terrified of that. Of course, JP also knows that if they ever came for him, Vladimir’s taking as many regulators as possible with him before they could even get to his head. They’re terrified of that just as much.)

They see each other so infrequently anyway that there’s no point wasting it looking like anything but a dream: that is, if your idea of a dream is undersized, middle-aged, and dressed entirely in designer brands. Vladimir’s is, which is part of the reason they like him so much. Their volph form is not a dream. It’s silly and little and adorable when it’s not glitching and lagging. JP will take adorable but the silly part, no.

Jean-Paul has his shop and his commissions and a whole part of his life he doesn’t want to drag Vladimir into any more than he already has. Vladimir’s got his work and his family and a whole part of his life he doesn’t want to drag Jean-Paul (or Polly Jean or whatever other name they cycle though) into any more than he already has. They both have businesses that keep them very busy and also side-pieces that also keep them very busy, mostly because neither of them really like to address their emotions and mostly deal with them by throwing themselves at whatever distraction they can find. Always, always, there’s the looming threat that this cannot last, that it’ll end poorly, that they should just end this, but whenever they break up, they can’t stay apart too long until the fear comes for one of them again.

Anyway, the point? Jean-Paul’s living like a fucking king over there because he gets to wallow all over this man. Anyone who doesn’t get to cuddle him is missing out on one of the finer joys of life.

“Paulie, my sweet one, maybe you would like it more if you moved a little, yeah? Just a little. I love you as I love no other, you are my starshine, my heart, but your ass, it’s bony. My legs can only take so much. I am sorry, my love.”

Oh, okay, the man he loves is just cruelly abandoning him like a complete and utter monster. That’s how it is. Being JP is so hard. They make a big show of looking extremely sad as they scoot off his lap and curl up against his side instead, sighing extremely, extremely over-dramatically. Vladimir pets his hair and gives him a little kiss to make up for kicking him off of his lap. JP sighs even more sadly and when that doesn’t elicit the desired response, sighs even louder so Vladimir kisses him again.

Their ass isn’t that bony.

“I guess I might find it within my heart to forgive you for this cruel and utterly cutting insult,” they say. “But only because I am an extremely kind person. The best. I’m completely saintly, darling. That’s the truth of it.”

Vladimir chuckles, a low rumble.

“They will write poems to your kindness and generosity. They will not say that you called what’s-her-name horrible things for hours only because she did not say hello to you while walking down the street. I still think she did not see you. If she knew what you said, she would never talk to you agains even if she did see you.”

JP huffs.

“First of all, it was not for hours. Second of all, I was only being truthful. Third of all, she did it on purpose; don’t argue otherwise. Fourthly, she can snub me all she wants, I really do not give a fuck, the joke’s on her, I made out with her dear old dad in the 70s and he liked it, so hah. I hope no one shows up at her fucking garden party. I hope she gets kicked out of the country club. I hope she buys a pony and it doesn’t love her.”

“Okay, Paulie, you tart,” says Vladimir, laughter still in his voice. “You were very busy in the 70s. You must have never rested.”

“You know it.”

Maybe being kicked off Vladimir’s lap isn’t so bad. It means they can nestle up against him and rest their head on his stomach. He likes to run his fingers through their hair, especially since they decided to start wearing it long in this body. Anyone else doing it makes him feel like anxious lapdog with no control over who does and doesn’t pet him (or pull his tail or mess with his ears or poke him) but Vladimir does it and he feels like a person instead. He closes his eyes and though he never naps, JP really feels so comfortable right now he could doze off. Bears are fantastic. The world needs more of them. Actually, it needs more of them and it needs this one to last forever.

“Mm, completely unrelated to exploits of the past, but I made an account on a website. Thought you should know. Transparency. Communication. That sort of thing. It’s fun.”

God, they’re comfy. This is amazing. Their life really is so blessed. Thank you, universe.

“Paulie,” his boyfriend says with gentle exasperation in his voice. “You join these websites, you find someone that maybe you do not like, you say things that you know to be hurtful, the websites say that you cannot go to them anymore. You can’t keep doing this. There is a reason that I run the boutique’s social media and you, you, my heart, are allowed nowhere near. You are very spiteful and very rude. I know this and I love you.”

JP really can’t argue against this one because they’re running out of websites to be banned from. Even still, they roll their eyes and huff because how dare Vladimir call them out like this.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll behave. I’m really trying to be nicer, you know. It’s all so goddamn weird that I wouldn’t even understand how to insult these people if I tried, anyway. I don’t fucking get memes, darling. It’s all a bunch of bullshit people pretend is funny. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I am sorry you do not understand the Internet. It is a strange place. I will send you Russian memes instead and then maybe you will understand,” Vladimir says. “If you do not like the site, then maybe consider not being on it.”

“I didn’t say that. I just said that it doesn’t make sense. Darling, you know I really do think people should cater to my exact sense of taste at all times but even though they don’t, I still very graciously put up with it,” JP says. “It’s a website for fellow space fans. They’re all bound to be weird."

Vladimir’s hand in his hair stills.

“I do not need to know the details of what you say on your websites, I think maybe I do not even need to know what they are called, but be mindful of what you post. You do not know who could be reading. Do not mention me on it ever, please. Be careful.”

The ever-present anxiety starts making itself known. It’s not that Vladimir himself makes them anxious because he’s a giant softie underneath the leather and gruff exterior and the fact that he will commit murder in an instant if it means protecting his loved ones. It’s just that sometimes JP very suddenly remembers how much they absolutely have to protect him at all costs and what it will be like to lose him if they can’t devise a way to keep him around forever.

“I’m sorry, Vladimir. I should’ve said something before I made an account. I’ll delete it. I just...you told me I can’t keep running away from others like me. Well, I can’t deal with them in real life. I just can’t. It’s just a website, I didn’t think things through, I don’t want to compromise your safety, I can-”

“Ah, ah, no, I am sorry, I think maybe I said things too harshly, do not worry, my darling. I trust you. Please, maybe it will be a good thing for you and then you will understand their memes. I only want you to be happy and safe. Just be careful, okay? And do not start fights with people.”

JP whines and buries their face against him.

“I really can delete it. I, I don’t always think things through. I wasn’t made for thinking.”

Vladimir decides the best course of action is to pull them back into his lap in hopes it’ll calm the anxious volph, except JP can’t even properly enjoy it because their brain (if they even have a brain because they honestly do not know.) goes from zero to one hundred in half a second and now they’re thinking about everything bad that could possibly happen because they joined a website for aliens.

“Hey, it’s okay, okay? Have fun on your alien dating site. Maybe you will sleep with a Nessie and it will change your life. Do not worry about me. Just be careful with yourself, okay? You do not protect that person enough.”

