#improper binding tw

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Blood or Contract

aemond x wife!reader

A/N: writing this made me a tad bit sad but I hope the requester enjoys😭 request is here

summary: your husband finds humour in harsh words spewed at your family

TW: angst

word count: 762 words

When Vaemond Velaryon spoke that filth about your mother, about you and your siblings, you had of course expected your husband to support you in your rage. All Aemond did was smile. You even believe that he would have laughed if it wasn’t so improper. He had always cared for propriety and his family much more than yours. But you thought he favoured you more than that. You thought you were important to him.

“You’re upset.” He states when you enter your private chambers. “You’ve been quiet since the succession claims. I would have thought you would be pleased.”

You turn to look at him, even more hurt when he can’t understand why you feel this way. “You were amused.”

He clearly doesn’t know what you’re referring to. How can he not know what you’re referring to?

“About what?”

“Vaemond Velaryon called my mother a whore and you practically laughed!” You raise your voice at him. “He called my brothers bastards! He called me a bastard.”

“I was amused by his audacity.” He says coolly.

“That sentence amuses me.”

“Don’t accuse me. I would protect your honour with my life.” You want to think he means it but you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you take his head yourself?” It is perhaps a silly question but you’re angry and you want him to feel it.

He scoffs. “I’m not so reckless as Daemon.”

“You could have had the decency to look angry about it.” You sigh. “A whore, Aemond. He called my mother a whore.” There’s hardly much worse for a woman to be called. All sorts of demeaning repression bundled up into a single adjective.

“You are my family. I am eternally defensive of you.”

“My family is yours as well.”

He almost seems to cringe at the concept of that.

“He called me a bastard.” Such a strong word, a disparaging remark that you haven’t been able to escape your entire life. It’s sticky on the soles of your feet, a stain on your dress that you can’t remove. It’s in the colour of your hair and your eyes and it follows and draws attention like a shadow that has decided to glow bright.

“You’re different.”

There couldn’t have been a worse response.

“I am the same as them and there is nobody I would want to be more binded to.” He wants you to speak these words about him; he's your husband. There shouldn’t be another person in all of fucking Westeros that you speak about this way.

“You are more than them.” He says. It’s supposed to be a compliment.

“Why, because you can fuck me? Because I shall carry your heirs? Your children, if they will grow in my womb, will be just as damned as I am. Their blood will be just as tainted.” The words are full of such venom that it angers him. He adores you and yet he despises the blood that’s in your veins.

“Nothing made by you could ever be damned.” Oh, the blasphemy. You wonder if he would ever say such a thing in the presence of a septon, or perhaps in the presence of his mother. “I won’t have you speak of yourself in such a way.”

“I can’t, but you can? The word ‘bastard’ used to tumble from your lips like prayers.”

“I have apologized for that. I swore I would never use such a word to describe you or your brothers again and I haven’t.” He defends himself, perhaps it is a fair defence.

“In my presence, you have not.” It’s a half agreement.

“I won’t be called a liar by my own wife.” His jaw clenches.

“I don’t recall using that word.” You say as you give him an innocent look. He sighs again, rubbing his temples.

“What does it matter now? We are wed. You are royalty and a Targaryen.”

“By blood or by marriage?”

“My love-“ He starts. He wants to talk you down.

“Am I worthy of you only because I am married to you?”

Is it some fucked paradox?

“I shan’t warrant such a silly question with an answer.”

Is that all you are? A silly girl?

“I’m going to my chambers.” You whisper out and what an off putting sentence it is. You practically live in Aemond’s chambers. Everyone considers them yours as well. The other ones are only kept for propriety’s sake. And now you’re leaving them.

“I don’t want that.” Is all he can say.

“Will you command me to stay?”

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t.

You walk out the door.

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy @ophelialaufey @aerangi

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Hi, pookie 🖤 how are you? May I request 👉🏻👈🏻 24 (revenge) + Don John. Please 👀

Hi Scarlett 🥺🥹!! I hope I did good for you!! —Don Jon x F!Reader ( TW: spanking, dubcon, namecalling, Don Jon being evil, nsfw )

“Unhand me, you brutes!” Your struggle, both physically and vocally, holds no weight here, while one henchman on each arm drags you into the Bastard Prince’s room to face your untimely demise. “I swear I will burn this place to the ground and you along with it! I said unhand me, cursed whoreson!”

