#i have been terrible productive haven't i

[daughterofhecata]

Als ich angefangen habe, Fic im DDF Fandom zu posten, habe ich versucht, ungefähr eine Story die Woche hochzuladen. Vor ein paar Tagen hab ich gedacht, dass ich den Schnitt inzwischen bestimmt nicht halten konnte, aber... uh...

Ich bin jetzt seit vier Jahren hier, ein Jahr hat 52 Wochen, macht 208 Wochen. Mein "Jahrestag" war am 3.12., also rechnen wir noch ne Woche drauf, sind 209.

Ich habe auf ao3 341 Fanfictions für Die Drei ??? veröffentlicht.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[rosesradio]

.

[vaspider]

While I'm writing things that I've been intending to write for a while... one of the things that I think that a lot of people who haven't been involved in like... banking or corporate shenaniganry miss about why our economy is its current flavor of total fuckery is the concept of "fiduciary duty to shareholders."

"Why does every corporation pursue endless growth?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

"Why do corporations treat workers the way they do?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

"Why do corporations make such bass-ackwards decisions about what's 'good for' the company?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

The legal purpose of a corporation with shareholders -- its only true purpose -- is the generation of revenue/returns for shareholders. Period. That's it. Anything else it does is secondary to that. Sustainability of business, treatment of workers, sustainability and quality of product, those things are functionally and legally second to generating revenue for shareholders. Again, period, end of story. There is no other function of a corporation, and all of its extensive legal privileges exist to allow it to do that.

"But Spider," you might say, "that sounds like corporations only exist in current business in order to extract as much money and value as possible from the people actually doing the work and transfer it up to the people who aren't actually doing the work!"

Yes. You are correct. Thank you for coming with me to that realization. You are incredibly smart and also attractive.

You might also say, "but Spider, is this a legal obligation? Could those running a company be held legally responsible for failing their obligations if they prioritize sustainability or quality of product or care of workers above returns for shareholders?"

Yes! They absolutely can! Isn't that terrifying? Also you look great today, you're terribly clever for thinking about these things. The board and officers of a corporation can be held legally responsible to varying degrees for failing to maximize shareholder value.

And that, my friends, is why corporations do things that don't seem to make any fucking sense, and why 'continuous growth' is valued above literally anything else: because it fucking has to be.

If you're thinking that this doesn't sound like a sustainable economic model, you're not alone. People who are much smarter than both of us, and probably nearly as attractive, have written a proposal for how to change corporate law in order to create a more sensible and sustainable economy. This is one of several proposals, and while I don't agree with all of this stuff, I think that reading it will really help people as a springboard to understanding exactly why our economy is as fucked up as it is, and why just saying 'well then don't pursue eternal growth' isn't going to work -- because right now it legally can't. We'd need to change -- and we can change -- the laws around corporate governance.

This concept of 'shareholder primacy' and the fiduciary duty to shareholders is one I had to learn when I was getting my securities licenses, and every time I see people confusedly asking why corporations try to grow grow grow in a way that only makes sense if you're a tumor, I sigh and think, 'yeah, fiduciary duty to shareholders.'

(And this is why Emet and I have refused to seek investors for NK -- we might become beholden to make decisions which maximize investor return, and that would get in the way of being able to fully support our people and our values and say the things we started this company to say.)

Anyway, you should read up on these concepts if you're not familiar. It's pretty eye-opening.

[onlyharper]

Please help a transwoman not be homeless

Hi folks. I haven't made a post in a while or been active here. I've been…fighting mental unwellness and just trying to find a job. It's going fucking terrible. I again hate asking for help but each job keeps denying me or not responding or it's a scam job and I just..need funds. I'm running out of food and I've been out of hygiene products for the last week or so and I'm tired. I'm so tired of waking up and feeling like a fucking failure. It's like my world keeps getting worse and worse and I'm just…barely here. I have rent due in by the end of the month and I'm not sure how I'm gonna pay for it. I don't have a random $700 to help me plus other bills and I'm just…Jesus fuck. I want this to stop. I wanna work. I wanna stop feeling like by breathing I'm doing something wrong. I'm sorry for venting but my body and mind and my everything sucks so any hep would be appreciated. Thanks friends. I'll have my account listed below.

Payton Pals: harphazardly (Legal Name on this one and a picture of a plush Flareon)

Cashmere Applications: $Generallyalive (Has the name Chuck on it)

Venice Monet: mindnum (Also Legal Name)

[bigwishes]

Hey man, my workout bro gave me a new pre-workout shake to try and it's really been helping me bulk up, but I always feel really — UUUUURRP — fuck man, I'm always really bloated after drinking them. Fuck though, they taste so good, and I've been putting on mass like crazy... I've also put on a little pudge as well, but I should be able to work that off, right?

You've been chugging that down like it's water haven't you dude, well that's fine. It was your choice to drink all of it even when the product was designed for a guy to take one serving in his whole life.

The product you took was designed to mutate the metabolism to help guys who are serious about lifting be able to absorb and process more food without it technically putting them through a bulk.

However you decided to drink a lot more than what one guy needs and its caused you to develop a lot of side effects. The first of which you've already noticed, belching non stop and always being bloated but that's just the easy stuff. Soon you'll begin to sweat like a pig and not just whilst you work out, your body will generate so much extra heat whilst it tries to turn anything you eat into size that it'll cause you to be a walking sauna, heat radiating out of your body and a cloud of steam coming off you at all times, but that steam isn't just an aesthetic, it'll reek, you might even find guys gagging from the terrible smell as you walk past. Of course making your body redirect so much nutrients isn't without its consequences, you'll probably start to notice your dick is getting smaller each day and pretty soon you won't even notice when you have a hard on, but don't worry, your pants will still be getting tighter as not only your thighs are getting bigger but the muscles in your ass are being pumped full of size getting big and swollen making it difficult to put on things like jeans.

and of course the pudge, drinking so much is causing your body to just now throw on size however it can, you'll still be mostly muscle but you'll always have a slightly jiggly layer over the top.

but lets talk about what's really going to start happening. That last sip this morning was the thing that will push you over the edge, you've fucked yourself now. You'll always be hungry, never full again. There will always be room for one more bite or one more sip of a protein shake and 100% of what you eat will be converted straight into muscle and size. There is no need for you to work out anymore, in fact its probably a waste of time to try and work out you'll gain more size by just stuffing your face.

After every mouthful you'll find yourself forced to belch, you'll always feel heavy sluggish and bloated. Feeling your mass bounce as you walk. You've earned the nickname Bubbles from your mates as whenever they hang out with you the only thing they can hear is you stomach bubbling away churning food into raw size only ever interrupted as you grumble in discomfort rubbing your tight layered abs as you belch loudly and uncontrollably

Enjoy being a big bloated beast Bubbles...

[nothorses]

I hope this is okay to ask but I’m pretty desperate and googling stuff has failed me, so do you or one of your followers have recommendations on how to deal with the BO that comes with taking testosterone? I never had BO that couldn’t just be managed by showering enough and putting on just any deodorant but now that I’m taking T I sweat a lot and I smell bad and I nothing I do seems to fix it. My boss has politely mentioned it several times now despite all my effort and it’s so mortifying and embarrassing.

Things I’ve tried and am currently doing include so many different deodorants which I bring to work and reapply, putting baking powder in my shoes, on top of general basic hygiene. But none of it seems to make a dent and it doesn’t help that I can’t really change clothes or shoes throughout the day. I have to wear closed toed shoes and a lab coat and my job is pretty active, plus it’s 10 minutes walk from the parking lot and it’s over 100F or 40 C right now so when I arrive at work I’m already pouring sweat. I also have a large chest so it all gets under my bra and soaks into it and by the end of the day the bottom part of my bra reeks.

I know some ocasional BO on a busy day can’t be helped but none of the other people at work including other male coworkers seem to have the same issue at all, so there’s got to be a solution but I haven’t found it. Im thinking of trying antiperspirants but I also know I need to sweat and I would rather not put my health at risk. So if anyone has something that works for them please let me know bc im really desperate here.

First I want to say: you're not doing anything wrong. You probably just sweat more than some other folks, and that's not your fault, and you shouldn't feel bad about it. I'm gonna give you some ideas to try if you haven't yet, but I don't know how much you've already tried, and it sounds like you've been through a lot already.

I also have always had terrible BO, and the only thing that helped at all pre-T was "prescription strength" deodorant. I honestly have had less of an issue since starting T, weirdly enough, but part of that is also that I physically cannot stand to shower any less frequently than every single morning (not necessarily a good thing lol), and I also started using antibacterial products on my armpits when I shower.

Currently I use benzoyl peroxide body wash on my armpits, which can be drying, but it hasn't caused me issues so far (just look for Panoxyl, other brands have caused irritation for me and my partner both). I used Betadine surgical scrub before that for a bit (you collect weird shit when you work with horses 🤷‍♂️) and that worked well, too- plus it's less likely to irritate skin.

I also find that certain shirts cause me to sweat there more, and those also tend to be the more form-fitting shirts that get up into my armpits. That skin def needs to breathe.

My partner has had trouble with feet/shoes in the past, and he's used cedar shoeforms to mitigate that (cedar is also antibacterial!). He also makes sure any shoes he gets are breathable (not leather), and if they are leather, he gives them at least a day or two between wears. Probably good practice if you notice any kind of smell on any of your shoes.

You mention baking powder, and I'm not sure if you meant baking soda and just mixed them up (which I do all the time lmao) but just in case: if you are using baking powder, the one you want is baking soda.

I don't have much advice for chest sweat, except that you may want to consider bringing an extra bra (and maybe an extra pair of socks if you're noticing it before the end of the day) to change into midway through the day. You can also look for more breathable fabrics in general, especially athletic-wear, which is already designed to help wick sweat and mitigate those issues.

Lastly, I want to stress again that you're not doing anything wrong. Some people have more trouble with this than others, and if you're really struggling in a way nobody around you is, it may be that you've got something going on in your body that they don't have to deal with. This could be a medical thing as well (like acne!!), and there's no shame in seeking medical solutions for it. Talk to your doctor if you can; it sounds like it's causing you distress, and you deserve to be comfortable.

[totalswag]

Hi you! I was thinking about actress!y/n is in a ceremony and Drew is filming of obx s4, they're both so busy in their film industry, that they miss each other terribly that they kept contacting in messages and calls,

(especially him, who is very proud of her, who would like to be by her side even if she tells him to keep working on the set of obx, that she wouldn't want to disturb him. Like they both put up with each other so much they love each other)

that they haven't had time to talk to each other much, they want to meet up face to face again for once, so she decides to visit him as a little surprise to see him again in Charleston

surprise visit on set — DREW STARKEY

authors note thank for the request lovie! i have a few requests that i will work on or currently working on. all the love you guys have been showing me lately is absolutely amazing, i couldn't thank you lovies anymore. halfway to 1k too!!!

summary surprising drew on set after months of not seeing each other.

warnings cuteness thats all

masterlist

Being in a relationship where you both act and are continuously busy filming is difficult, but there is always time and space to see one other when you take a break from filming.