That’s enough for JP to momentarily break through the anxiety.

“It’s a blogging website, not a hookup website."

“Okay.”

...

“Paulie? Is the Loch Ness Monster real? Do you know her?”

“Darling, you know I never kiss and tell.”

“Is she real?”

“Fuck if I know but I’m certainly not swimming all the way over there to find out.”

#drabble #just jp hanging out with their boyfriend #jp swears like a sailor outside the context of the store #ooc

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xxrat--punkxx · 4 years

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JUMPING ON THIS BAND WAGGON

Ok here’s my 2020, tw//mentions of suicide and abuse

(Strong start lmao) 2020 sucked ass lemmi tell ya. This year was a fucking train wreck from the start, ur hay I got character development so who cares. Well let’s start with a review, bad things first.

Yall remember when everyone was scared shields of COVID?. Lol. But that’s stating the obvious. When we went into lockdown I was first like fuck yeah summer lol, but then the threat of ‘staying home for the rest of the year’ set in, bing in my first year of sixth form I really understand the stakes of exams next year. So having to stay home for the rest of the year freaked me the fuck out. I literally couldent cope, having to do all classes online was fucking hell, they were never zoom classes either, just ‘lmao do the work and hand it in’ which was near impossible for me. I was also in the constant ‘oh no I’m so stressed but I will do NOTHING about this lmao~’. As the days turned to weeks and inevitably MONTHS, my mental health said buckle up bitches. Days were spent sitting in my room on my phone doing NOTHING, meanwhile this perpetual notion of stress played in my head yet there I sat not having the will or motion to move.

Then my parents got involved. Now THATS when shit went from pretty crummy to awful, now I was living with them constantly I was able to see who they really were with no real filter. And oh god do I have issues, I didn’t even fucking know. Every day was an argument, my mom was the worst, the MANIPULATION, the constant ‘you're tearing this family apart’ or ‘so I’m the problem?’ Or the fucking indecent playing the victim. And I all only just realised, that they have been doing this ALL MY LIFE. Dad got involved but he was just physically violent, only twice tho. The worst part was my work, admittedly yes, I didn’t do everything I was given, but I tried, I really did with what little motivation I had. But with just one ‘oh your daughter hasn’t handed in this work’ I was a ‘lazy, good for nothing failure’ to quote ‘who will never go anywhere in life’ so I’d spend the rest of the day crying while they play the victim bury saupying I was abusing their love and just using them for money. But the next day be like ‘oh I’m so proud of you you're doing so well’ having that statement being completely unrelated to the previous events. This was constant. So that’s that story. I won’t talk much about Black Lives Matter because we all know about how that went. But it really affected me, I found myself crying over the victims multiple times. And the lack of support for the movement my peers or family showed made it fucking worse. Crying was a common occurrence for me now, mental health really taking a nosedive, being too scared to call myself ‘depressed’ or ‘mentally ill’ to any extent because I know I’m faking it and just want validation. That was also constant. Fun times huh.

BUT IT GETS WORSE 🥲, then I had to go back to school, awful to fucking abhorrent now. Year two of sixth form fun right? Sure, if u take away the ‘no free time period’ or the wanting to kill mystery for literally a whole 3 weeks. That was my lowest peak. Ever. I’ve never wanted to kill myself before then, don’t like that feeling. Shocker huh. That mixed with the constant anxiety of nothing is right anymore and also needing to succeed at school all made one healthy dose of ‘.exe has stopped working’ juice. Yet I played the fool, acting happy as if nothing had happened, or was happening at least, and venting by imagining scenes in my head with fictional characters lmao. Telling myself ’u can’t kill yourself because u don’t deserve too and ur just asking for attraction’. Then midterms happened blah blah blah, stress but I’m numb to it now that whole story.

But that’s not to say there wasn’t a silver lining.

Onto the good things finally, yes the year was probably one of the worst years I’ve been through in my life it did not go without its positives. For example early this year I got into borderlands properly, I finally explored the fandom and had a look at what it was like. Albeit a slow process considering I was still predominantly on Instagram at the time, and finding a community of a fandom on there is impossible. I started browsing Pinterest or the Internet for images that would link to my favourite characters, Who were to no ones surprise is the calypso twins. Pinterest led me to artworks and artworks led me to the infamous Lazulizard. Who I cherish all my being. Three weeks later after looking at her entire tumblr blog and stalking her of pretty much all her content (sorry for that by the way) I found border-spam. By this point I didn’t have tumblr and I had no intention of getting it seeing as an ongoing war I’ve had with myself since 2012, declaring I will be the bigger man and never get tumblr, which in hindsight was an awful mindset. Seeing as tumblr is probably one of my favourite places on Earth right now. But after also stalking border spams account, again sorry, and starving her of any content she’d ever posted. I was happy that this fandom although as niche as it is was actually getting content. At the time spam and lazu were absolute gods to me. Being the sole producer of a fandom I probably wasn’t even in properly, having both impeccable writing and impeccable art like good God. I would often think ‘wow wouldn’t it be incredible if I actually got to talk to them one day’, now look at me I’m doing commissions for both of them good God. And to be short joining tumblr felt like a fever dream and it’s probably the greatest thing I could’ve done this year, my parents are wrong, talking to strangers is amazing.

Something notable of mention this year as I actually got to figure out who I am as a person, I was able to find my own style and to find my interests, specifically in what I liked in terms of clothing. I thought I was LOL 2012 goth hipster but no apparently I’m manic Pixie dream girl. Going from pink is the ugliest colour in the world to having it be the only colour I will ever wear. I made some pretty big choices this year like cutting pretty much all of my hair off and dying it for the first time. Thanks strict parents for only letting me do that one now. But like I said I went to a character Ark and you know what I like it. I also played BioShock fallout and horizon zero dawn for the first time this year starting to really feel like a proper epic gamer, good lord kill me, and falling in love with all of them almost immediately. I also figured out on a plant mum and I’m into vulture culture although my parents have to disagree with that one. Asking to buy an Horse and fox skull somehow scared them a little bit can’t seem to figure out why lmao.

So a conclusion, Fuck you 2020 you made me miss two comic cons and I will never forgive you for that shit I am SO mad. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt you did make me meet some absolutely incredible people who I consider my friends, despite going against every single Internet safety law I was ever taught as a child. But you know what who gives a flying shit I love you guys. So that’s what I wanted to say. I want to say thank you to everyone on here and everyone is following me or even interacted me with on that matter. You mean the world to me and I really fucking mean it. Are you going to be nothing but amazing ever since I walked onto this fucking hell hole. And what I go through all of this bullshit again if it means I ended up here? You know what I think I just might. So again I thank you and I hope your year didn’t go as badly as mine, and fuck it bring on whatever the fucks next!