“What an ugly mouth on a pretty maiden,” says the reason for your distress, looking very much—almost comically so—like a dark hearted villain intent on consuming every last ounce of your decency and pride.

You scowl deeply at him. “I suppose this is the only way you can get pretty maiden’s into your chambers?” Even though you know that is not true. Jon is a handsome man with cheekbones like sharp glass and skin doted on by the sun. More often than not, he is stumbling home drunk with some ditzy, poor thing clinging to his battle-sculpted arm.

“I changed my mind.” He is no longer speaking to you, but now his obedient dogs. “You can gag her.”

Your eyes grow wide upon seeing the thick, braided rope they intend to use in binding you. Luckily, each dufus has forgotten you have two working legs, so while they’re distracted with tugging your hands behind your back, you knee one in the groin and have just enough space to wriggle away unscathed.

Until a brawny, painful grip wraps around the base of your skull and pulls you back, into solid, lean muscle. To hell with your mind as it muses about how good this bastard feels behind you, and to hell with your cunt as it plumps for his deft ropework and sinister voice so close to your hot skin.

“Never had a man tie you up, lambkin?”

“Unlike some people, I’m not a whore, so no. But do tell me what it was like.”

“Was it not you that assumed my virginity but five minutes ago?” His voice turns sour, and you prickle with pride at your ability to get under his skin even when he has you trussed up for his mercy and enjoyment.

“I didn’t say you were successful in any of your numerous pursuits, just that there are far too many.”

You can feel his blood boil, skin warm and flush deep crimson. “Maybe next time, I will gag you, but for now, I very much want to hear that vulgar tongue plead for my quarter.”

Next time? What next time? There hasn’t even been a this time yet. Is his plan to put you in bondage and then insult you? God, if it is kill me now, you pray, despite belonging to no religion. You don’t think you can take much more of his insufferable mouth. Although, perhaps if it was licking between your thighs that would be a different story.

Your imagination supplies the frequented vision wherein you’re tugging on his thick hassock of hair while he does whatever it is that men do when their face is buried in your sex. This fantasy you’ve had for a while, ever since hearing Margaret talking about how his otherwise useless mouth drove her to a clenching, cosmic defeat.

He’s spewing some more dribble that you have no care for, and you’ve missed most of it while lost in your fantasy. You do, however, catch his nagging complaint, and the reason for him wanting your company on this humid night.

“You should have kept your mouth shut, and you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, Jon.”

A firm, stinging slap lands on the fat of your behind, wrenching a yelp and curse. “Watch it!”

“You will address me be my proper title, little snitch, or I will do worse than spank you.”

“Oh come off it,” you sigh, although too cowardly now to add his improper name to that sentence, a fact probably not missed by him. “Your plan was so stupidly apparent that Don Pedro would have meddled it sooner or later. I was just sparing you further embarrassment. You should be thanking me.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely right.” He throws you onto his mattress, demonstrating strength that you didn’t think he possessed, then grabs one foot and tugs you onto the end so that your ass and legs hang off the side. With your face pressed into the down, you can’t see to kick or shoulder him while he pins your lower back with a sturdy, wide press. “Allow me to express my gratitude.”

Your protests of indecency and modesty fall on deaf ears while he lifts the skirts of your dress up to reveal undergarments; then, he tugs those down too, and leaves you bare to himself, his goons, and the balmy night air. Shame descends over you like a wool blanket, and your mouth lets him know just how much you despise him, his parents, their parents, and the ones before that, too.

Your cursing of his bloodline cuts short with the first heavy slap of his palm on the swell of your bare ass—and, oh, you never realized just how tender that slice of flesh could be until his fingertips turn it raw and throbbing.

You haven’t been smacked on the rear since you were a tiny thing, and you don’t ever remember it hurting this much. Perhaps your mother’s hands were not as big or as infused with muscle, though.

Slap, slap, slap. You attempt an arched back for some kind of reprieve from the singing pain, but he holds you firm, even moreso when you try and fight him, making your tender, poor bottom stick out indecently and proudly, like the pretty full moon in the sky. It hurts, and he will not stop, not even when your cheeks get wet and you whimper his name, hoping for some goddamn human decency.

When he finally does cease, you think maybe he might be moving to the other cheek, but instead feel the feathery touch of his fingers tease the curly soft protection of your womanhood, and then past, to collect sticky cum on his fingers. You clench down onto this, pleasure unexpected, a welcome reprieve from the sting of your bottom.