Drew and you began dating in 2021, after he completed season two of his show, Outer Banks. You met through mutual friends at a gathering and hit it off right away.

Outer Banks season four is presently in production, which means Drew is in Charleston filming. It's been about two months since you last saw each other, and you miss each other a lot.

You were on the red carpet on the premiere of your new movie. As you went through the crowd, cameras flashed and captured every moment. In the back of your head, you couldn't stop thinking about Drew and how much you miss him.

A young woman called your name where interviews stood infront of cameras waiting for you and your cast mates to interact. You smile with a kind wave, walking over.

“Miss, Y/N, "I must say you look absolutely stunning tonight in this dress you're wearing," she says, praising you from top to bottom.

"Thank you so much; it means a lot to me, and I'm glad I chose to wear this dress tonight," you giggle, smoothing your hands over your sides.

The interviewer asks you a few questions on both the film and your character. You were grateful to be asked these questions because you had worked so hard on set.

"Before we part ways, noticed your boyfriend, Drew Starkey, is filming season four for Outer Banks. How is that going, do you know?" She asks politely.

"We haven't seen each other in a while, but we text every day," you place the front strands behind your ear, "he said everything is going well on set and he can't wait for fans to see," you explain, smiling before saying goodbye.

You just hopped on a plane to Charleston to surprise Drew. You secretly organized this trip because you miss Drew and want to spend time with him. You can't wait to be in his arms again.

With all of your free time, you decided to pay Drew a visit and meet the rest of the cast, whom you consider friends as well.

When the plane landed, you walked down the stairs to find Maddie, Madison, and Carlacia waiting for you beside the car, holding two posters designed specifically for you. You took out your phone and started recording them as you came closer.

"Finally back with my hot bitches," you exclaim, extending your arms for a group hug.

"How long has it been since we saw you last?" Madison asks, "I don't know, but it's been too long," and then grabs your suitcase and places it in the trunk with your other belongings.

Everyone knows about you coming except for Drew. The look on his face will be priceless and unforgettable. Knowing you, you might cry.

A few hours go by, you left early with the girls to set since they are filming their scenes first. You were able to hid in Drew's trailer on the couch in the corner where he won't see you when he enters.

Drew's reaction was clearly visible on your phone. Hearing his voice get closer filled your tummy with butterflies. Taking a deep breath as you heard the doorknob turn.

"What time do you want me to get back on set again?" You hear him say this while the door is still open and you have no view of him.

"Okay, that sounds good; I'm going to take a quick nap," he says before entering his trailer.

His figure enters the trailer and turns right, with his back to you. When he turns around, all he sees is the love of his life in the corner, wearing the most beautiful smile that makes him fall harder each time. He can't believe you're standing in front of him now.

"Please tell me I'm dreaming right now and you're a vision," Drew blurts out, placing both hands over his head to digest what's going on in his mind.

"Don't think I'm a vision baby," you giggle, getting off the couch, "so are you gonna give me a kiss or stand there handsome?" You make amusing gestures. 

"Oh I'ma kiss you alright," he quickly responds, taking you in his arms, lifting you up with his arms; you wrap your legs around his waist.

You two remain like this for a full minute, taking up the sensation of being together. You place kisses all over Drew's face, making him giggle.

"I've missed you so much; seeing you now and seeing your beautiful face in person makes me so happy. Drew expresses himself meaningfully: "I fucking love you so much baby."

The tears come down your face, Drew's quickly to wipe them.

"I can't explain the emotions I'm feeling right now, but to sum it up, being in your arms again, hearing your voice, touching you, makes me want to not leave you."

Drew helped you get to your feet and led you to the couch. You inform him you have a surprise trip planned; he assumed you wouldn't see each other until next month. Drew gave you an update on how filming has gone, etc.

The past four days has been wonderful. You went onto set, met up with the crew and cast, beach, shopping, drinking, went out to dinner, etc.

Talked about the movie premiere and how your movie turned out after you watched it.

It's a lovely night in Charleston. The sun had just set, which was breathtaking from the view at dinner. Drew and you were strolling out of a restaurant holding hands, laughing at each other's jokes.

"Oh my gosh is that Y/N and Drew?" A faint voice from across the street causes you both to turn your heads at the same time, filled with curiosity.

"I suppose I am dreaming right now. I love you two so much and you've helped me so much, I can't thank you enough," the young girl confesses, struggling to fight back tears, "my name is Skylar."

Your heart warmed at Skylar's sweet comments. You and Drew instantly drew her into a group hug. Skylar wept with happiness. 

"Thank you for your love and support. We're both glad we could support you through your difficult periods in life, and we hope you'll keep fighting. Would you want a picture? Drew speaks with genuine sincerity, holding her hand and maintaining her composure.

After talking for a time, you took a few photos with Skyalr before going your separate ways. More fans have approached you two since your arrival. It's always good to meet supporters.

"How about we grab ourselves snacks from the gas station for a movie night and cuddle all night then possibly have a little fun" Drew implies with a hint a flirtatious about the having fun part.

You let a yelp when he squeezed your sides, leaning back against his body.

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me" you shrug, smiling.

Drew sighs and wraps his arms around your neck, "I'm glad you took the time to come here. I missed you so much and am finally able to be with you. I'm extremely proud of all of your hard work and your new movie. "I love you, baby."

"I love you more my sweet boy, best thing that's ever happen to me."

my taglist!

✰ if you would like to be added to my taglist and be notified whenever i post please let me know in the comments or in my ask box. if there's a line across your name that means i couldn't find your account.

@winterrrnight @chenslucy @rosezza @solanathascientst @diqldrunks @runningfrom2am

[elumish]

I think one of the most important unspoken skills of being a writer is knowing how to take critique and criticism of your work.

This is not about comments once work is published--this is about how to actually deal with and adjudicate feedback from beta readers, sensitivitiy readers, editors, etc. Because at some point, if you plan to go through any sort of publishing process, you will need to deal with feedback.

Especially for content/structure comments (as opposed to grammar/typos/etc.), most people have an instinct to get defensive. It's normal! I get it! I also get defensive. These stories are usually the product of many hours worth of work, of time and energy and emotion dedication. Having someone tell us there's a problem can feel like they're telling us that we did something wrong.

So first, recognize the defensiveness. You're allowed to start with defensiveness (if you're not a jerk about it). But recognize that you're being defensive, let yourself sit with it as long as you need to, and then figure out how to move past it.

The next step is to make sure you understand the feedback. Sometimes feedback can be confusing or unclear (the people giving feedback are human too) or it can be talking about a problem that doesn't really exist. You want to make sure that you know what they're actually saying and how it fits in the story.

Along with understanding the feedback, recognize when feedback represents a fundamental misunderstanding of your story. Sometimes people misread your story or aren't careful or just have a vastly different interpretation of your story than the words on the page, and they will give feedback that reflects that. You are allowed to say, basically, "this isn't actually commenting on my story but the reader's interpretation of my story" and move on. But sometimes a fundamental misunderstanding means that your story is confusing or unclear, and it may signal that you need to make changes, even if they aren't the changes the commener suggested.

When you're working your way through feedback, trust identifications of problems more than you trust recommended solutions. This is not to say that you should never follow people's recommendations (and what recommendations you follow may/should depend on who they are), but it is your story, and ultimately you know it better than they do. If someone gives the comment that the pacing doesn't work in x section and that you should think about adding y scene, you may realize that what would actually solve the problem better for the story is updating an earlier or later section instead.

Trust your understanding of your story but allow it to evolve. You know your story best and shouldn't change it just because someone had an idea--but you should also be flexible about your story and not stick to your original story just because it was the first idea you had.

Finally, learn how to be okay with having been wrong. Sometimes your idea wasn't the best. Sometimes what you wrote didn't work. Sometimes it was racist or sexist or homophobic or transphobic or ableist. Sometimes it was confusing or unclear. Sometimes it was a stupid idea. And when commenters tell you that, the only way to fix it is to learn how to look at something you love and say, yeah, okay, this was bad and needs to be fixed.

And as a postscript to it all--remember that critical feedback isn't a reflection on you or your writing. Every author in existence has gotten critical feedback at some point (or, if they haven't, it's because they have a terrible editor). Nobody is perfect on their first true, and nobody is perfect in a vacuum. Critical feedback is one of the ways that you and your stories get better.

[utilitycaster]

what are those 5 things? 👀

Seeing people start admit that maybe Imogen and Laudna did in fact pressure Fearne excessively hard to take the shard. I think it's good Fearne took it in the end, but yeah they really made it difficult for her to express her doubts and that was shitty of them. I got extensive hate for saying that at the time from people who are literally saying the same thing now. It's very funny.

The (entirely valid) complaints I've seen that people care more about imo/dna as a ship than Laudna as a character and are making her book solely about the fact that Imogen will show up in it. I pointed out this exact same problem occurring while Laudna was dead, almost two years ago.

Caleb considering leaving the Nein means they aren't really bonded. Imogen considering leaving Bells Hells means she's so perfect and caring and selfless and noble and good. Anyway yeah sure I definitely believe that if Imogen were a man played by Liam everyone would definitely be totally uncritical and love everything she did. (This is also a layered one, given how Twitter has been bashing Orym nonstop for over a year).

I know it's been a month and I've said this repeatedly so this is a bit tacky but I'm still riding the absolute Irony High of people being like "STOP TALKING ABOUT HUBRIS STOP TALKING ABOUT HUBRIS anyway of COURSE Bells Hells would NEVER see the gods as a messed up family, just like them" and then jump cut to Laudna literally saying that. It's just genuinely so funny that people mad at everyone calling Aeor full of hubris proceeded to get their wax wings straight up vaporized at the top of episode 102.

People calling imo/dna the bestest most organic most slow-burn sapphic ship ever (it's not even the longest slow-burn f/f ship on Critical Role; even if you're stupid enough to count the two years we know virtually nothing about just for the purposes of padding out the time to eliminate Beauyasha on a technicality - nevermind that slowburn is about the length of the story itself and not the length of time the characters have known each other, since it's obvious that if someone said 'here's Jane and Kate, they've known each other for 300 years, now they are kissing' this would not be a satisfying slowburn unless like, you went back and filled in the 300 years - Kimallura STILL wins) but as someone who received a decent amount of harassment for saying it wasn't very interesting and as such kept tabs on the people engaging in that harassment...they've been dropping like flies. If it's the best sapphic ship ever and it's canon and you're in the top 5 ships for the show of all time on ao3 and Delilah's gone and they're going to get their cottage, funny how a good chunk of the shippers haven't even managed to stay interested in CR. Also why are half the people who HAVE kept up like hmmmm what if I threw Fearne or Ashton in there. Like believe me, I support a poly hells situation, but uh. quite a tumble for what people used to call the Beating Heart Of The Campaign (TM).