Honourable mention of this year was The time Elisa actually complimented me and I cried a little bit and had a panic attack but you know that’s for another day

🥺💕

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whumpywhumper · 4 years

Text

Nightmare

Whumptober 2020: No 7. I'VE GOT YOU | Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

I haven’t done any Whumptober, but I said i was gonna post this when I saw the prompt fit so here we go. I think I’m also going to start jumping around in cannon a little bit and ignore the section that I’m stuck on. Get some content out and stop feeling stuck.

Set in the future sometime :) Masterpost

Tagging: @misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @walkingchemicalfire @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia

Usual thanks to @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread because you guys are awesome and listen to me ramble

TW: Nightmares?

V***V

Markus was lost in a dream where he couldn’t move, his body completely out of his control, while masked, faceless men stood around with clip boards and white coats. His brain thrummed with panic. He wanted to scream, but as he opened his mouth the viewpoint changed and a black, bulbous bile bubbled out of his mouth, spilling over his lips and spreading into tentacles that wrapped around his throat. He watched his own eyes widen as he choked. Disembodied. A spirit. A soul unable to claw at his throat to loosen the tightening, demonic appendages.

The white coats turned their backs on him as everything went further and further away. The only witness to his dying body was himself. Watching his eyes turning red and bulging as capillaries burst. As his nostrils flared, trying to suck in precious oxygen. Mouthing fruitlessly at nothing, black tentacles keeping his lips spread grotesquely around the thick shaft coming from his throat.

A gloved hand spread over his chest, the tacky texture of the latex a sensory overload to his figmented reality. It pressed, harder, and harder. Until his sternum was cracking, and the hand pressed into, no—through— his skin. Red blood gurgled up, between the unrelenting fingers, staining the white of the hand over his chest, and Markus could finally scream as the monstrosity was pushed out of his mouth with a sickening pop.

Markus looked up in horror as Christine arched above him, the reflective metal of a long knife poised above her head in both hands, fangs bared in a rictus of a smile. Her mouth opened in a low, chilling laugh as the blade slammed down between his eyes in a crescendo of pain.

His eyes snapped open as he convulsed in the bed, his elbows knocking against two soft objects with a panicked cry that echoed off of the walls. “No!”

He scrambled against the mattress, fingernails digging into the sheets, still screaming as he frantically fought to get away. “Please, please don’t!” The room was dark, no light illuminating his surroundings as restraining hands tried to trap him again, to hold him down and hurt him. Loud voices joined the cacophony, but the words didn’t make sense to the terrified witch. He ripped free of the restraining hands, panting a croaking sob as he launched himself away, toppling to the floor with a thump.

A gasp exploded out of him when the air was knocked out of his lungs, but he clambered to his hands and knees, ignoring the carpet burn as his skin gave way to his fear. He found a corner as light flooded his senses, and he cowered, pressing his back to the wall as breathless pleas scattered out of his mouth. “Pleasepleaseplease...”

“Hey, heyheyheyhey—look at me, Markus—look at me, honey,” a voice pulled his attention from where he’d buried his face into the crook of his arms, it was sweet, low, and comforting. Holding none of the false succor that Lucien had plied him with, and Markus raised his eyes slowly.

Tears blurred his vision, but he saw Ben kneeling in front of him, hands raised like he was warding off a wild animal. Kincaid was pressed against the door jam, hand slapped over the light switch as his own chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wild. They were both in basketball shorts, bare chested, their hair sticking up and crazy from sleep.

Markus felt a broken noise crack through his throat like stained glass, “Oh, god.” Full bodied, throaty sobs wracked him, and he couldn’t stop himself as he started bawling. He curled up, hands fisting in his hair, and something must have let the other two men know that it was safe to approach him.

Ben’s arms wrapped around his shoulders first, pressing a kiss to the back of his head as he murmured soothingly, “shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, Bambi, just a nightmare.”

Kincaid pressed against his other side, the tell-tale song of magic thrumming as one of his arms slid around his own bare torso. “Heyyy, sweet guy, heyyy...don’t cry, we’re here, you’re okay.“ He gathered him up with a hand under his knees, pulling his unresisting body into his lap, and Markus buried his face into the side of Kincaid’s neck. “I know, sweet guy, we’ve got you. Let it out, baby, shhhh.”

He hiccoughed a wet apology, his face sticking to the other’s salty skin. “S-sorry, ‘m s-so sorry.”

“Hush, honey, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, shhh.” Ben brushed a hand through his hair as he helped rearrange Markus’s gangling limbs, pulling a blanket off of the bed and wrapping it around both of the witches. He settled beside them, leaning against Markus’s back, breathing slowly and evenly. “Just breathe, Bambi.”

<***>

Kincaid held Markus close as he and Ben soothed the distraught witch, rocking him gently as his hand brushed up and down his back, the other stroking through his hair. Markus was still shaking, small sobs rending his heart into pieces with every sound. His neck was uncomfortably wet from the other man’s tears, and his legs were definitely asleep, but he didn’t feel any urge to move. He would stay on the floor, ass cheeks tingling, as long as he needed.

It wasn’t often that Markus let him or Ben hold him, struggling with the casual touches that made up any relationship, the lack of control making him anxious and skittish. He met Ben’s eyes as he pressed his cheek into Markus’s hair, seeing his same heartache in the other man’s honeyed gaze.

This had been the first night they’d spend with Markus in the same bed, even though they’d been together for months. The other witch had been flighty about staying or letting them stay with him. Usually sneaking out as Ben and Kincaid dropped from long shifts and hard hours.

They’d finally gotten him to agree to stay after it became obvious that he was struggling, the black bags under his eyes swallowing his face, exhaustion written in the slump of his shoulders. Now, they knew why he hadn’t wanted to stay.

He and Ben waited until Markus’s breathing was soft and easy, his lithe frame completely limp, Kincaid feeling the steady puff of air against his neck that announced he’d fallen asleep. Ben stood first, moving slowly as he separated from Markus, so he didn’t wake him. “Alright,” he whispered, “back to bed, love.”

“Can you take him?” He gave the slightly shorter man a sheepish smile, “I don’t think my legs are gonna be able to move for a few minutes.”

Ben’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but he didn’t say a word as he gathered up their lover, keeping the blanket tucked around him. Markus gave a whimpering moan as his head lolled to the other man’s shoulder, but Ben hummed at him softly. “It’s alright, honey, it’s just me. Go back to sleep, hush.”