“You like this?” He muses, soothing your feminine nectar into the burning skin on your ass. “So desperate that spanking soaks your needy cunt?”

You release the fat of his mattress from between your teeth to whine for the loss of his uncharacteristically soft touch teasing between your slick, unmapped folds. He’s going to go back to spanking you now, you know. After all, there is a whole other plump cheek with skin untainted, and you contemplate, briefly, begging him to, instead, go back to your starving pussy.

“Well,” he says, grin tooth filled and sharp, “if you like it so much, who am I to deny a lady her pleasure?”

You think maybe you’ve grown accustomed to the beating by now, so it will hurt less on this protruding cheek, but you’re very wrong. The pain is tenfold on virgin flesh, and quickly you are back to biting his mattress in order to muffle yelps and screams and mewls—in order to prevent the sweet, girly begging he wants to hear. You long for the gag.

Because, eventually, and, especially when he goes back to the other purpling mound, you do beg, demure and ingenuous, so eagerly offering your submission up on a silver tray for His Royal Jackass. No time to be disgusted with yourself, for now—you’ll try and save some humiliation for later.

There is a satisfied grumble to his voice, one that makes your cunt clench and dribble, and by now you’re sure his guards can see the shameful essence glittering on your pubic hair and thighs. You bury your face into the bed, trying to forgot the situation at hand, which is, of course, impossible, when he’s talking to you.

“Is this what it takes to keep you in place, y/n? Perhaps I should entertain her more often to keep the little witch in line?”

“No, please, anything but that,” you say, digging your toes into the ground, futilely shying away from a deceptively soft touch on your right cheek.

He pauses for a moment, and you can practically feel the evil gears in his too-intelligent mind turning. Perhaps it was something you said, or some authentic idea he has for torturing you further. Either way, this will be unpleasant for you.

You’d squirm if you could, when feathery fingers travel down the cleft of your ass and stop just shy from the bulge of your pussy lips. “Anything?” He repeats. “Even this pathetic Quim?”

“Yes! Even that!”

He kicks your legs apart with the toe of his leather boot, opening those dewy petals between your thighs. You swear you can feel nectar drip freely from your flower, and take solace in the fact that you are definitely wet enough to accept him if he decides to steal that coveted innocence away tonight.

Instead of his cock, or maybe even his tongue—yes, please—your fragile blossom meets the sharp palm of his mean hand. And then again, and once more. And if you think that you were sobbing and begging and trying to writhe away before, it was only an illusion compared to the state of you now, while he punishes your cunt for the crimes of your tattling, wretched mouth.

Without warning, he pushes a finger inside you, and you gasp, clenching on that singular digit that fills you so much more fully than your own could ever hope to. He touches something that splits your vision in fours, but only for a moment, then, faster than you can come back to earth, flips you around and sticks his wet finger into your mouth.

“Suck,” he says, smiling down at you, sweat dripping from his face and staining his white blouse.

“What-“

He presses deeper, making you gag. “I said, suck, whore.”

You try not to glare as you do what’s instructed, and suck the salty thick fluid from his index finger. This distracts you, and he takes the opportunity to roughly pinch one of your burgeoning nipples between the fingers of his left hand.

You can’t help it, when your teeth sink into his flesh, only stopping yourself from entirely biting down, but still earning an unfair slap on your face for the mistake. He wretches his finger from your throat and rubs the spit and sting of your teeth from himself, onto your freshly reddened cheek.

“Seems you do require more breaking in,” he says, eyes black as the night without lanterns or moon or stars. “No matter, I will be more than happy to discipline you, Lambkin.” With that, he pushes you back onto his bed, among the messy sheets and sweaty smell of man and herbal oils, and turns to walk away.

“Wait!” You cry, scrambling to sit up again, wincing at the burning singe in your lower regions. You tug on the rope that binds your arms back, opening your mouth to say something scathing, but the flesh of your rear begs you not to. “Are you going to let me go?”

He laughs at you as if you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “No, though perhaps you can get one of your sister’s help? Better yet, your mother or father might assist? Although you’re going to have to explain yourself, no doubt.” A wicked glint muddles his eyes; it makes you yearn for your fist to connect with his pretty face or foot to connect with his—with the large, obscene bulge in his leather trousers that was most certainly not there before he spanked you.