Bonus! This is below a cut because it has spoilers for next week's Re-Slayer's Take that's only out for Beacon subscribers but

we see Devexian, and he meets Frog (an aeormaton PC) and his overall statement on Aeor is "it created us to serve, and we fought for our autonomy. It was both a beautiful and terrible place. Anyway the past is past, what's important is that we as aeormatons take our chance to live now, and my personal goal is not just to bring back as many aeormatons as I can, but learn how to make more aeormatons." He is completely uninterested, at least in 839 PD, in any sort of action against the gods. Like, I think he regrets the fall of Aeor because a lot of Aeormatons and knowledge died in it but he literally is like "your life is defined by your own choices, not your designation at the time of Aeor." The actual survivors of the fall of Aeor are like anyway, we want acceptance, autonomy, and the means to control our own production in modern day Exandria. Ludinus whomst.

[star-anise]

So I've been watching this series of videos where a research-focused psychologist goes through Jordan Peterson's work to see which of his ideas and arguments are based on solid empirical evidence. I love it, even though she does mistakenly say his background is in counselling psychology (my field) when he's actually a clinical psychologist.

Anyway, that's got me thinking about Jordan Peterson, and how his response to criticism is, "People have been after me for a long time because I’ve been speaking to disaffected young men — what a terrible thing to do, that is. [...] I thought the marginalized were supposed to have a voice.”

So, here's my theory: Young men of the 21st century have grown up in a culture that is specifically hostile and punitive towards them. However, I think that while girls and women can participate in this culture, it is as much or more the work of boys and men. And I think that the problem with Peterson is that he's not particularly good at helping his audience escape the maze they are trapped in--and he's absolutely opposed to any attempt to dismantle a maze that is actually of fairly recent manufacture.

Case in point: The metrosexual.

The word "metrosexual" was coined in 1994 by Mark Simpson, a gay writer whose settings seem to be perpetually fixed at "critique the shit out of it".

"Metrosexual" describes heterosexual men who might be mistaken as gay, because they are interested in things very common among gay men, including: Caring about whether they're attractive; caring about how their hair is cut and what products they use in it; caring about what clothes they wear; working out to make their bodies look better; frequenting nightclubs. To be "metrosexual" was, in some people's opinions, to be a "man-boy" searching for his "inner girl".

To be metrosexual was, in some ways, to be called someone who looked gay.

The term didn't really catch on until the early 2000s, when media became briefly obsessed with talking about which celebrities were "metrosexual" or not. In that era of hotly divided opinions over the acceptability of homosexuality and queerness, it was implicitly asking, "Who looks gay? Is he gay? Tell me, fellow broadcaster: How gay does this guy look to you?"

(They got to have their cake and eat it too. A liberal audience, desperate to gather as many LGBTQ+ people and allies as possible in their race for 50% acceptance of gay marriage, cherished any signs that people with social clout might be on their side. And a conservative one, watching the same discussion, would heartily enjoy seeing a rogues' gallery of degenerate Hollywood types paraded before them, their every effeminacy pointed out in loving detail.)

Which of course got us: The Retrosexual!

When everybody's helpfully compiling lists of all the things a man can do that look gay or unmanly, dudes who don't want to get the shit kicked out of them by homophobes know all the things not to do!

Therefore, being "manly" became strictly defined by what was off-limits. To be a Real Man meant you shouldn't care about whether you're attractive, or what soap you use, or how your hair is styled. You shouldn't enjoy dancing or get too enthusiastic about music. A Real Man cares about sports and beer and being on top! Dominant!! A WINNER!!!

And, so like, here's a secret: In Anglophone culture, we are very affected by the Puritan legacy that says pleasure is inherently sinful. Vanity and pride--caring about how you look and whether you're attractive--are literal gateways to the Devil. Gluttony, and therefore seeking pleasure at all, is another such. And in Puritan religious theology, women are inherently more sinful. Yes, it goes back to Adam and Eve, and how Eve was tempted into sin first. Long story short, things associated with women became associated with sinfulness, and sinfulness became associated with effeminacy. And for centuries, you haven't even needed to be religious to drink these attitudes from the groundwater.

Okay, that's not the secret, this is the secret: Pleasure is not inherently sinful.

And liking how you look and feeling attractive and paying attention to your sensuality and your emotional life and connecting with art in a real and vulnerable way can feel really good, if you're able to handle it well.

Being raised to be a Real Man in a world where masculinity is perceived to be actively under threat is so uniquely painful, I believe, because every attempt to define yourself as "not gay" means denying yourself one of life's pleasures, and telling yourself you never even wanted it in the first place.

And then those desperate to be Real Men found a way to take some of those things back in what is surely the most painful context possible: They are allowed strictly as tools of your heterosexuality and masculine need for dominance. You are allowed to care about grooming and dancing, etc, purely as a strategy in playing a game called "Getting Girls", where you either score or you don't, where not scoring means you're worthless and unlovable, and scoring is often... strangely unfulfilling and certainly not enough to fill the aching void inside of you.

The mistake both Peterson and his fanbase make is that they get to this point, and then think: The reason I feel so empty inside is... I just haven't gotten enough girls!

Maybe some guys get out of the maze by finding a woman who is allowed to care about things like affection and love and dancing and looking nice, and their connection with her lets them express all the other parts of their souls that didn't fit in the Real Man box, but can come out in roles like Boyfriend or Father.

But humans aren't telepathic, so relationships can only "fix" you so much as you're willing to do the work of nurturing your own soul in a safe environment, so for a lot of men the maze never ends, and sometimes they don't even get the fleeting joys of relationships or sex, since they're so fucked up about them!

At this point, I as a queer woman am like, "Solution's obvious! Dismantle the maze."

And Peterson, who has worked his whole life to achieve the status of Best Maze-Runner in All of Christendom, is clinging to it like, "NO! DOWN, YOU DARK CHAOTIC MOTHER! THIS MAZE GIVES MY LIFE MEANING! THIS MAZE CONNECTS ME TO MY FOREFATHERS! I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT THIS MAZE!"

At which point, like... what can you do but just leave him there?

At least he's not in my area of specialization. The world would be too unkind if I had to deal with him in any professional capacity. I wish Clinical Psychology all their continued joy of him.

[hangesdarling]

before i let you go — h. zoë

PAIRING. Hange Zoë x fem!reader SYNOPSIS. You see your lover for one last time before being betrothed to a man you don't love. CONTENT. arranged marriage, implied abuse, unwanted pregnancy, cheating, angst, implied sex, pain, me putting unnecessary symbolisms WORD COUNT. 1.9k A/N. I miss Hange sm it hurts. I miss their love and now I know no one can give me the same feeling as they are. I regret thinking I'd be happy with someone else. ANYWAYS IM BACK. IDK HOW LONG BUT I MISS HANGE SM 😭 please bear with my shitty writing, i haven't written in three months 😭

Staring at your wedding dress, you should have felt excitement and anticipation of the comfort the future holds. Of being a wife and a mother. It was what the women around you taught you should become. However, the longer you stare at your wedding dress, the more your vision seems to blur. Suddenly, the floral walls of the new home where you sat seem to melt, pouring like wax into the polished floor. The birds sing outside in the warm morning as your world crumbles. In a fortnight, you will lose your last name, your life, and your most beloved. 

Your fingers clutched a nearly crumpled letter, the rim of your eyes hot with unspilled tears. Gently, you smoothened the letter in your hands, reading the words scrawled for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It read:

Let's meet again for one last time. — H

Hange. 

A whisper left your mouth as if saying it louder will draw attention. It was freeing to utter their name again. Hange. Your beloved. The one you'll be leaving behind in a fortnight. 

-

Marriage has always been a necessary insurance your family knew of. You grew up surrounded by mothers and wives telling you about security and eventualities alleviated by finding a man to marry. Usually, it will be someone from the Military Police, or a merchant. The more they tell their stories, the more their romance sounds like tragedy in your ears.  A tragedy that doesn't kill you but wears you away and diverts you from loneliness by having responsibilities. You're happy. You should be happy to be with a stable man, picked and approved by your parents. He will give you everything, money, and misery. Maybe you'll have enough time to learn how to love him when you don’t have to worry about money. 

However, all life has offered you so far is sadness and a growing human inside of you. It was too premature to stir yet its presence pervades your whole being, floating on the surface of your mind. The child belongs more to your fiancé’s than yours. After all, it was a product of trying to claim you, of him knowing that your heart belongs to someone else. He can do nothing about your heart so he planted something of his own inside you thus ensuring you'd stay. It hurts to think, it hurts to remember. You threw a shoal over your head and wished for any thought other than what you currently have. You just hoped that the brown of your child's eyes would be more like Hange's than its father's. 

-

You crossed over a green field overlooking a meadow littered with pink and oranges, sometimes, red flowers. The beauty of spring. The grass dancing around your ankles. It reminds you of the beautiful springs you spent here, something you need to leave behind too. 

Your footsteps grew light and slow as you reached Hange’s doorstep. Before you even knock, all you want to say is a thousand apologies for many things it'd take you ages to name. But the moment Hange saw you, there was no bitterness in their face but longing. They held you in a tight, wordless embrace. Their arms and hands spoke of how much they had longed to see you again. At that moment, you held them just as tight. You expected anger and bitterness from them. They've loved you for many years only for you to come one day at their doorstep pregnant and to be married to someone else. Their anger would have comforted you because that's what you think you deserve at every waking moment. And you felt more terrible knowing that they still care after all the pain you've caused them.

It wasn’t right.

"I'm sorry," you managed to say. No amount of apologies will take back all that hurt.

Hange didn't say a word and only pulled you inside where it was warmer. Your knees weakened, you wanted to kneel in front of them and apologize again. Your guilt was too overpowering that it didn't feel right for you to stand on the same level as they are. But as crippling as you felt, they still held you in their arms, you let them touch you the way they always used to. It felt selfish getting comforted by someone you hurt and yet you found yourself in their bed again. 

Your lips found theirs, your hands holding them like they'd slip away any second. A cry bubbled from your lips from how much hunger and yearning you felt for them the time you were apart. You wanted to erase all the traces of touch imprinted on your body that weren't from their hands. You longed for the time you were theirs and no one else's. How come it went to a time where only your love belongs to them? 

"You got here without trouble, right?" Hange asked as they pressed a kiss on your neck. You got what they meant and nodded. None of the people working for your fiancé followed or noticed you or so you hoped. 