With Markus’s weight off of him, Kincaid had to bite his lip to keep from waking the man with his unmanly squealing. Pins and needles shot through his legs, and he spent a few agonizing moments trying to rub feeling back into the numb extremities. Ben offered him a hand after settling Markus back into the middle of the bed, where they’d fallen asleep curled around each other, and pulled him into a tight hug as he stood.

He was trembling, and Kincaid gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he held him. Ben was always like this, nothing fazed him in the heat of the moment but, as soon as the emergency was taken care of, he let himself crumble and feel everything. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he whispered into Ben’s hair, fingers curling into the soft strands as he looked over at Markus’s sleeping face.

Kincaid really did know how he felt, his own heart was still thudding in his chest from the jolt of adrenaline that had shot through his unconscious system at Markus’s panicked scream. His ribs ached from where Markus’s flailing elbow had caught him in his desperate attempt at fleeing, and he didn’t think he’d get the sound of his pitiful begging out of his ears even if he scraped them clean.

“He’s been struggling like this the entire time, Kincaid,” Ben said tightly, voice choked with emotion. “How—why didn’t he come to us before?”

“You know as well as I do, trauma victims process differently—there isn’t any logic there, he’s doing what he can to protect himself.”

A vigorous nod against his already wet shoulder, and Ben sniffled, “I know, fucking hell, I know. Doesn’t make it any easier to wake up to him screaming like that.”

He held Ben closer, burying his own face into the crook of the other man’s neck, breathing deeply of his woodsy musk. His hug was returned with equal fervor, a calloused hand trailing up and down his back as they swayed for a few moments together.

The sound of Markus whimpering pulled them apart, and they looked over in concern. Still deeply asleep, the other witch’s eyebrows were crinkled in distress, a slight frown pulling his expression downwards as the light caught on the tear streaks on his face. He and Ben moved in sync with each other, like they did in so many ways, Kincaid shutting off the lights as he went to the other side of the bed while Ben pulled back the covers so they could crawl in.

Markus stirred slightly as they settled around him, their arms curling over him in the semblance of a hug, and Kincaid felt Markus’s breath hitch as their skin touched. Kincaid wasn’t strong enough to get more than a twinge when he touched the other witch, but he knew Markus was extremely sensitive to the magic he gave off. “Hush, sweet guy, we’re here,” he murmured soothingly, “we’re not going anywhere. You’re safe, you can sleep, okay?”

He seemed to settle as he and Ben comforted him with gentle words and touches, breaths coming slow and easy as he went back to sleep.

“God, Bambi, you must be so exhausted,” Ben whispered quietly, and Kincaid felt his hand brush against his own as they both smoothed Markus’s hair in tender strokes.

“I knew he had to have been having nightmares, but he’s been so quiet about everything. I haven’t wanted to push.” Guilt tickled against his heart with the same amount of sorrow pressing at his chest. “We’re going to have to ask in the morning, you know that, right?”

Ben sighed, but he heard him nod, hair shifting against the pillow case. “Yeah, but let’s get him to sleep in first, okay? It’ll be easier when he’s well rested.”

Implicit in his qualification was Ben’s own reluctance to push, but they would do what had to be done to help Markus. Just as he would for them.

#Markus/Lucien Series #Whumptober2020 #Nightmares #Aftermath of captivity #whump #hurt/comfort #whumpee coping mechanisms

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emachinescat · 4 years

Text

Murdoc + Ithika + Mac

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 14 - “I didn’t mean it”

Summary: As an artist, Murdoc prides himself in taking his time with his work - he never loses control. Except one time, with his favorite boy genius. He always imagined that when he finally made MacGyver cry, it would be his finest moment. Now, he’s not so sure.

Characters: Murdoc, Mac, Jack

Words: 3,454

TW: torture, broken bones, Murdoc being his creepy little self

Note: Happy Valentine's Day – the store was all out of chocolate, so I got you Mac whump! ;) The allusions to Ithika are from Homer's epic by the same name, but even more so from the incredible poem by C.P. Cavafy. The muse mentioned, Melpomene, is the Muse of Tragedy.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

- From “Ithika” by C. P. Cavafy

Murdoc enjoyed taking his time.

He was an artist, after all, and artists didn’t slap together a masterpiece in an afternoon – not the ones worth anything, at least. Most spent days studying their subjects, becoming intimately familiar with every line and curve and element – the shading, the lighting, the vibrancy of the colors. The very best didn’t even consider touching brush to canvas until they had developed a personal relationship with their subject – for how can a true artist paint that which he does not know deeply? Why bother recreating that landscape or tea kettle or sad-eyed little girl or bowl of fruit if it could be any landscape, tea kettle, little girl, or bowl of fruit? Why would someone paint something that wasn’t theirs?

Murdoc knew his subject very well. He, like a true artist, had studied it in a variety of settings. He’d watched and learned, dug deep into the core of its being, drawn out every secret and motivation and loss and love. He understood what made his subject tick. He’d even done some brief sketches, practicing each brushstroke with care, waiting patiently for the day he could at last, intricately, evoke that muse sought by the Romantics, that evasive Melpomene, and breathe his masterpiece to life. Or, more accurately, to death.

And now, after years of watching, interacting, teasing, sketching, his time had finally come. Months of planning had been sunk into this particular endeavor. And now, unlike the first time he’d been introduced to his subject, he hadn’t been commissioned by anyone. This portrait was personal, deeply personal. He finally had his subject right where he wanted it. The canvas was bare and waiting for the artist’s touch. Murdoc had chosen his palette, mixed the colors – it might be cliche, but he was a sucker for red, black, and blue.

Now that his moment had finally arrived, however, it didn’t mean that he could rush through the actual creation process. The act of studying one’s subject matter was slow and deliberate. So must be the painting.

***

Murdoc studied his canvas slowly, methodically, unsurprised that it wasn’t exactly blank. MacGyver stood, hands chained above his head, attached to a grate above. His bare toes just reached the cold concrete below. His jacket and Henley had been removed – he shivered slightly from the chill of the basement. Murdoc liked to think it was from fear.

“Oooh, this one’s fun, MacGyver!” Murdoc crooned as the blonde boy wonder eyed him scornfully. It was quite entertaining how expressive his prey’s pretty blue eyes could be. Murdoc briefly brushed the tip of his little finger against the scar of a bullet wound on MacGyver’s chest. MacGyver jerked back from the touch, though his expression remained stoic.

“Jealous that you weren’t the one who did it, Murdoc?” He sounded confident enough, but Murdoc knew his subject quite well by now. MacGyver was shaken. For once, he had no control, nothing to work with, no way to escape. He was at his captor’s mercy – Murdoc could do whatever he wanted, and MacGyver knew that.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared with what I’ve got planned for you, Angus,” Murdoc simpered sweetly, circling his catch of the day, dark eyes darting across more scars and recent cuts and bruises. He pressed directly into the dark center of a boot-tip bruise on MacGyver’s side, relishing the sharp intake of breath it elicited. “Someone on your last mission in Volgograd left their mark, I see.”