“Please, I cannot do that.”

“Then stay for the night, and perhaps when I return in the blue of dawn I will gift you my cock, little witch. After more punishment for being such a wanton slut, of course.”

He does leave you, then, throbbing in agony and, regrettably, desire for his wicked hands, tangled up in his sheets, absolutely a wreck of what you once were.

[novacorpsrecruit]

Bound by the Situation

Day 21 Steddie Kinktober prompts from @infinite-orangepeel on twitter

Mature • wc 771 • tw improper packing tape usage • prompt: accidental kink discovery

•••••

“Harrington!” Eddie called from the stock room of the Family Video. “Need your help!”

It was new inventory day, which meant Keith scheduled an extra person to help with the new inventory. Three Family Video employees always seemed like too much on a Tuesday afternoon — even with the new inventory, but Eddie, Steve and Robin weren’t going to argue about sharing a shift together. Robin waved Steve off as she flipped her magazine. She knew the risk of sending Eddie and Steve off together. She may not see them until the end of their shift. But with as slow as it was, she almost didn’t care. She had more quiet time for reading. She could put on her own music and nobody would complain if they’re sucking face.

Steve pushed the door to the back room, catching Eddie with the roll of shipping tape in his hands and at least once around his wrists. He grinned sheepishly at Steve. “A little help?”

“I don’t know how you want me to help,” Steve said, feeling his throat go dry. He crossed his arms. “What are you even doing anyway?”

“I was wondering if I could break through this,” Eddie said. “Like if my wrists were bound? If I could break it.”

“If your wrists were bound,” Steve repeated.

“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “Like if I was kidnapped or held hostage.”

“You were taping your wrists together,” Steve said slowly, his eyes traveling down Eddie’s body to his wrists.

“To see if I could break free,” Eddie completed his sentence. “Now bind me.”

“Okay,” Steve breathed, stepping into Eddie’s space. He took the roll of tape from Eddie’s hands, slowly wrapping it around his wrists. Steve could feel a rush of excitement, a pool of heat in his gut, as he assumes he couldn’t wait to see Eddie test his strength. He’d wonder if he could convince Eddie to try it on him, as well.

“Tighter,” Eddie commanded. Steve obeyed. He wrapped it around tighter three more times, letting Eddie test the restraints before giving a nod. “Perfect. Now cut it.”

Steve leaned down, taking the tape between his teeth and tearing it, leaning back to pull it apart.

“Fuck —“

Steve looked up at Eddie as he laid down the end of the tape. He had a grin plastered on his face — the same troublesome grin that Steve knew meant trouble. That Eddie was up to something. The same lopsided grin that pulled the scar tissue tight. The same grin that Steve loved.

“That was hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes, taking a step back. “Okay, Eds,” he said, gesturing to his bound wrists. “Do your thing.”

Eddie yanked at his wrists, the tape didn’t budge. He struggled for a minute before searching for another attempt. He tried bringing it against his hip to no avail. He tried twisting his wrists to see if it helped loosen the tape, but it may have made it worse. He grunted as he lifted his hands above his head, attempting pulling his wrists apart.

And Steve?

Steve watched from the distance, feeling himself go almost lightheaded with desire as he watched his boyfriend struggle against the the tape, binding his wrists together. Steve audibly closed his mouth, letting the saliva pool in his mouth before swallowing. He couldn’t help but admire Eddie as he tried to fight the restraints, his body thrashing from side to side, the chain on his jeans jingling, as he could not break free. He lifted his eyes to Steve, and Steve couldn’t hold back any further.

Steve nearly pounced on Eddie, his hand quickly covering the bound wrists above Eddie’s head. Eddie audibly swallowed. “Steve?”

“I think —“ Steve breathed, collecting the thoughts buzzing around his head. “I think we need to take the tape home with us tonight.”

“Home?” Eddie asked, his eyes big like a baby deer.

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding slowly. “Think you look real pretty tied up like this.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked. The realization suddenly dawned on Eddie of what Steve was asking. “You like me tied up, big boy? Like me on display for you?”

“Keeps you in one place, doesn’t it?” Steve asked with a smirk. He pressed a hot kiss on the corner of his jaw, nipping at the skin lightly as he squeezed his wrists in his hand. “Oh the things I’d do to you like this, Pretty boy.”

“Fuck,” Eddie moaned. “Bathroom. Now.”