"That's good," Hange tucked a stray hair from your face. The pain and longing shone through their eyes. "I miss you."

I'm sorry.

All you wanted was to apologize, the heavy burden in your heart remained knocking and present every time you looked at Hange. 

"I miss you too," you managed to say without crying. All the happiness that breathed life into your existence remained frozen in the past. It hurts to think that the traces of that life will vanish the moment you step out of their house. Why does your last happiness remain in a fleeting present? Gone in a blow of a wind? 

You cherished each touch, each kiss that made you shudder in the sheets. Only Hange loved you despite the way you want to crawl from your skin, to love even the parts of you you're too ashamed to acknowledge. 

Take me back. Take me back to what we used to be, you cried, your soul wailed. 

You held Hange close, blankets thrown over your bodies. You gazed around the room, capturing the place in your memory. Their rustic furniture, papers, and books were all over their desk, both your clothes were strewn on the floor, and a purple flower sat at their bedside table. You took Hange's glasses from beside the vase and gently wiped the lenses with the blanket. 

"You never clean your glasses," you said. 

"You always notice when they're dirty," Hange smiled. "And overclean them."

Hange noticed your smile, not loaded with grief for once. Just like the old times. 

"I wish I could always clean them for you," you muttered, checking both lenses again before putting it back near the vase. 

Hange chuckled, a smile crossing their lips as they paused. A contemplative, almost painful pause. Their momentary silence retrieved your attention. 

"Only if we can run away. Outside those walls and perhaps, beyond that. You can stare at flowers all day and I get to stare at you."

Their laugh sounded pained as if the happiness that should come with it got stuck in their throat. 

Hange shook their head.

"What am I even saying?" Their smile remained wistful. "You'd be a lot better back there. With a family, with kids. You told me once you want a kid. And a flower shop."

Their smile grew, remembering you tending to their garden. Or how they grew your favorite flowers but never admitted so. 

"You said you're opening a flower shop. How is it going?" Hange asked, the painful stirrings on their insides were masked by curiosity. 

You're finding an answer somewhere in your head. But the few words you found phased out of your mind the moment you look into their eyes. Their soft, warm brown eyes gazed at you with pure, pained love. You hid in their chest, trying to bottle the tears like you used to. But the heaves and sobs came and only grew louder the moment Hange held you to face them. 

"Y/N..." they muttered, wiping your tears the way they used to. They kissed you and rubbed your back to soothe you. That's all they can do despite their wishes to be more. They cannot stop time or slow it down nor they can shape both your circumstances. 

"I want to be with you," you sobbed. "I love you and your little experiments. I love picking flowers in a field on a Sunday morning while you read books or pick insects to show me." 

Your words gushed and spilled, the truth you wanted to deny yourself overcoming you. 

"I love it when we try to eat what's left of your burnt pancakes while overseeing your garden. I love the flowers you grow for me. I love the times we sneak out like teenagers so my parents won't see us," you sobbed uncontrollably, your tears spilling past your lips as you spoke. "I love waking up next to you in the morning. And when you come home safe to me after every expedition. I love that you still care for me even when we had fights, even when I complied with that marriage, even when I'll be married to someone else."

Hange listened, their hand gently stroking your hair. 

"And I hate that nothing good lasts forever because something at least should. You were my happiest infinity and yet I left you. What will I merit from a life of temporary comfort when my happiness resides with you?" 

Hange wanted to comfort you but didn't know the right words to appease the hurt housed deep inside you. You were still the same girl they loved, the girl who dreamed of a quiet life with them. 

"I'm sorry," you sobbed finally, uselessly wiping your tears. "I'm sorry you loved me."

"I don't regret that," Hange muttered with a kiss on your forehead. 

"But I do," you told them. "You’re better off with someone else.”

They sighed, enclosing you tighter in their arms. 

"I'm happy about what we had," they smiled. You can feel their voice right at your ear as you press your head against their chest. Something you've taken for granted for many years. "I know it feels miserable for us now. But it won't always be. That, at least, is comforting, isn't it? I'll be okay, knowing that you'll be happy eventually."

"I won't be," you cried. 

"Then come back to me when that time comes." Hange knew it was a bold thing to say. They can't visualize a place where you'd be happy together without someone or something trying to break it apart. But they had to try. If they can battle the uncertainty residing outside the walls of Eldia, maybe they can do the same for the relationship they hold dear. 

"I will," you answered. It was equally bold as their proclamation. You wonder if those promises will ever lose meaning. If coming back to your most beloved is even an option at all. Even temporarily, the hurt waned from your heart and was painted over by an irresolute hope. You pressed closer to their heart and said, "I'll see you again."

-

The sun filtered through the pink curtains, shining a warm hue against the sheets. You trimmed the flowers sitting by the window, the white petals complementing the purity of their surroundings along the floral patterns on the walls. You are in your new home. A place you should teach yourself how to love despite the affliction laced with every item. 

Your musings were cut short as you noticed a new paper on your desk. It was a fresh sheet folded in two, the embeddings faintly showing through the back. You didn’t need to open it to know who it came from. As you sit down to open the letter, you realize that the floral patterns on your walls are pink lilies of the valley. 

likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[elbiotipo]

Genuine question why can't NASA just build another Apollo? why bother designing a new spaceship when you already have one you know it works?

They can't *literally* build Apollo again because the tools and hardware for building Saturn V and such are long gone, they were replaced by the Shuttle during the 70s-80s. And that was supposed to be alright as the Shuttle was supposed to be next generation (though it ultimately failed at that). And then the Shuttle was supposed to be replaced by the Space Launch System or SLS which was supposed to be like, Apollo 2 (I used supposed a lot sorry)

The main thing about this is that the US congress by law requires using the SLS in all the Moon missions, even though it's a piece of shit rocket that sucks. There are many reasons why it sucks so much, but the main reason in my opinion is that the SLS and the Orion spacecraft are built by Boeing and Lockheed-Martin. And if those names haven't already raised alarm bells... well, to summarize everything, both Boeing and Lockheed-Martin are incredibly rich and powerful corporations contracted by the US government for everything, mostly "defense" (war) but also space.

So what do these corporations do? They bribe, eh, lobby the US congress so that NASA has to work with THEM and ONLY them, and they deliver subpar, costly, piece of shit products to keep sucking US state money, with the excuse that "space is hard", which it is, but they have no excuse for the expenses. And they're also competing with SpaceX, which Musk is bad on its own way, but it only furthers the corporate infighting.

And I mean these products are terrible and expensive. The cost of building and launching a SLS is ridiculous for something that the Soyuz has been doing since the 1970s. The whole "Gateway" flying circus is because the Orion capsule cannot go to the Moon by itself. I really need to stress that they built a Moon capsule that, unlike Apollo, CANNOT GO TO THE MOON. So they need to go through all this incredibly complex Rude Goldberg machine just to go to the Moon.

Many space-interested people in the US see this as an example of state bureaucracy and overspending, which is kind of true, but from my opinion, it only shows how the military-industrial complex and these war megacorporations has the US "civilian" government grabbed by the balls. Meanwhile, Trump's Space Force has no problem into getting good hardware and launches.

[queen-dahlia]

𝐀𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦

"𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿"

not proofread

Note: Translation is not 100% accurate. Expect grammatical errors.

// : alternate translation

The final dinner of the year finally came to a close.

The main character is a gluttonous prince.

The dinner party, which began in the kitchen in the morning with an extraordinary amount of food, was a success,

Before we even get to the main course, there's a disconcerting turn of events一

Gilbert: "I'm hungry."

Clavis: "Lord Gilbert, what were you doing a few seconds ago?"

Gilbert: "I was eating the food that the little bunny had cooked for me."

Clavis: "And?"

Gilbert: "I'm hungry."

Licht: "It's abnormal."

Clavis: "It must have been absorbed into another space, not the stomach. Next time I'll refer you to a good doctor."

Gilbert: "Thanks for your concern."

Gilbert: "Waiter, bring me more food."

Licht: "It's impossible."

Clavis: "Emma is not a superhuman. She's working hard to finish a dish for you."

Gilbert: "You don't have to elaborate that much, though."

Gilbert: "In general, it's a terrible miscalculation not to have the little bunny at the dinner party."

Clavis: "You have us instead."

Gilbert: "Do you really think you can take the place of the little bunny?"

Licht: "I'm... offended by the way you said that."

Clavis: "Well, well, well. I'm just the entertainment guy for when the guests are bored. You're up, Yves, Luke."

Yves: "We've been playing this for a while now!?"

Luke: "Don't you hear the violin and the harpsichord? Listen."

Gilbert: "Thank you for your wonderful performance, but I got bored."

Yves & Luke: "Can I go back now?" | "Can I go now?"

Clavis: "Wait a minute, boys, it's not fair to expect Emma to take on this beast by herself..."

Clavis: "Besides, I've already set up traps to prevent you from escaping from this room."

Clavis: "If that's okay with you, you can go back. Hahaha!"

Luke: "Screw you."

Clavis: "But I am at a loss. Lord Gilbert seems to want other pleasures."

Clavis: "I have no choice. I guess this is my moment to show off."

Gilbert: "Oh, yeah!"

Clavis: "Can you at least hear me out?"

Gilbert: "I've got a good idea."

Luke: "I don’t think there’s any proof that your good ideas were good things." **

Yves: "Lord Gilbert, where are you going?"

Gilbert: "Of course, I'll go to the little bunny."

══════════════════

Emma: "一So, what brings you all to the kitchen?"

Emma: "And as for Prince Gilbert, he had a knife and fork in his hand."

Licht: "I don't suppose you're going to... eat every last bit of the finished product?"

Gilbert: "Correct."

Licht: "That's gruesome." // "That's pungent." **

Gilbert: "If we eat here, the waiters won't have to carry the food, and you can watch the little bunny, right?"

Gilbert: "It's good for everyone."

Yves: "The pressure on Emma is not half as great as it should be..."

Gilbert: "I'm surprised so many of them haven't been brought in yet."

Emma: "It's not ready yet! All the seasoning and decorations are incomplete一"

Gilbert: "Well, I'll have some."

Emma: "Aaaahh!? Seriously, Prince Gilbert, don't eat it!"

Clavis: "It's not good. If the Appetite Monster comes into its own, all the food and ingredients in this place will be lost."

Emma: "Please, please stop!"

Licht: "I get it."

Yves: "Whoaaaaah! Licht, don't pull out your sword! Your big brother won't allow you to stop him like that!"

Luke: "Then I'll hit him一"

Yves: "Are you crazy? We're dealing with a prince of a great nation! There's going to be a war!"

Clavis: "Well, then, I guess my一"

Emma: "Please don't do that!"

Clavis: "… Why can't people just let me say it all?"

Gilbert: "Mmm... it's delicious."