He circled back around to face his victim, who did a subpar job of hiding his surprise at the observation. “That was highly classified. How did you–”

“I’ve been watching you for a very long time, MacGyver. But you had to have known I would. After all, you’re my closest friend, and I know where you live. It’s kind of silly that you never moved, but maybe you just figured I’d find you even if you did. I wonder – have you always tossed and turned in your sleep or is that a more recent development?”

True horror flashed momentarily in blue eyes, tugging Murdoc’s lips up into a satisfied smile. “Oh, yes, your nightmares are very entertaining. I do hope the majority of them are about me. Oh, oh, oh! And I especially love it when they’re so bad you have to call your watch dog to calm you down. I wonder how Dalton’s taking your disappearance, by the way? I’m sure he’s in for some nightmares of his own.”

“He’ll find me, if I don’t escape first.” MacGyver’s bravado was both highly endearing and incredibly tiresome. Same old, same old.

“Doubtful,” Murdoc purred. “I mean, I know you well enough not to make stupid mistakes, my friend.”

“I escaped from the sewers, and you’d drugged me.”

“I intended for you to escape that day. I needed to draw your friends in, to focus their attention on finding you while I attended to other business. But this time – you’re mine.” At the fervor in his words, a shudder entirely unrelated to cold clinked the chains restraining his victim. Murdoc smiled, then continued.

“But now, there is no ulterior motive. I grabbed you for no other reason than because I wanted to. You are hidden away quite well, even more securely than last time, I’m afraid. And you will not be left alone, not even for a second. There may be things in this room you could use to escape, but they’re useless to you in your position. And I am not going to take my eyes off of you. You won’t have a chance to wriggle your way out of this one, MacGyver. Ooooh, is that fear I see on your face? No? We really must change that.” He tutted. “Defiance and bravado really are your bread and butter, aren’t they, Angus? What are you, an action hero from a cheesy 1980s TV show?” Silence, though the fiery glare spoke more loudly than words.

Murdoc clapped his hands together. “Well, there’s no time like the present. What do you say, MacGyver? Let’s get started.”

***

Three hours later, Murdoc admired his work. It was a slow process. He painted with precision and care, layering the colors just so, balancing the strokes, the lights and darks and brights. His brushes were many – laid out on the table before him were knives and pliers and blow torches and hammers and whips and cattle prods and other more specialized tools that he liked to work up to. He also had an oversized meat tenderizer, made of steel. He rarely used it – too garish for his refined tastes – but it did look nice and scary looming over the other instruments.

So far, he’d only used his knives and the cattle prod. The masterpiece was starting to come together, but it was hardly complete. He prowled around his artwork. MacGyver’s trembling had increased. He gasped for breath as Murdoc appraised his work – burns and cuts, some deeper than others – made a nice foundation. The drip of blood across bare flesh outshone any Pollock painting. He’d practiced his blending techniques, jabbing the cattle prod directly into the center of the lovely bruise he’d noticed earlier. MacGyver hadn’t been able to hold in his yell of pain.

Music.

“Are you enjoying our time together?” Murdoc asked.

MacGyver uttered a creative string of curse words that made Murdoc proud. He whistled appreciatively. “Who knew the boy scout had that in him? I’m almost impressed.”

“Yeah, well,” MacGyver said, hissing as he shifted and pulled at his many wounds. “Almost is about all you’ll ever be, Murdoc.”

Murdoc had been reaching for his trusty pair of pliers (those toenails could sure use a trim!). He paused, his back partially to his captive, fingers hovering over the tool. He was used to MacGyver’s sass, but what he’d just said hit a sour note that the hit man couldn’t shake. He didn’t know if it was the tone or the words themselves. “Excuse me?” He tried to sound amused, but his voice was tight, as if it had been squeezed out of him.

A clink of the chains, a grunt of pain that didn’t lighten Murdoc’s mood as it should have. Then, MacGyver elaborated. His voice was clipped in pain, breathless, but conviction lined every syllable. “You are doomed to live a life of almost, Murdoc. Nothing is ever going to be enough for you. Why do you think you take so long to get anything done? Why do you spend so much time talking and taunting and watching and waiting?”

Murdoc didn’t move, his hand still inches away from his delicate instrument that caused pain but did no lasting damage. “I’m an artist.”

“You’re afraid.”

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear winning.”

Murdoc laughed, a forced, uncomfortable sound that he’d never heard come from his own mouth. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Angus. Are you sure the pain isn’t getting to your head?”

MacGyver pressed on relentlessly. “You crave attention. You need a challenge. That’s why you picked me. And you’re afraid of what happens if you beat me. If I die, there’s always that possibility that you won’t find another playmate.”

Still, Murdoc didn’t move. His words, despite their teasing jaunt, had a forced quality to them. “Awfully full of ourselves, aren’t we, MacGyver?”

He could hear the triumphant smile in his adversary’s voice. “I’m just stating the truth, Murdoc. You might torture me, you might have your fun. But at the end of the day, you’re going to slip up somehow. It’s your way of making sure the game goes on. Without that challenge, what are you? Just an angry voice screaming at the sky, no purpose, no point. You say you’ve studied me, Murdoc. You’ve watched me and know me. Well, in doing so, you’ve shown me yourself, too. You’re not going to kill me today. You’re never going to kill me.

“I don’t know what exactly I’ve done to deserve this… honor,” he continued, placing particular derision on the last word, “but you’ve become obsessed with me, Murdoc. Believe me, I don’t like saying this any more than you like hearing it. But it’s how I know I’m going to walk away from this. If I’m gone, so is your fun.”

Murdoc prided himself on maintaining control over his emotions. An artist, though he might express the inner workings of his soul on canvas, could not let his feelings control the brush, control him. Look what had happened to Van Gogh – sure, beautiful work, but his emotions controlled him, destroyed him in the end. Murdoc didn’t make mistakes like that. He waited. He didn’t lash out in anger. It wasn’t because he wanted MacGyver to live, oh no. His fondest dream was to see the blonde boy cry, to watch him squirm and beg for mercy, and then, finally, only when he’d really begged for it, to send him to his death. MacGyver had no idea what he was talking about.

It wasn’t even MacGyver’s words, his cocky belief that he was important enough to his torturer to keep alive, that sent Murdoc over the edge. It was the tiny little voice, way back in the darkest, most depraved corner of his already dark and depraved mind, the one that spoke not in the voice of Murdoc, but one that sounded more like Dennis, the first casualty of Murdoc’s career – himself. The voice said, plainly, without emotion, You know he’s right.