Eddie slipped out of Steve’s grip with ease as he pulled Steve towards the employee bathroom. “Robin! 15 minute break!”

“Disinfect the room, you perverts!” She yelled back.

•••••

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, a drabble

Summary: Frankie's a handyman.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader.

Set within the PTMY universe but can be read as a one-shot stand-alone.

Rating: explicit 🔞

TW: improper use of zip ties

A/N: Happy ❤️‍🔥Frankie❤️‍🔥 Friday, orange besties 🧡 This is the first, and probably not last, zip ties-inspired drabble, so be warned. Because I have a lot of thoughts. 🥖Anon, thank you again for the encouragement. As for you @dreamymyrrh, you know what you did. I love you. More. I literally wrote this shit in two hours in lieu of my usual two and half months weeks, it's unbeta’d, unchecked, uncalled-for. You’ve been warned twice. Please be kind.

Word count: 1.8k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: The ties that bind is

The first time is sheer happenstance. 

A late Friday afternoon, sometime in September. You join him by the toolshed in the garden, where he’s working on a new headboard with simple, elegant slats, supported by two trestles. You want to make sure he’s wearing his dust mask –he’s not.

You step inside the small wooden shed to grab the cumbersome contraption where it lies unused on the workbench, and you notice a small stack of black zip ties, tied together by a wide orange rubber band. 

“Hey, what are these for, Frankie?” you ask naively when you step back outside, holding the bundle of ties in your raised hand.

He tilts up his head, eyes lingering on his work, brow pinched in concentration, sweat dampened curls stuck to his forehead, and he has to squint to see what you’re talking about, but when his gaze focuses on what’s in your hand… a slow smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. 

That smug smile hasn’t changed, not in sixteen years, not ever, it’s the same enthralling curl of his plush lips, followed by the same question, which is never really a question but rather a promise, an invitation to follow him, a little further every time, you wanna try this?

He lays down his hand plane and goes around the trestles, takes a couple of slow steps toward you, until he can husk in your ear in a voice so low it dives down all the way to your core. 

“Want me to show you what it’s for?”

Comprehension dawns on you. The dip between your collarbone deepens as you silently gasp. His smile deepens too. 

He’s gentle and careful, that first time, the black plastic tie that binds your hands together hanging loose around your wrists. Repeatedly, he tries to bite down his smug smile. When he lifts you up and props your ass on top of the workbench inside the crammed toolshed, when he prompts your knees open, when he slides your tied hands behind his neck. 

It’s fucking useless. And you’re smiling too, with delight, nervousness, anticipation, giggling quietly until he thrusts into you, and you’re not giggling anymore, you give him that sound he lives for.

–

The second time is not exactly premeditated yet. 

You’re coming home from Santi’s birthday party, and he’d be lying if he tried to argue he hasn’t been thinking about it all evening, with the sheer black tights you’re wearing, but he still loses it completely. 

He wraps one end of the tights around your wrists and the other end to the leg of the bed, and you let him. 

You let him. 

It’s intoxicating, your complete abandon. Your trust, your faith.

And if you could find the words, you’d tell him. You would explain what it does to you, the way he never takes more than what you’re able to give, the way he always knows how much that is, the way he seeks you out inside your darkness to offer you his love, unwavering, uncompromised, undying. 

If you could describe how it feels to be wanted by this man, his raw power barely restrained, his patience and his strength, the kindness in his eyes… you would.

But you can’t put it into words, so you hope he knows, and you find other means to express the certitude that you’d follow him anywhere. 

You thread a new language between your two bodies for him to write his own verse. And wherever he leads you, it’s always through blinding pleasure. 

In the weeks that follow the party, and what ensues, he becomes obsessed with a thought. An idea invading his system, pervading his mind. He grows restless, which you notice, of course, but don’t immediately question. 

Until this one evening, when you come home from the bookstore to find the zip ties waiting for you on the fucking kitchen table. 

You freeze, the key still in the lock, and suddenly everything clicks into place: his increasing agitation over the past few weeks, the sideways glances, dark from under the brim of his cap, the intense tick of his jaw. The shadow of a smug smile lingering on his lips. 

In your haste to hang your coat on the rack, you miss the hook and it falls in a heap to the floor. It’s a clumsy fumble to untie the shoelaces of your Martens, your fingers numb from the November cold, grey and humid. 