Emma: "Prince Gilbert... that's not… in good taste."

Emma: "... I've made it this far, but it's terrible."

Yves: "Emma... I know how you feel. The pain of having a delicious meal ruined in the process..."

Yves: "I get screwed over by Jin and Leon from time to time, so I know what it's like."

Licht: "… That's right."

Luke: "To see Emma so devastated and you keep eating, that's not human behavior."

Clavis: "He's a monster."

Luke: "… All right, Clavis, Licht. Gather all the ingredients in the kitchen."

Licht: "Why?"

Luke: "While you stall for time with the ingredients, Yves and I will help Emma finish up."

Luke: "Otherwise, Emma will go through the year with a lot of regret."

Emma: "Luke…"

Yves: "I agree. It's too early to give up!"

Licht: "Understood. Let’s do it, Clavis."

Clavis: "I agree. We need to get rid of the monster and bring in a happy new year for everyone."

Luke: "Hey, I brought you some food."

Luke: "You should be thankful that I put a bear and honey on the base that Emma was building." // "You should be grateful that I put the bear and the honeycomb on the foundation that Emma was building."

Gilbert: "Yes, yes, thank you."

Clavis: "Phew, I got one for you too."

Yves: "Hey, isn't Clavis in charge of the ingredients?"

Clavis: "I'm not going to be able to do everything I'm capable of if I'm just carrying food."

Clavis: "So I decided to switch to helping Emma in the middle of the process."

Licht: "… Unnecessary." **

Clavis: "Look at this adorable tiger, Emma was working on it, and I finished it?" // "Look at this adorable tiger! I finished what Emma was partially working on?"

Emma: "Ah! When did you...?"

Yves: "Is there something hanging out of that tiger's mouth?"

Clavis: "It's a delicious sauce."

Licht: "What's that stuck in its head?"

Clavis: "It's just a decoration."

Licht: "… With a high murderous intent…"

Gilbert: "Leave it for me, I'll eat it later."

Yves: "… I honestly respect Lord Gilbert for not being intimidated by the food arranged by Clavis."

Gilbert: "And by the way, little bunny, you really are a genius."

Gilbert: "The food here is good, and it's cute."

Gilbert: "Hey, how would you like to be my personal chef? I'll give you a great deal at Obsidian."

Emma: "I am honored, but I must decline."

Gilbert: "Too bad."

Gilbert: "It looks like I failed to recruit you, so let's have this little rabbit here heal me."

Emma: "Eh."

Gilbert: "Sugar Candy Story."

Luke: "It's confusing."

Gilbert: "Hehe… This little rabbit looks delicious."

Gilbert: "I'll taste every bit of it, chew it up so it won't go anywhere, and keep it in my stomach to cherish for a long time一"

Luke: "… Don't say anything meaningful. Emma's pulling back." // "… Don't say anything meaningful. I think Emma is the one who pulled it off."

Emma: "I'm not pulling away. It just hurts to imagine…"

Clavis: "Lord Gilbert, this tiger cake is delicious, too. Come on, it's time for cannibalism."

the cake with spicy sauce

Yves: "… Clavis wants to feed you whatever he wants."

Licht: "I don't care if Lord Gilbert eats it."

Gilbert: "By the way, I like it spicy and sweet."

Clavis: "What…"

Gilbert: "I'll taste it for you."

Emma: "Ah!"

Luke: "What's up?"

Emma: "Now... Now all the dishes are done!"

Luke: "Oh, you did great, Emma."

Licht: "Somehow we managed to stop the monster."

Yves: "Licht, you're dealing with a guest of honor, right?"

Clavis: "Then we'll carry it out of the kitchen."

Gilbert: "Well, I don't mind if I stay."

Luke: "It's only natural that you respect the food Emma made."

Luke: "It's not something you can eat in the kitchen."

Luke: "You move, or I'll carry you. Or do you want me to carry you?"

Gilbert: "… I used to be the one carrying you."

Luke: "Shut up." // "It’s so noisy."

Gilbert: "Luke has a point. Fine, I'll take you back to the venue."

Emma: "… Hehe."

Yves: "What's wrong?"

Emma: "I thought it would be more fun to do the preparation together than to do it alone."

Clavis: "Haha, of course. Good thing you sent me a distress signal early, huh?"

Emma: "That's not the only thing."

Clavis: "Oops, that smile is so sweet..."

Gilbert: "If the little bunny laughed like that, then I guess I was right to get into the kitchen." // "If the little bunny smiled, then I made the right decision to get into the kitchen."

Luke: "… You're just talking about consequences, aren't you?"

Licht: "The dinner is just the beginning."

Emma: "I agree."

Emma: "Let's end this year with a smile!"

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 7129

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

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

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

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

12. Pôt de crème

Mary

That day really winds up feeling like the epitome of a terrible horrible, no good, very bad fucking day for Mary, and it starts early. Leaving the apartment for work after the massage cocktease from Hell is odd.

She’s left feeling happy to have helped, but also hurt, disappointed, and mad at herself, of all things. That was the perfect opportunity for her to make a move and finally force those two to tell her that they’re not interested! (Though a small and pitifully thirsty part of her brain still exists in the fantasy land where they’d take her up on it.) But she’d chickened out and kept it strictly platonic. Ugh. Lame.

She manages not to think about it for a while, as she gets into the rhythm of her day at the bakery. She still can’t shake the cloud of anxiety and irritability looming over her, though. The good old days of any lasting effects from Bucky’s drops are gone, and instead she’s left to slowly percolate a bad mood as she clocks in and figures out the best order to get her projects done for that day.

Dennis is the manager on schedule, which sucks because Mary’s never liked him, but he’s in the office for the most part, since he’s a stuck up do-nothing, and she's able to pretend that she’s alone. 

No matter though. She can’t focus on anything, feels overly emotional, and almost breaks out in tears when she drops a tray of cupcakes on the floor. She manages to hold it together as she cleans up the mess, and moves onto the next task. Her list for the day now feels miserably long, and she doesn’t even enjoy decorating the base-iced babycakes that are waiting for her from yesterday. She fucks up the writing on one of them and loses her shit over something that is not worth losing her shit over. That’s the stupid thing that finally pushes her to tears, and she tosses her piping bag angrily onto the counter, what the fucking herself and feeling like she’s going crazy. 

Like baseball, there’s no crying in kitchens: That’s what the walk-in’s for. So, she hides back by the dairy products until she’s able to pull herself together. She comes out shivering, not crying, and in a horrible mood. 

Buttercream is next, so she gets the sugar boiling and the egg whites whisking in the forty quart. She tries to talk herself up in her head as she goes through motions of streaming in the sugar and then scaling the butter she’ll add to it once it’s whipped cool. “You’re not bad at your job,” she mumbles to herself, trying to push the threat of tears away with positive thoughts. “You’re not.”

Jesus fuck, why is she feeling like this? Nothing that bad has even happened! So she dropped some fucking cupcakes, so what? It happens. She checks her phone to see if she’s about to get her period, but that’s not it. Her focus is shit, so of course she eventually goes back to thinking about Bucky and Steve. 

Today is Bucky’s day off. Mary thinks about him being in pain that morning and how his movements had been crippled by pain. … She thinks about his broad, muscled back under her hands, his warm skin, the moans of relief he’d given whenever she worked out a knot. Poor guy. Even though she hates to think of enduring it again, she has to admit to herself that she does care about Bucky, and she would endure it if he needed her help. Hell, if it’s something that’ll help him in the long run, she’ll have to do at least one or two more massage sessions to teach Steve the ropes so he can help his husband in her absence.

Bucky doesn’t want her to do it. She pouts about that, but scolds herself as soon as she realizes she’s doing so. Don’t be lame over guys who don’t want you. So Bucky and Steve just want to be gay together in peace, so what? Why is she losing her shit over the tiniest rejection like this?!

She ruminates on it while she’s at the stove stirring a massive batch of pôt de crème custard, and it occurs to her that the part she’s actually most upset about isn’t their platonic feelings for her: it’s her own lack of bravery and straightforwardness with Bucky and Steve, and how she’s become such a pathetic wallflower over the past few months. 

Maybe if she’d flat out asked about a romantic relationship from the beginning, she could’ve gotten the rejection out of the way and been putting herself out there to meet someone new by now. She might’ve met a Dom at one of the Center’s socials, or at least could’ve been swiping the apps and going on dates. Getting laid.

But instead suddenly she’s turned into a shy girl (obnoxious). She hasn’t been a virgin since college, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t sleeping with whoever she could get her hands on, back before Steve and Bucky 'adopted' her. She’d been so good at it back then, saying what she meant and going for what she wanted, dragging at least one new guy back to her place to fuck every other week. Why can’t she just do something now? 

Frowning, she decides that she will do something over it. The ideal would be to move back to her own place, but she can’t with the custody order in place and Dr. Linda on Bucky’s side. Gritting her teeth, she figures she’ll do the next best thing: she’ll start getting laid again. She’ll go out and meet people. She’ll go out straight after work each day. Unless he wants to physically tie her up and keep her prisoner in the apartment, Bucky can’t stop it. 

She’s just got to work up the nerve to break his rules like that. Nerve which, in her current mood, seems quite out of reach. She sighs and reaches up to grab the Grand Marnier off the shelf for the pôt de crème. All she feels like doing now is going back to the apartment and crawling into bed, to be honest. She wonders if this is what actual clinical depression feels like. Maybe. Maybe worse. Sarcastically, she thinks that a shot or three of alcohol would certainly help, and then she pauses with her hand on the bottle as she’s about to pour it into the custard. Oh. 

She’s not drinking anymore. 

Fuck. That’s it. She’s hardly ever had sex sober in her life. Barely ever even flirted without some liquid courage in her system. That’s what’s changed. She always used pick up guys in bars, or at other places where everybody had a drink in their hand. And at home at her apartment, whenever the creeping buildup of anxiety and irritability would get to be too much, a couple vodka sprites were what made her feel better. She pauses in her stirring. Thinking about it now is making her almost physically yearn for a stiff one. 

She looks down at the bottle in her hand, shame coloring her cheeks as soon as she has the thought. Even at her worst, Mary never drank on the job. She grimaces at herself and hurriedly sets the bottle back on the shelf before temptation can win out, then turns back to the stove.

“Fuck!” she hisses, scrambling to turn off the burner when she’s met with the sight of lumpy pôt de crème. She whisks it frantically to try and stop it, but it’s too far gone: The eggs in the custard have curdled. She throws her head back and groans. “God dammit!”

She makes a last ditch effort to save it by dumping the lumpy custard into a Cambro, tossing in a few ice cubes, and furiously burr-mixing it with the immersion blender, but it’s no use. She’s irrevocably ruined a massive batch of dessert (with the expensive liqueur already added in it, to boot) because she wasn’t paying attention. Growling, she dumps it all in the trash bin before Dennis can happen to walk by and see, then stomps back to the fridge to grab ingredients to rescale the recipe.