And that was the catalyst for the tsunami of rage that crashed into Murdoc, pummeling his well-practiced and unshakable resolve to take his time. That was what spurred his frozen body into movement, curled his fingers around the handle of the meat tenderizer, that brash, archaic tool, rather than the pliers. That was what spit his next words out of his mouth as if they were poison, words that finally – beautifully – caused Angus MacGyver’s eyes to widen in real fear: “You are going to walk out of here?” A sadistic, mad giggle. “My dear Angus, it will be a miracle if you ever walk again.”

He hefted the heavy steel implement in his hand, pulled back, and lunged. MacGyver tried to back away, the chains around his wrists cackling and clicking against one another in his desperation. They held firm, and the meat tenderizer slammed full force into MacGyver’s left kneecap. Murdoc felt the crunch of bones. He heard the bestial howl, the scream of anguish, the body-jerking, breath stealing cry of a man in so much pain he lost himself. He watched MacGyver’s face drain of color, recognized the moment when the pain became too much, and saw the tear-streaked face go slack, the chin thud against the battered chest and stay there.

For a moment, Murdoc experienced the euphoria one could only find in hurting that special someone in such a catastrophic way. He relished in that moment the scream, the agony, the writhing and loss of control.

Then the moment ended – and far too soon.

Immediately after, the weapon dropped out of Murdoc’s limp fingers. It smashed into the floor below, with the jarring clang that only metal on concrete can produce. He looked at the limp, hanging form before him, and something twisted inside of him – a feeling he’d never known. It wasn’t guilt, nor revulsion.

It was, however, regret.

He didn’t understand it. He should be overjoyed. MacGyver was completely at his mercy. Murdoc could kill him now. Carve that bleeding heart out like a villain in a fairy tale would. But then, he realized, MacGyver would be gone. Forever. Even now, his kneecap had been crushed, shattered into tiny fragments of bone and cartilage, and unless he got treatment of the highest quality, and soon, he’d almost certainly be crippled. Even if he had extensive reconstructive surgery, his career as a Phoenix agent could still be over.

Wasn’t that what Murdoc had wanted? To end MacGyver’s pesky existence, to win at this game of cat and mouse? To create his most spectacular masterpiece with his greatest enemy? That’s what he had dreamed of for years now, what he’d studied and practiced and yearned for. And yet –

What was it that hoity toity Greek poet had written? Murdoc had read “Ithika” long ago, a random page in a poetry book of a man he’d killed. For some reason, the poem had attached itself to his mind and never let go. He could remember it even now:

Keep Ithika always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for. But don’t hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithika to make you rich. Ithika gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn’t have set out. She has nothing to give you now.

And he understood. The poem was supposed to be inspirational, for fools so focused on their goals that they missed the journey of life along the way – a mundane, silly sentiment. But now Murdoc could see – MacGyver’s destruction was his Ithika. Perhaps Cavafy had a point – maybe he had been a bit of an artist himself. And MacGyver had been right about some things, wrong about others.

He was right in that Murdoc wasn’t ready to end the game just yet. But it wasn't fear that held him back, that urged him to take his time. It was joy. Joy of the journey. The little pleasures of life that are so often passed by in the grand scheme of things – the poet had been speaking of knowledge, of friendship, of love, of experiences. Murdoc’s little pleasures were things like fear, drawn-out suffering, playing with his food and watching it squirm. He relished that joy. He wanted more of it, and if MacGyver died, or was out of commission as a spy, that joy would diminish. Even if MacGyver lived, it wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t play along.

Murdoc made his decision.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a burner phone. He dialed a number he’d memorized long ago, put the phone to his ear.

A fierce Texas twang answered before the first ring had run its course. “Murdoc, you son of a bitch–”

“Temper, Jack,” Murdoc drawled. He shivered in excitement at the mental picture of the inferno in Dalton’s eyes. “You just assumed it was me – imagine if it were your mother on the other line.”

“I can scent the devil from a mile away.” Murdoc heard muffled voices in the background, knew the call was being traced.

“Don’t waste your time running a trace, you grumpy old hound dog.” His words were light, yet he allowed the slightest hint of urgency to infect them. “I’ve had my fun for today. I’ll text you the address.” He paused. “Oh, and bring one of those fancy whirly-birds you like to use for medical emergencies. I might have been a little… over zealous this time.”

He closed his eyes, gorging on the incalculable levels of hatred in Jack Dalton’s next words. “If you hurt him–”

Appreciation turned to irritation. Murdoc rolled his coal eyes to the ceiling. “Weren’t you listening, you brute? Obviously, I hurt him. Quite a bit actually. You should have heard him scream.”

A short silence. Then – “You didn’t let me finish, you overgrown sewer rat. If you hurt him, I am going to tear you limb from limb. I don’t need any of your fancy tools.”

“Hmm, that was almost intimidating,” Murdoc teased in his most good-natured tone. “But you’ll have to find me first.” He let the words linger for just a moment, then continued: “Anyway, ta-ta for now. I’ll text you the address. I’ll be long gone by the time you get here, but feel free to bring all your little friends for a game of hide and seek. Though I have a feeling that you’re going to be more focused on sweet Angus.”

He hung up, texted the address, then turned to a feebly stirring MacGyver. Pity he was waking up right as Murdoc had to leave. Whimpers that would have torn the very soul out of Jack Dalton erupted unbidden from MacGyver’s lips. Glazed blue eyes cracked open, regarding Murdoc with a mixture of terror and acceptance. Though he had regained consciousness, MacGyver still hung limply from the chains, too weak and in pain to move.

Murdoc stepped forward, eliciting the tiniest of flinches Even that motion made MacGyver cry out. But Murdoc didn’t hurt him again. Instead, he said, “Your friends are on their way.”

MacGyver’s voice rasped in the aftermath of his screams. “You’re letting … me go… Why?”

“Got bored, I suppose.” No way was Murdoc going to let MacGyver know he’d been right, even if only a little bit.

MacGyver didn’t respond – maybe he didn’t know how to respond; more likely, he could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, amidst the torrent of pain.

Murdoc started to step away, then turned back, studying his latest draft of the elusive masterpiece that he would continue to dream about and that would fuel his passion and creativity for years to come. He pulled off one black glove, placed his hand on a pale, cold cheek. MacGyver jerked back feebly from the touch, grunting at the pain it produced. Slowly, Murdoc wiped one of the fresher tears away with his thumb. It might have been a power play. It might have been a show of comfort. Even the hit man didn’t know. He glanced down at the shattered knee, swollen and misshapen, a grotesque monster straining to break free from the unrelenting fabric of the khakis.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, moving his gaze up from the deformed knee to lock his black eyes with fearful, anguished blue ones, “I didn’t mean it.”