A few hasty strides, and you're in the bedroom, where you know you’ll find him waiting.  

The eagerness that widens your eyes, widens the dimpled smirk on his pretty face. 

“Show me, Frankie,” you ask, handing him the zip ties, “show me what you’ve been thinking.”

Now, the plastic bites into the soft flesh of your wrists, tied separately to the slats of the headboard. The mattress dipping under your knees, you push your forehead from the smooth wood and arch your back until it hurts, seeking the contact of his burning mouth. 

His soft chuckle makes you moan, and he rewards the sound with a hard swat on the swell of your ass with the flat of his palm. Then he spits on your folds, and this one’s really just to please you, because you’re soaking wet already, your come dribbling down along the inside of your thighs from your previous high, when he ate you from behind. 

Messy broad licks, his tongue diving inside your cunt, curling around your clit, teasing, swirling, his plush lips pursed around your tight ring, sucking in. You came violently all at once, in your chest and your belly and your legs trembled. 

They’re still shaking now, and you struggle to keep your balance but you know he’s not done, nor do you want him to be.

He straightens up and you threaten to fall on your side, the ties biting harder into your skin, but he catches you with a large hand gripping your hip. 

The black, starless sky peers in through the orange curtains. It’s late November, but the heat is stifling in the bedroom. Beads of sweat are rolling down his spine; locks of your hair are glued to your shoulders and your nape. 

Later, he will brush them and braid them. Gently kiss the secret birthmark in your hairline.

But right now, his hand slides down to your folds, spreading his spit over your lips, pushing it inside you with a thick finger, then two, and he’s about to add a third when you moan louder, arms pulling against your restraint. His gaze is drawn to the red indentation on your thin skin and he frowns, shakes his head. 

“Want me to cut it off?”

“Fuck no,” you grit back in a beat, and you let out a heavy sigh of relief when you feel the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance. 

He thrusts in so ruthlessly you cry out and nearly hit your head on the headboard. He catches you again, of course he does, a bruising, splayed fingers clutch on the swell of your ass to slide you back on his cock. 

You want to turn your head to the side, try to catch a glimpse of him, of his large frame, his broad shoulders, his messed-up hair and his pitch-dark eyes. But your bindings won’t allow you that much amplitude, and all you can do is reach your shoulder to wipe the sweat beading on your temple before your mouth goes slack. He’s drilling in so fast, sliding in and out easy with how wet you are, and your mind is reeling. 

His hand moves to your hip again, using the grasp for leverage. This is just a fraction of what he wants to do to you, of what he’s got planned, what he kept playing in his head over and over again when he should have been focusing on work, on driving, on eating… But there’s time. And isn’t that the sweetest thought?

His knees push your knees further apart on the mattress, legs gliding against yours with your mixed sweats. His thrusts deepen, the fat head of his cock bumping into your cervix, and when his thumb comes to rest over your asshole with just the right amount of pressure, you don’t even get the time to warn him. 

Your orgasm seizes you like an earthquake, like fucking lightning, blazing through you from your core, overwhelming, meteoric. You’re mewling, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, so brutal Frankie feels it too, the strong clutch of your collapsing walls pulling him in, and he bends double over you, hissing his pleasure through clenched teeth. 

“Jesus fuck, Gabrielle–” 

Chest heaving painfully, you’re about to slip out of consciousness when you feel his breath burning your skin. He straightens up and sits behind you. You whine, struggling to keep your balance on the unstable surface of the mattress. 

The sensation of the cool blade sliding against your wrists makes your jolt, and suddenly you're free, your arms weightless, like helium balloons drifting away from your body, but it’s over in a heartbeat. He’s grabbed them, flipping you around like a rag doll. 

“Can you take some more, baby?”

Tears have smeared mascara on your cheeks, you can’t seem to catch your breath but you nod, exhaling a feeble “Yeah.”

You weigh nothing between his hands, you’re limp, boneless, and his splayed fingers bruise your skin in their firm hold above your elbows as he positions you over him.

His movements are precise, quick, and deft, trained hands linking your arms behind your back, and the zip tie digs into your flesh when it slides shut around your wrists with its telling slithery sound. 

Just like last time with your tights, his eyes are drawn to the odd angle of your shoulders, to the dip over your collarbone and the way it pokes out in the shadows of the night. 