She lines up sheet trays of paper dessert cups on her workstation table for decanting … and takes one cup with her over to the stove while she stands there and cooks the second batch of pôt de crème.

It’s when she’s stirring and pouring that second measure of liqueur into the pot that she gives into impulse and pours a shot’s worth of the stuff into the extra paper baking cup—that she now realizes she brought over for this express purpose in the first place. She gives the empty kitchen a furtive glance, and tosses it back. “Ugh.” 

Orange flavored liqueur? Really Mary?

She hears the rebuke in Bucky’s voice in her head, which is annoying and drives her to repeat the action once she’s drank the first. She tosses back a second. Gross gross gross. She checks the label on the bottle: 40% ABV. Good. She puts the bottle back on the shelf, pissed about feeling so uncomfortable in her skin that she stubbornly refuses to feel guilty over her actions, and finishes cooking the custard to a smooth nappé this time. Perfect. 

She pours the custard over the white chocolate and lets it melt. She burr mixes it, strains it. Ready to go.

Later maybe she’ll feel bad about it, but as she grabs the sauce gun and begins the tedious process of dispensing the pôt de crème into the cups, that warm, pleasant feeling of a buzz starts to creep up on her, and she finds herself in a better mood before long. Things seem brighter, and she finally feels like she can breathe. She’s able to think about Bucky and Steve without feeling like a piece of dirt, and even laughs about the stupid massage episode. Two shots of liqueur on an empty stomach makes that seem like not such a big deal, and she simply decides that she won’t volunteer for massage duty anymore, because obviously it was a mistake. She’d liked helping Bucky to feel better when he was hurting, but not enough to make up for having to endure the very non-platonic swooping in her belly she’d gotten from having her hands all over his naked back. Fuck, is he ever hot. Both of them are. They’re bodies are just, guh. 

She doesn’t need that frustration in her life.

She’s got a moderate buzz by the time she finishes her next project, and she cheerfully bops onto her next task. 

It’s such a relief, not having that heavy feeling of anxiousness and general uncomfortability weighing down on her. Jeez, she hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten. She forgot how much a few drinks helped. She gets giddy and chases that feeling, quickly sneaking another quick shot (this time of the rum they use on the rum buns, though, because it really was gross that she drank that liqueur straight—blecgh). What’s one more quick drink in between batches of cakes going in and out of the oven, after all?

… And then just once more, after she’s added the last chunk of the butter into the whipping forty quart. By the time she’s got everything set out to basic-build the next bunch of babycakes, she’s in a great mood. It’s almost as good as the subspace had been, back in the beginning with Bucky. She hums songs under her breath and moves around the kitchen assembling and icing the cute little five inch cakes that are her specialty.

It’s her pet project, something she’d suggested to Mr. Flaherty, the bakery’s owner. Not only are they friggin’ adorable, they’re easy to bang out a bunch of them all at once, small enough to cost pennies to make, and big enough and cute enough that people are willing to pay way more than the cakes are actually worth. Mary knows for a fact that they have the highest profit margin of any item in the bakery. She’s privately very proud that Mr. Flaherty had listened to her idea and decided it was something they would offer on the regular menu. Dennis had underplayed it—like the jealous killjoy he is. 

Mary celebrates her good mood with another teeny sip of booze and then spends extra effort on smooth-icing in all the best pastel colors, thinking that today is a great day and can only get better from here.

Wrongo bongo.

“What the heck!”

“Oh, shit,” Mary hisses, running into the back when she smells burning bread and hears her manager’s voice calling out. Sure enough, Dennis is there, oven mitts in hand, angrily sliding a tray of blackened croissants onto the speed rack, and going back to the oven to pull out another. There are six trays of ruined croissants, and Mary grimaces “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

Dennis ignores her until he’s finished pulling out all the wasted product, and when he’s done, he lays her out. “This isn’t fucking Panera Bread,” he tells her angrily. “We’re a mom and pop bakery. Profit margins are slimmer than slim!”

Mary cringes. “I know, I know, I’m sor—”

“How much money did you just cost us?” Dennis demands, hands on his hips. “Huh? Tell me. I want you to stand there and think about it and tell me how much.”

Mary stares for a second, then realizes that he’s dead serious. Humiliated, she licks her lips and does the math: 6 trays of 10 = 60 croissants, 60 x $4 per ganache-stuffed croissant, minus about $30 ingredients cost. It takes her longer than it normally would, since she’s been drinking, but when she’s worked it out she winces and looks down in shame. “I dunno … A little over two hundred, I guess.”

Dennis flails his hand holding the oven mitts. “We can’t afford to have you ruining hundreds of dollars of profit, Mary. Get it together.”

She frowns, indignant. “I was up front helping a customer,” she defends. 

“That’s what the oven timer is for.”

“I know that. I just forgot to—”

“You’re forgetting a lot of things lately.” He gestures angrily at the trays of blackened croissants. “I’ve tried to help you. I gave you time off to get your shit together when your boyfriend came in and told me about your mental condition.”

Mary grits her teeth. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Dom, dungeon master, whatever,” he says nastily. “I don’t know what you people get up to. But I’ve given you a lot of chances cause you’re apparently dealing with some shit. I can’t keep doing that forever if you keep costing this place money.”

Mary glares and steps up closer, getting in his face. “Maybe if you actually hired someone for front of house on Tuesdays, then I could actually focus back here!”

Dennis’ expression changes suddenly. He narrows his eyes at her and leans in closer. “What’s that?” he says, deathly quiet.

Mary huffs. “I said, you need to hire more—”

“You smell like alcohol.”

Everything comes to a stop as his words hit her like a bucket of ice water. Oh, fuck. She takes a step back, shaking her head. “What?” She scowls like that’s absurd, about to say something to deny it, but the words die on her lips when she sees the way Dennis is looking at her. He knows. Mary feels sick.

Dennis’ expression darkens further. “Are you drinking on the job, Mary?”

“No!” (what’s she supposed to do, tell the truth?)

“I don’t believe you.” He squares his jaw. “I’m calling Mr. Flaherty in.”

“What?!” 

“Two hundred dollars of wasted product? Drinking on the job?” He’s already walking over to the wall phone and picking it up. When he looks back in Mary’s direction, there’s a gleam in his eyes. Fucker never did like her. “I told him I thought you had a drinking problem, and now I have proof.”

“You don’t have shit!” Mary cries. She’s actually panicking though, as she watches him dial the number to call the bakery’s owner. 

“I have the security cameras,” he says, looking vindictively pleased. “We’ll check them. You’re gonna be out of a job.” 

Mary stands there and watches in horrified disbelief as Dennis calls Mr. Flaherty and tells him that he needs to have a word with him in person that afternoon about “something serious.” He doesn’t give details, and when the call ends and he hangs up the phone, he shoots Mary a smug look. “I’ll work the register so that you can finish your shift back here and not make any more stupid mistakes.” 

Mary scoffs, panicked and angry and sick to her stomach with what’s happening. “No way! Forget it!” She hurries to untie her apron and yank it off. “I’m not gonna stick around here for you to lie and get me fired. I quit!” She tosses the apron to the floor and stalks back to grab her purse from the office, too panicked to think straight. She cannot stay there and see poor old Mr. Flaherty watch video evidence of her drinking on the job. He’s always been so nice to her, and now she’s betrayed him and fucked everything up. She’s just ruined the only job she’s ever liked. 

Dennis is getting less and less angry and more gleeful about it. “Bye bye, Hot-Mess Mary,” he sneers. “Don’t bother coming back. We’ll mail you your last paycheck. Have a nice life.”

“Fuck you, Dennis!” she yells, though her voice comes out choked with emotion. She shoulders her purse and whirls around before there’s any chance of him seeing her tearing up. She hurries for the back door that leads out to the alleyway. It's heavy and metal, and she shoulders it open with a grunt, stepping out. “Jealous prick,” she says, only to hear him laugh meanly and call out from inside,

“Jealous? Of you? An alcoholic pervert?”

The heavy back door slams shut before she can answer, and there’s no handle on the outside. It takes approximately two point five seconds for her to burst out crying.

Steve

“Fuck, Honey, ugh.”

Steve digs his fingers into the meat of Bucky’s ass and shuffles closer on his knees. On the couch (whose cushions have since been put back into place), Bucky parts his legs even farther and Steve takes him in deeper. His other hand keeps nudging the toy that’s buried in his husband’s ass—the glass p-spot toy, because unlike Steve, Bucky loves firmness but hates vibrations up there. Steve’s been gently fucking him with it, nudging it against his prostate again and again, having found the perfect angle. Every grunt and moan that he gets out of Bucky has his own cock throbbing in his underwear, but he isn’t touching himself, is devoting every ounce of his attention to resolving the “problem” that Mary’s massage left Bucky with. 

“You know,” Bucky says, voice a little breathy as he speaks between groans. “I’m never gonna—nnh. Never gonna look at this couch again without thinking of her oily hands sliding all over my back."

Steve hums in agreement, the sound reverberating around Bucky’s cock and pulling another hiss from him. Steve pops off to glance upwards. “Me too,” he says, and they share a look of heated yearning, before he shakes it off and sinks his mouth back down on Bucky’s throbbing length.

He’s been dragging it out, having fun with it. But now it’s gotten sloppy and wet, and Steve’s jaw aches, and he really wants to make Bucky come so he can finally get a hand around himself. He hums around Bucky’s cock once more while he still can, then takes him all the way to the hilt, nose pressing into his pubes and throat spasming around the head.

“Oh! shit …” Bucky’s fingers dig sharply into Steve's scalp. His hips stutter up of their own accord, making Steve choke a little, but he soldiers on. Bucky makes a helpless little sound that is very close to a whimper, and which has Steve’s belly pulling tight with arousal. “Close, Baby. So close, fuck …”

Steve purposefully chokes himself, letting it hit the back of his throat again and again, swallowing compulsively. It gets him what he wants, which is for this blowjob to be over.

Above him, Bucky slumps further on the cushions and groans long and low, the tortured moan letting Steve know that he’s cresting that edge. He pulls back to suck hard on the head, abandoning the toy to the clenching of Bucky's ass so he can stroke him through it. He hums happily when he feels the pulse of Bucky’s cock on his tongue, the hot spurts of cum, the clenching of thighs muscle beneath his hands. Fuck, it’s sexy. 