He walked away, casting one final look over his shoulder before he left his art behind for the coming Phoenix agents to admire. “Until next time, MacGyver.”

And despite the extensive search conducted by Phoenix once MacGyver had been loaded onto the chopper, on his way to the best orthopaedic surgeons in the country, Murdoc had once more disappeared, like a ghost.

That night he dreamed about his Ithika, and this time, it was enough.

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vintagecandy · 4 years

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I'm new here, is Adam design inspired by Kevin from Night Vale?

Alright. Oh dear. So let me explain the origin of hippy jesus here, because I absolutely understand the confusion. Let me lay the whole thing out, because it’s kind of silly in retrospect...

Long story short-- stop reading here if you don’t care-- No. He actually wasn’t.

Adam was originally inspired by The Book Of Mormon. The musical, not literally the faith haha. I fell in love with this weird false happy angle from a flamboyant character named Elder Mckinley, and wanted to make a character that captured the vague vibe of almost... passive aggressive, insistent, tyrannical happiness.

But things changed! After writing him a while on an ask blog-- I have no idea how that happened for almost three years, but yes I had an rp blog-- ( just a reminder, none of that is canon but it did really help develop him as a person. ) his character slowly but surely morphed entirely into someone completely different. His controlling religion became this new age paradox of freedom by delusion, he took on a 1970s aesthetic, blah blah blah--

But then, utterly unrelated at the time, I started listening to WTNV after it was recommended to me on youtube randomly. I wasn’t even aware WTNV had a character with the false happy archetype I love so much, and when his first episode arrived I fell head over heels! What a gorgeous voice!

So... here’s why there’s a weird split in my Kevin fanart. One with pale skin and blonde hair, and one with dark skin and platinum hair. When I originally designed my take on Kevin.... I literally forgot I had a character that looked like that already. I just outright forgot. What my intent was, at the time, was a stereotypical businessman. ( Keep in mind, I had only seen the Strexcorp arc of Kevin’s story as well. )

But woops!

Blonde hair, yellow and happy aesthetic? That’s literally one of my own OCs. Also.... it didn’t make sense to design a character around a office worker vibe... if he’s the evil doppelganger of someone who isn’t that. So. I redesigned him.

And that is the story of why I cringe every time someone looks through my Kevin tag.

#i'm tempted to just delete my old kevin art haha..... aaaaaa #BUT anyways #if you look into adam's tag his.... almost oldest art depict a more sinister version of him?#that's his old design #not art #Anonymous #kevin #Kevin R Free

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alo-piss-trancy · 4 years

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Ok hi, I didn't wanna say anything, but please don't write knifeplay/bloodplay for Yuri. I def don't wanna spoil anything, but it's learned on a certain route that Yuri has a s*lf h*rm problem (I'll leave it at that).

You honestly seem like you're not trying to be a jerk with this ask, so I'm going to do my best to answer this as politely as possible without compromising my personal beliefs on the matter. This is going to be long and a little serious, but please note I'm not attacking you or trying to start a debate. I'm just laying all my thoughts on this down at once so I make myself clear, because a short answer would leave a lot of nuance out.

I understand what you're trying to do here. For the record though, I also considered that a pretty massive spoiler and I did not appreciate that at all. Even if you all think you're 'helping', don't do that again. Y/uri was pretty much the only character I'd managed to avoid most spoilers on and you killed the surprise for me. This game is already so full of fluffy 'filler' in the beginning that I don't have a ton of big plot points to look forward to in each route.

Now, I realise this is a very delicate topic and incredibly triggering to some people, especially with those two things combined. I am 100% willing to tag it with just about any variation needed to ensure you or others affected can blacklist/block it and never have to see a word of it in the future. I'd also be happy to go back and tag that original text post I made if needed. I mean that. You all are welcome to ask me to tag things anytime, and so long as you're polite about it I'm perfectly willing to oblige to the best of my ability in future posts! If I occasionally forget, just toss me a light reminder and I'll jump into editing and add it in.

That said, I want to make it clear that I am very firmly against censorship. I'm willing to take all necessary precautions to ensure people can curate their experiences on this blog and AO3, but at the end of the day I can still post whatever fictional stuff I choose to. As can anyone else. Same goes for more formally published media.

Now, it's entirely possible I would have gotten to that part of the game and decided 'oh dang, I'm not so enthused about that fic idea anymore...'. My whims and ideas change frequently, and what you mentioned is a heavy topic with a lot to unpack and process. It's also entirely possible that future plot would only provide more fuel.

Fyi, when I originally mentioned the knifeplay I was actually thinking a lot more along the lines of her doing it to the protagonist, not the reverse. But for the record, if I did choose to write it with focus on Y/uri, I would still be well within my rights to.

This next part of my answer is going to address some heavy topics, this is your warning!!!

Sometimes people's kinks are a way to take a thing that is personally scary or upsetting to them and find a way to reverse it. To find pleasure or power or get used to the idea of the awful thing in a safe, controlled fashion. I'm not going to go into the full details on this because there's plenty of explanation and research elsewhere already written up, as well as an excellent book on the subject, and I'm not turning this blog into a discourse debate. But I needed to mention it for my point.

There are plenty of stories that could be explored with Y/uri in this context. Did she have this kink before the self harm events started and it was completely unrelated, or did she develop it afterwards? How did she discover it beforehand? If developed afterwards, did it start out as another way of harming mixed with pleasure in a self-destructive way, often done sloppily and without proper technique? Or was it strictly used as almost exposure therapy to deal with those urges and thoughts in a safer, more contained scenario, maybe even allowing the partner she trusted to wield the knife to prove their bond/reinforce that she can be loved without being hurt deeply, that she is worthy of affection and trust and loyalty. Maybe this finally helps give Y/uri a tool to embrace her 'weirdness' without harming herself and others. Or, what if she thinks it can be a useful tool and is sure she's ready, but partway through the scene she gets triggered or has flashbacks... how does she deal with it? How does her partner? Can it be overcome with effort, research, and taking things slowly, or does she realize this kink is actually completely off the table for her?

What if she has this kink and is excited to try it, but her partner isn't? How does she take that rejection? Or do her poor social skills mean she skipped negotiation to begin with and attempted it in the middle of a vanilla session? Would her partner freak out or even get mad, or try to swallow their fear and let her do it so they don't hurt/offend her, even at the cost of their own comfort?

This topic also opens a ton of potential plots for darkfic, but I'll refrain from discussing that out of respect for you and others.