“Good girl,” he grunts, lying back between your folded legs, “you’re a good girl, Gabrielle, you know that? You’re my good girl,” he adds, lining himself up. 

He shoves himself into you to the hilt, and in this straddling position, the air is punched out of your lungs. Without your arms to keep you balanced, you can’t control anything, certainly not the depth of his thrusts, and he’s ramming into you deeper than he’s ever been. 

“Wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock again,” he says, and you snap, you surrender, limp and boneless. You let him fuck up into you with his feet planted on the mattress and his strong arms shoving you further down onto his cock, your tits bouncing, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“Gonna pump you full of my come, baby.”  

Limp, boneless, exactly how you want to be. 

****

[hauntedxwritings]

I'm here, half way anyways..

Gonna be playing DBD till my mood improves enough to be here. Reason why under the "read more"

tw: anger and body dysmorphia and peoples shitty comments

Today I'm feeling more masc than normal. Sadly I can't bind do to health issues and improper ways to bind at the moment. A person at the laundry mat decided today was the day and I was the one. Even though I had my hair pulled back in sort of a "boyish* way.. (I have shaved undersides and long on the top) and people feel the need to still call me "her"

[delusionland]

logan (more hcs yayyy):

-trans man, has come to realize in recent years that he is probably non-binary to some extent, but doesn’t really care enough to make it part of his identity

-has been living and out as a man for over a century, and most people don’t question it or know of his status. he’s just naturally a very hairy, short guy bc of genetics & his mutation, that seems to like to wear tight undershirts a lot. has some back/posture problems bc of improper binding during his youth a century ago, but hey. he’s got a proper binder now & top surgery seems out of the question due to healing factor, and he’s cool with his body pretty much exactly how it is for the most part. 

-(logan is in and out of the gsa at whatever academy he’s at---but he’s always quick with the resources for trans kids, and always warning of the dangers of binding while fighting. ‘get urself a good sports bra, kid. nothing wrong with how u were born. i got tits. captain america’s got tits. big yellow x on the spandex’ll hide anything anyway.’)

-logan has serious posture problems, and not a great grip in general due to his arthritis/osteoporis/chronic pain issues---but in his long time of being out as a man, he’s learned that first impressions are important, and the most important thing to his gender identity is a good handshake where he pulls another man’s hand down all the way to his own waist---which is a good deal lower than say, captain america’s. logan never lets any man think he’s better than logan for being taller or bigger. he’s stronger than u and bi-er than you and he will take u down in a fight no hesitation. best example of this is the issue of uncanny x-men where he straight up goes ‘thanks for the offer---but i don’t need a sidekick’ to captain america during ww2. the gall! the cheek! the nerve! the audacity!

-logan has absolutely threatened transphobes at clawpoint before and will do so again! 

-this is nsfw but logan prefers to be with women or gnc mlm sexually/romantically bc of social dysphoria, and also just a preference, he just likes being the ‘masculine’ one in the same way butches clasically seek out femmes ya know (not to compare trans men to lesbians, but he comes from a different time and he would probably relate to stone butches in a lot of ways, and i myself am a butch so thats just how i FEEL.)! he doesn’t actually like fighting for dominance in the bedroom. he has a soft shell under that hard canadian wilderness exterior. he wants a woman (or a gnc gay/bi man) that can take charge and peel back his defenses, make him feel comfortable & wanting enough to be physically touched. logan also likes ‘the princess’ / ‘the queen’ types, who tell them exactly what they want and how much they need it. logan, in general, likes it when his s.o. is a litttle mean to him but in a cutesy / haughty kind of way lol.

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

*barely takes off the double sports bra combination used as a pseudo binder for the last few days*

*chest gets wheezy/hurty when I laugh, noticed my breathing was ragged earlier today*

[questioning-culture-is]

So, recently I started questioning my gender and can't figure out if it's a gender thing or just body dysmorphia because my pronouns aren't an issue--I'm a bit indifferent towards she/her; and I've never been called he/him (and just the thought makes me cringe), but I'd probably just be more disconnected from it than anything--but I don't like my perceived gender? If that makes sense?

But, like, when I was younger, I'd use bandages to bind my chest and I preferred how I looked? And I was messing around the other day and I still preferred it? (Yes, I know bandages are bad, but, for several reasons, I'm not buying a binder to experiment)

So, maybe I'm androgynous/non-binary/etc.? Something in that direction? Or maybe I should just get a reduction/mastectomy? Or, heck, maybe this is all just a trauma response from a messed up childhood and I should just get a therapist?