Having been with the man for so long, Steve knows exactly when to ease off. He gentles his touch and stops sucking. He waits with Bucky’s softening cock in his mouth, not pulling off until the hands that were gripping him desperately a moment ago smooth gently through his hair in gratitude. Steve pulls off, keeps his mouth closed, doesn’t swallow. Bucky’s flushed and wet cock falls onto his belly, gorgeously swollen and spent. Steve’s staring at it covetously when Bucky gives a long, shaky exhale from above, tapering off in a satisfied groan. “Stevie,” he sighs happily. “Mmhh. Fuck. C’mere.” 

He pulls Steve up onto the couch, not satisfied until he’s got him in his lap. Steve straddles him and smiles with his mouth still closed. “Good boy,” Bucky whispers, reaching up to gently cup the front of his neck. His eyes are heavy lidded but still heated as he strokes his thumb over Steve’s windpipe. He loves to watch Steve swallow his cum, and that’s why Steve hasn’t yet, is waiting for his signal. He’s very good at making a show of it: dragging it out, eye contact, showing the load on his tongue if Bucky wants, swallowing slowly and obviously; really turning it into an act of obedience for his husband.

He’s surprised when Bucky doesn’t tell him to swallow. “Hold it,” he says instead, confusing Steve. Bucky grins devilishly and reaches down between their bodies. He returns with the glass toy in hand and holds it up. “Get it wet," he purrs.

And Steve’s entire body goes stiff as he re-remembers that he’s married to the filthiest man on the fucking planet.

Steve must be filthy too, though, because a massive wave of arousal sweeps through him as Bucky holds up the toy with a dirty smirk and commands him to wet it up—with his own cum. Steve almost feels lightheaded from how all the blood rushes to his cock and away from his brain. He groans through his mouthful of cum, and Bucky’s lips curl. “You heard me. Do it.”

He looks down and aims, letting his mouthful of cum slide out onto the tip of the glass toy that was buried in Bucky’s ass not ten seconds ago. It’s obscene, filthy, and that only makes his belly swirl that much harder as Bucky uses his flesh fingertips to spread the cum around lazily, coating the clear glass with his own sticky cum. “Good,” he praises, still smirking at Steve through half lidded eyes. “Now, put it in.” 

Steve groans and takes the toy from him. They haven’t done prep, but it’s a small, slim toy, and he knows it’ll slide in easily with the help of his husband’s own jizz slicking the way. Jesus Christ. He starts to move, intending to take his underwear off, but Bucky stops him with an amused shake of the head.

“Uh uh. Just pull ‘em aside and put it in. Keep your briefs on.”

“Fuck.” He listens, reaching back to pull his underwear to the side and press the head of the toy to his rim. He works it inside, eyelids fluttering when it pops past the muscle and glides in smoothly. “Oh,” he sighs, letting his underwear snap back and shifting his hips to feel the stretch against his rim, the heavy curve of it settling into place against his prostate. “Fuck.” He starts rocking his hips in tiny motions to work it inside him, barely-there sounds of pleasure escaping him each time it does. “Ooh, Buck,” he breathes. He doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until Bucky startles him with a kiss, growling and tugging him in close by the back of the neck. “Mmph!”

Their lips clash in a harsh, demanding kiss, Bucky taking possession of it and gripping the back of his neck hard to keep him still. Steve pants and whines and takes it, hips juddering forward to grind his aching dick against Bucky’s stomach. Each dominating swipe of Bucky’s tongue into his mouth makes him ache for more. “Buck,” he pants, right against Bucky's lips, where he's shamelessly kissing his messy mouth. “Baby, oh, please?”

“Yeah?” His hand cups Steve from over his underwear, squeezing the line of his erection. “You’re so fucking amazing, you know that?” he husks, dipping under the waistband to curl his fingers around him. “Make me feel so good, fuck, I love you.”

Steve moans and rests his forehead on Bucky's naked shoulder, looking down to watch. He whines when he sees that it’s the metal hand—which he already knew by feel, but the sight of it is a whole other level of hot. Steve thinks of it like a knife kink, or a gun kink: seeing something so steely and dangerous that close to him, wrapped around and working him, giving him pleasure. The sight of all that black and gold metal on his cock makes his belly clamp down hard in need. “Oh fuck, ” he breathes. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah, Sweetheart.” Bucky kisses his ear and breathes hotly against him as he pumps and twists his hand, going tight just the way Steve likes. It’s messy from the precum that Steve’s dick keeps blurting out, and he whimpers at the soft, wet sounds it begins making. “I know,” Bucky whispers. “You get so worked up. I love that. Big fat cock n’ balls, but you wet up for me just like a girl, dontcha' Sweetheart? Bet you started right down there on your knees, too. Hard and leaking just from sucking me off, making a mess in your panties.” Steve groans in embarrassment and Bucky snickers. “Aw, don’t try to deny it. I saw that boner when you crawled on up here. Saw the wet spot on those tighty-whities, too.” Playfully, he snaps the elastic band of Steve’s underwear against his hip. “You get off on it. Pretty little cocksucker.”

Steve humps into his fist, which between how slick it is and how tightly Bucky’s gripping him, feels fucking amazing. “Nnuhh,” he moans, “I get off on you. You were so—fuck, mmph—so hard when she left. I f-felt bad for you.”

Bucky growls and strokes faster. “Don’t be patronizing, baby. I saw the state she left you in. At least I had the excuse of getting rubbed down.” He snickers lowly and presses another kiss to Steve's ear. “She wasn’t even touching you.”

“Fuck,” Steve says tightly, as he recalls the image of Mary sitting on the bed with Bucky, rubbing his naked back with her oiled hands—Her tiny oiled hands, that would look so good on their cocks. Fuck, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast. He pants, trying to get words out. “I—nuhh, oh. I wanted to—mmm …”

Bucky bites his earlobe. “Wanted to what? Tell me.”

“Wanted to watch her give you a happy ending,” he grunts. “Tell you to turn over n’ watch her jerk you off.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, voice dark and interested. “Mm. You miss women.” Steve whines and nods in lieu of an answer. “Well maybe we’ll get a third sometime. A special treat. Only this time we'll get a girl, take turns fucking her. Maybe I’ll even have her fuck you with a strap-on.” Steve moans and kisses him dirtily, and Bucky reciprocates, hand leaving Steve’s cock so he can hold his jaw with both hands. 

Steve whimpers and his hips keep moving, chasing the friction that isn’t there anymore. “Buck,” he breaks off from the kiss to beg. “Please. Please. I need to cum.”

Bucky smiles and takes pity on him, but he switches up his hands, using the flesh one on Steve’s cock so that he can squeeze even more, really wringing up hard and thumbing under the head on every stroke. Steve sobs and sits back, bracing on Bucky’s shoulders and watching himself fuck into clench of his fist. “Yeah,” he moans. “Oh, God. Fuck yeah, just like that.”

“How’s that toy feel?” Bucky reaches his other hand underneath and taps against the glass toy’s base a few times— ‘tap, tap, tap,’ —humming in satisfaction when Steve cries out and ruts desperately into his fist. “Ooh,” he goads. “It feels that good, huh?” Tap, tap, tap. “It that gonna make you cum?”

“Nnnh.” Steve nods tightly, hips working hard. “Yeah, oh. Yeah. M’gonna. Ohgn…”” 

His balls draw up tight and his cock jerks when Bucky takes hold of the toy’s base and starts slowly pulling it out. That feeling against his rim is what does it, pushing him over the edge and making the pleasure coalesce and snap.

He cries out sharply as he shoots, his body straining and hips pulsing, ribbons of white cum striping over Bucky’s naked stomach, one after another.

“Fuck, Honey. So beautiful. Fuck that’s a lot. Fuck. Lookit’ you, big boy.”

His cooing praise drags it out longer, and by the time Steve’s dick is spent and softening again, he’s collapsed forward against Bucky, mess of cum between them be damned. He rests his head on his shoulder and hugs him while he recovers. “Fuck,”  pants, closing his eyes and enjoying the sheer relief of it all. “That was good. I needed that.”

Bucky hums and rubs his back. “Me too.”

When they finally peel themselves off each other, they’re faced with two wet, spent dicks, and the mess of cum that did not magically disappear just because Steve wanted it to. He sighs and climbs off the couch.

“Shower,” Bucky decides, and goes into the bathroom with Steve following behind. He starts the water running and shucks his joggers that he'd only just pulled back up. “Feel like we were just doin’ this,” he complains.

“That’s cause we were.” Steve pads over and stands against him, leaning in, chest to chest.

Bucky leans against the wall and wraps his arms around Steve’s lower back while they wait for the water to warm up. “Do you really want a threesome?” he asks. “Like we used to do?" 

Steve sighs and presses his forehead into Bucky’s chest. His first inclination is to say yes. They used to sleep with men, have threesomes a few times a year, for fun. They’d only stopped because they’d mutually fallen into contentment with married life. But Steve realizes it’s the way Bucky’s framed it: does he want to have threesomes again. With a girl. And the answer is no. Steve doesn’t want to have 'a threesome' anymore, with 'a girl', or 'a guy'. He doesn’t want anything casual. He says as much, and groans into Bucky’s skin. “I just want her,” he says. “I want it to be serious, and I want it with her.”

Bucky strokes his back, not saying anything for a long minute. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. “Me too.” 

Steve makes a mournful sound in his throat. “Can’t we try? Maybe ask her out on a date? She might come around if she doesn’t feel like we’re just trying to jump her bones straight away, y’know? We’ve never really had that time with her. It went straight from ‘how do you do’ to moving her in here with us.” Bucky’s chest rises and falls with a deep inhale, and his hands have stopped moving on Steve’s back, which is how Steve knows he's really thinking about it. “Buck?” he tries. “C’mon. Let’s just give it a shot. Linda said she needs sex anyways, and I know you don’t like the idea of her with another man.”

Against him, bucky growls grumpily.

“Just one more try,” Steve pleads. “Let’s just tell her upfront we have feelings for her and that we’d like to court her.”

Bucky snorts. "'Court’?”

Steve whaps him and pulls his head back. “You know what I mean. Nice stuff. Take her out, buy her flowers.” 

“I know what you mean.”

They stare in each other's eyes as Steve reaches over to feel the shower water. It's warm. “It’ll be her choice," he says. "We won’t be bossy.”

“Kind of hard not to be bossy when she thrives on that.”

Steve gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “Yeah I know what you mean.” He pulls the curtain and goes to step into the shower, but Steve stops him from behind with a hand on his arm—his left one. “And this,” he says, looking at him with authority. “Let me take this off. And you keep it it off around the house like you used to do.” He watches the brief reluctance that plays out on Bucky’s face, but is relieved when his husband doesn’t turn it into a fight. “Thank you, babe,” he says, taking the arm off and setting it out on their bed before returning to the bathroom. Bucky’s in the shower, so he steps in and stands with him under the spray. He wraps his arms around Bucky from behind, letting his left hand drag up over his stomach and chest, up to the anchor site where it meets his pec. “You can be a good Dom without it, you know,” he murmurs. 