So as you can see, there's much more to explore than 'Knife=Hot'. I believe those discussions and ideas are necessary and provide important fuel for thought when explored fictionally, especially since mainstream media doesn't cover a lot of them.

~~~

I feel I should take a second to clarify knifeplay for those who may be unaware. It doesn't always equate to actual cutting/drawing blood. That can be an aspect, but usually only by those far more experienced and, you know, actually into that. A lot of participants don't actually go that far. Mostly, it's either about the physical sensation of the knife touching you at all, or the adrenaline/controlled fear and intimate trust of a partner bringing an object like that so close/teasing you with it.

In fact, it's frequently advised in those circles (especially to newcomers) to use a dull butterknife instead, because it simulates the same feelings of metal on skin/can dig in a little without any real risk of cutting/drawing blood. Even if one chooses to use a different knife, it's still pretty common to dull the blade, or some people even substitute with a closed pair of scissors (combined with the partner blindfolded, you can't really tell it apart from the real thing).

These versions of knifeplay are well controlled and ultimately pretty harmless, so long as both parties know what they're doing and stay alert. And more experienced players with sharper knives are even more cautious/have studied extensively to know where/how deep to go without risking scarring/serious injury.

Remember the golden rules of kink: Safe. Sane. Consensual.

With those in place, it is not nearly the same as self harm. Just as controlled, consensual, well-negotiated BDSM with safewords, respected boundaries and a trusted partner is never in the same league as abuse.

~~~

Now that that's out of the way, back to my point:

There's no perfect representation or narrative for everyone, in any group (be that gender/sexuality/triggered by certain things, etc). Every human being is different, everyone interprets media differently, and everyone takes away different elements from stories.

What one person in a particular group may find cathartic, relateable, or painful but necessary food for thought, another may find completely repulsive, personally hurtful, offensive, something they can't stand to hear. And guess what? Both of those can be true at the same time. One side is not immediately right over the other.

There are queer characters or interpretations of them in fics that I vehemently despise, might even find hurtful or sickening and think 'how can anyone create this, it's insufferable! People in 'my group' aren't like that, it's a horrible representation. I can't relate to it at all!' But you know what? Other people can and do, may find comfort in those exact narratives and experiences, may heal their pain instead of inflicting more. And that's great. It's what they needed or wanted and if I don't like it, I click away and do my best to avoid it.

There are specific tropes and narrative themes I personally cannot get through without being triggered into anxiety attacks or dragged back to bad times and places in my life. Sometimes I see them tackled in ways that are hurtful or seem insensitive to me. But I recognise that for someone else, it's exactly what they needed to see to get through that or come to terms with it, or see a way they wish that thing could play out. I would never dream of telling those people they aren't allowed to enjoy it, OR telling the creator of that piece of media or a tv show 'Hey ummm please don't use this plot because it turns me into a human wreck for a week'. Because it's not remotely my place to do so. They can create whatever they want, they have no responsibility towards me or my well being. A few might be kind enough to include a warning at the beginning of that episode or in the description, but they are in no way required to. It's up to me to curate my experience and try to keep my guard up/research what might have those tropes, and in the rare occasions I get blindsided, yeah, it hurts like hell. I struggle, I might even backslide a bit. But I just have to try my best to deal with it and make a note to be more careful next time. Because you can't control the world around you, not even the online world, and you have absolutely no right to. The only right you have is to protect yourself without infringing on other people's boundaries/rights.

And there's also another important point. There doesn't have to be a big important point or explanation for why a creator creates something, or why consumers can enjoy that creation! If someone wants to create a plotline with all of my triggers used in the most 'insensitive', 'wrong', pointless ways possible, strictly for Entertainment or pure kink material instead of some deep dissection of the issues involved? They can go hog wild!!! They are 100% allowed to do so on this earth, and I can't (and wouldn't want to) do a thing to stop them.

One person can read a kink fic and it hits a very emotional theme for them/they think it explores a deep topic well. Another person can read that same fic and get nothing out of it except their rocks off. Both of those readers are completely equal and 'allowed' to enjoy that fic. Both reasons are completely valid reasons for why the creator was 'allowed' to post/create that fic in the first place. Nobody needs permission, nobody has to answer to anybody except themselves. Period. This extends to any topic, any type of fic.

Yes, even for things I find absolutely abhorrent and insensitive and don't understand/want to read ever. I may resent everything about its existence, but I will defend to death the creator's right to make it exist in the first place.

It only affects me if I let it affect me. If someone's making content I despise or am upset by and can't handle, I can choose to ignore or avoid them, blacklist those tags, I can block them and move on with my day. I can do anything within my own bubble, but the second I consider going into their bubble and saying they can't make that thing, I am in the wrong. Because I'm not respecting their space and rights.

If someone makes cookies with ingredients I'm highly allergic to, pastes the ingredient warnings all over the box where I read them, and I still eat one, would anyone cheer me on for blaming them when I have a reaction? Would anyone think it was remotely okay of me to start calling up every bakery in town and saying they weren't allowed to bake those cookies EVER, because some people somewhere might be allergic?

No. They'd tell me I was crossing the line, because I'm infringing on other people's boundaries and lives. I'm expecting everybody else to take responsibility for something that, while horrible and painful, was my fault for touching.

Now, if someone sets out unlabelled cookies not realizing I'm allergic to something in them, and I eat it and have a reaction, that sucks. It's an awful experience. But is it the baker's fault? As long as they didn't do it maliciously, not really. They can be advised politely to label it in the future, and I can do my best to remember to ask/be more cautious next time I come across something I'm unsure of, but they're still allowed to bake those cookies for themselves and others.

Now, if I deliberately baked cookies with an ingredient that people are very frequently allergic to (ex. peanuts) and set it out in a crowded buffet without a warning label, that's a jerk move. That's intentionally trying to cause harm to others. But simply baking that flavour of cookies still isn't a crime or harmful by itself.

~~~

I'll be honest, I'm running out of steam and I think I've said most of what I have to say, so I'll wrap it up. I want to reiterate that I'm not ripping into you with this long answer, anon! I understand why you sent me what you did and I'm trying not to come off as harsh. I'm happy to go back and tag things and will tag anything else similar in the future!!! But at the end of the day, regardless of whether I personally end up writing that fic or not, or even want to after I get to that plot, I don't agree with telling anyone they can't/shouldn't write it at all. I wanted to try and explain my viewpoint thoroughly, and I hope you can respect that, just as I'll respect and try to accommodate you and other followers. This is the only time I'll really get up on a soapbox like this, and I have no interest in debating these things on my blog further, but it is a topic I've been passionate about all my life so I'm afraid I'm not budging on it.

#bear gets a letter #not omo #tw knives #tw knifeplay #tw cutting #tw self harm #d/dlc spoilers

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