“... I know. It was silly.”

He kisses Bucky’s shoulder. “Not silly. I love you.” In his arms, Bucky’s body bleeds all its tension and he lets a little bit of his weight come back through Steve, who kisses his neck again. “Tonight?” he asks, knowing that Bucky will know what he means. 

Bucky nods. “Tonight.”

Bucky

“A bar?!”

"Yeah. Leave me alone."

Bucky stares helplessly as Mary kicks off her shoes and walks (stumbles, is more like it) through the apartment and back towards her bedroom. The conversation they've just had was short and completely non-productive, other than that it's got Bucky feeling like he's on the verge of blowing up. “Mare, stop! Come back here.”

She throws him the finger over her shoulder and pushes into her bedroom, shutting the door harshly behind her. Bucky growls and starts for the hallway, but Steve stops him with a hand to his shoulder, pulling him back. “Hang on, Babe.”

“She’s drunk!” Bucky hisses, turning furious eyes to Steve. “Been missing for hours and now this?! How did she even get it?”

“I know, I know.”

Bucky snarls, mad at Steve for being so fucking calm. “Did you give her her ID back?!”

“No! Don’t be stupid, babe.”

His eyes cut over, sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “She’s thirty Hon. I’m sure there are plenty of bartenders who’d serve her without checking.”

“Well that’s just, just …” Bucky sputters, struggling to find the words. “There have to be consequences!” He starts for the hall again but Steve grabs him and pulls him back and into a restraining hug. Bucky kind of wants to hit him. “Steve!”

“Shh,” Steve says. “Sh sh, just hang on a second. Take a deep breath.” He holds him tightly, rubbing his back and nosing at his neck, and Bucky realizes that Steve is employing some of the things he’s learned at the CDP, trying to calm him down.

He blinks, noticing how hot his face feels, how fast his pulse is thrumming underneath his skin. He exhales shakily, feeling bad. “Fuck. I'm ..."

"Yeah."

"Sorry.” 

“S’okay,” Steve whispers. “Maybe today’s not the best day, after all.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over in the direction of the kitchen table. “Better get rid of those, then,” he grunts, referring to the flowers Steve had picked up at the bodega for Mary.

“I will. And we’ll figure this out, find out what happened, and talk to her another day, okay? We'll get new flowers.” 

“No, not okay,” Bucky insists, his anxiety ratcheting up again as he thinks of the state Mary just came home in. “We need to deal with her.” 

Steve pulls back and meets his eyes, and Bucky feels like an asshole all over again. “What do you need?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky grits his teeth. To spank the ever loving shit outta that girl, he thinks but doesn’t say. He knows better than that, even on the verge of an episode, he can tell that he’s not being logical. He closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths, pulls away from Steve because he’s embarrassed. “Nothin’.”

“Hey, it’s okay to need—”

“It’s not,” Bucky snaps, walking over to the couch and dumping himself onto it. He feels kind of sick—likely his blood pressure making him nauseous. “How am I supposed to be a good Dom for her when I can’t even keep myself in check? Christ.” He shoves his face into his hand. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

Steve takes a minute, and when he approaches Bucky it’s with a gentle, careful expression that Bucky hates. “Babe, you know that makes no sense, right?” Bucky just grunts and Steve says, “That's like a diabetic saying they should have better willpower to control their insulin levels.”

Bucky glares at him for the trite comparison, wants to snap at his husband to stop quoting CDP literature at him. But that’d be nasty, and he bites his tongue. “No,” he grunts.

“You got told by Linda that you’re not giving her enough, not doing enough to meet her needs, and it’s been days since you really went up. You think I can't see that her drops aren't doing it for you now? You're too in tune with her. You both need more. And I should’ve seen this coming.” Steve sinks down to the carpet in front of him and kneels there reaching to rub his palms over the tops of Bucky’s thighs.

Bucky scowls at the gesture. “That’s not your job,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m your husband,” Steve says, almost authoritatively, even though he’s keeping his voice soft and calm like the Center professionals taught him. “It’s my job to take care of you, always.” He rubs Bucky’s tense muscles from over his jeans. “Babe, c’mon. Let me help you.”

Bucky closes his eyes and counts to twenty. When he opens them again, Steve’s still there, waiting. Bucky reaches out and cups his face.

Steve presses into it. “Sir,” he whispers, eyes lowered.

Bucky feels so guilty at that, even as he can feel his blood pressure lowering from the small display of subservience. “I love you,” he says.

Steve smiles softly and squeezes his hands over Bucky’s knees. “I know.”

Bucky sighs. He releases Steve and slumps back into the couch cushions, feeling like the biggest burden. “I should call and book someone,” he says. Steve’s not a submissive and he shouldn’t have to play that role just to fulfill Bucky’s medical needs. Linda’s helped him come to terms with that over the years. Steve, the self-sacrificing punk, would do it anyway, but Bucky knows when he needs to ask for outside help. “Nathan can usually take me last minute.” Steve nods and stands up, brings Bucky his cellphone to make the call. He sits on the couch with him and pulls Bucky to lie with his head in his lap as he calls the Center and makes an appointment. “Okay,” he says when he’s done, tossing the phone aside. “Six-thirty. He’s coming in after hours just for little old me.”

“Good.”

Bucky’s eyes cut sideways towards the bedroom hallway. Their plans for the night are ruined, and if he didn’t have himself to deal with right now, he’d be hard pressed to keep himself from going in Mary’s room, trying to scold her. “What about her?” he asks glumly.

Steve snorts. “Little miss drunk? She’s probably passed out. Don’t worry about it. Besides,” he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair.  “Can’t reason with someone when they’re like that. Discussion, punishment, scening? That’ll all have to wait until tomorrow, at least.”

Bucky makes a face and tries not to let his dominance start spiraling out of control again. “She’s going to AA.” Steve hums, and when Bucky looks up and catches his expression, Steve looks like he’s worrying for his safety. “Tomorrow,” he insists, obstinate. “I’ll take the day from work if I have to. Drag her there myself.”

“Maybe no dragging."

"Steve,"

"Linda first,” Steve suggests gently. “That’s a better first step, hm?” Bucky grunts, grumpy about it but knowing Steve’s right. He nods, and Steve runs kind hands through his hair. “Okay, good. That’s settled. Don’t have to think about it any more tonight.” He bends down and pecks a quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “So, six-thirty?”

“Mmhm.”

“An hour. … You want to help me get dinner started before you go?”

Bucky nods, turning and pressing his face into Steve’s lower belly, rubbing his cheek against his soft tee shirt and warm body. “Love you,” he mumbles, feeling sheepish from his outburst before. He knows it’s not his fault, but he still feels inordinately grateful to have Steve supporting him. “You ever get tired of all this drama?”

“Shuddup,” Steve chuckles.

“Mm. You should leave me for a normie." He’s got his eyes closed against Steve’s stomach, but feels the reproachful pinch on his neck. “Ow.”

“If I’d wanted a normie, I’d have married a normie,” Steve scolds. He pets over where he pinched. “And apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, cause I’ve got my sights set on another one’a you jerks. This is just a setback. We’ll let her sober up, you’ll go see the Pro, and then when everybody’s in the right frame of mind, we’ll deal with it. Now come on.” He pats Bucky on the back. “Mary's not the only one who can navigate a kitchen. I’ve got a recipe for chicken piccata we can try.”

Bucky sighs. He’s so fucking in love with Steve, and he’s never got any good way to say it. There's nothing. Wedding vows barely scratched the surface. “Okay,” he says, because what else is there to do but agree? Like most times, Bucky knows his more level-headed husband is right about this.

They get up and go into the kitchen to start pulling the ingredients for chicken piccata, and Bucky is able to keep his mouth shut for a full five minutes before his anxiety ratchets back up and he returns to haranguing Steve about confronting Mary—possibly later that night.

*Next chapter starts out IMMEDIATELY with the big confrontation and beginning of their romantic and sexual relationship, so I promise y'all won't have to wait much longer!

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[olderthannetfic]

Since you've mentioned that you use Scrivener as a word processing software, I have a bit of a weird-ish question. I have looked at the programme and it seems incredibly useful, and then I looked at the pricetag and- gulp.

I currently use Word which costs 5 euros per year thanks to university, but am thinking about switching to another programme that isn't related to my uni as I feel too paranoid about my smutty fanfic ideas being looked at by my uni and them disapproving of my writing. XD (Word keeps marking "fuck" with a squiggly line and suggesting I choose another word to avoid offending my readers, but if canon doesn't give Barclay some holographic MMF action taking place during "A Fistful of Datas" and turning both his holographic partners into holographic Data and therefore inducing maximum tension and insecurity due to feelings in poor sandwiched Barclay whenever he meets actual Data after that, I will have to write it myself! :P )

According to the website where one can buy a Scrivener license, one pays for the current version of it and will have to buy later versions anew if I haven't misunderstood. You seem to have used it for quite a while, and I haven't managed to find out when the different versions came out. I know the current one is 3, but I am unsure how much time passed between 1 and 2 and 2 and 3, and am unsure whether it's a good idea to buy a license now or whether it would be wiser to wait if it's likely that another version might be released in the near future (that is within one year for example) because then I might wait a little while with my purchase, heh. It probably sounds quite stingy but I am solely getting it for my tiny and too seldom indulged hobby of writing fanfic, and currently have to kinda sorta pay more attention to my wallet and where its contents go, so to say, which is why I'm hesitant.

The question basically is: As a (probable?) long-time user, do you think it's likely a new version of Scrivener will be released within the next year or so or do you think it's likely the current version will be tha latest to purchase for a longer while than 1-2 years?

I hope this rambly mess makes sense, haven't really slept for quite some time, so I am sorry if this is terribly incomprehensible. Sorry for the weird stingy question. Have a nice day and I hope you have slept and will sleep better than I currently do, heh!

--

I've only used it for like three years.

A quick google suggests that Scrivener 2 was released in 2010. 3 was released in 2017 basically to keep up with OS changes.

(IDK what you searched, but this isn't hard to find, dude.)

Scrivener is a fairly... old-fashioned style of software, I guess I'd call it. Some dude wrote himself a program to write his own novel and then people liked it. Some other guy decided to port it to Windows.

They update approximately never. When they do, recent buyers of the old one upgrade for free and everybody else gets like half off. The trial period is 30 days of actual use. The current retail license for 3 is only like sixty bucks. It's a commercial product, but... not like you've been trained to expect by your average modern software that wants to nickle and dime you at every turn.

Do you need Scrivener? Well, no. Not unless you want customizable high-level ebook output formatting and fancy features like that. You could just use some other free option if you just want to type stories in something that isn't Word. But Scrivener is priced extremely low for what it is.