I'm so sorry to just sort of dump this all on you, but I don't know where else to ask about this

the "don't like my perceived gender", that's gender dysphoria. Wanting to not have a chest can absolutely be body dysphoria. If you aren't sure which it is and thinking about going to therapy you can check if there is a gender therapist near you who could help you with that and other things (if you want).

For not binding with bandages, if you're just checking if you like it for a few minutes it should be alright but you cannot wear that like a binder for up to 8h I believe.

I hope that helps, feel free to send any follow up questions.

@transmasc-culture-is

-toni

[oknerd3]

[ID: a drawing that says “how to use ace bandages as a trans person.” It has a drawing of a trans character binding their chest with ace bandages with a giant X next to them. There is a drawing of another trans person next to them with who is dressed as a mummy with a large check next to them. /end ID]

Please don’t bind your chest, instead: become a mummy.

[cackled0g]

I chose the wrong day to double bind smh. It hot as hell in this bitch and I've been running laps around the store since I got here 💀💀

[lirusstories]

Egotober: Hoodie

Tw: Improper binding, eludements to abuse, Don't trust strangers kids

Jackie starts wearing hoodies when he's 13 and... changing, he doesn't like the change, it makes him feel weird gross and wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

He keeps his hair in a ponytail and under his hood and hopes people don't notice. They notice. He cuts his hair and can't preform for a week.

Jackie grows out of his hoodie when he's 14 and has to... borrow a new one from the lost and found. His adopters scrunch their noses at it but don't say anything until it "mysteriously" disappears from one of his suitcases. 

He's heartbroken and every time he looks in the mirror he wants to peel his skin off. He sneaks into their medics tent and steals some ace bandages and wraps his chest flat. He struggles to breathe but it's more comfortable than having to feel the flaps of fat on his chest.

He takes them off for practice and pretends to not notice the bruises. 

Jackie's 15 and a half when he meets a man passing through the same town as his family. He meets him outside a convince store and the man offers to help him out upon seeing the ace bandages poorly hidden beneath his tank top. 

Jackie is 15 and a half when he gets his first binder, it's lightly used but it's the only one that fits him. He doesn't care. It's bright green, one of his favorite colors. 

The man gets him a hoodie too, a large one that he'll have to grow into but he loves it nonetheless, the red is a comforting color, it makes him feel safe and he nearly cries when he puts it on. The Man offers to get him his hair cut as well, he turns it down as he remembers the last time he cut it.

He doesn't see the way the man frowns as he sees the fear on his face and merely buys him some more clothes as well and a few pieces of candy for the road before Jackie asks him why he helped him.

His heart flutters happily when hearing that the man's husband had a rough childhood because of him being a male when people choose to view him as something he wasn't just because of "Silly little Body Parts". It's nice to know that other people like him. He suppresses a laugh at the man's phrasing though.

The man leaves him with a card with his number on it and tells him to call him if he needs anything.

Jackie is 16 when he runs away. He gives himself a near buzz cut before running after a particularly bad practice session. He toys with the thought of calling before deciding against him.

Jackie's 19 when he meets one of his brothers for the first time since they were children. He has a noticeably different accent but it's him. The only thing that could surpass the joy of his brother remembering and recognizing him as his brother is if all of his brothers suddenly showed up and did the same thing.

Jackie's 20 when he starts taking hormones, his brother doesn't ask where he gets them and he doesn't tell.

He's 24 when he starts growing facial hair, when he notices, he flaps his hands so hard he ends up smacking himself in the face. He lets Henrik laugh at him while he hands Jackie the Tylenol.

Jackie is 25 when he becomes a vigilante, Henrik finds out it's him pretty quickly and hits him over the head with a rolled up magazine for doing something so strenuous with his binder on. He promises not to do it again and keeps his hoodie on whenever he goes out to burn some people.

Jackie is 26 when he gets top surgery, he's not allowed to go out for almost three months because of Henrik's fretting. 

Jackie is finally able to start going out again just in time for June. He decides for the first day of patrol back, he'll wear his pride flag like a cape.

Standing atop the tallest sky scrapper in the city, he breathes. For the first time in years, he feels... hopeful. Good things are coming and will continue to come, he knows it. He's slowly getting better, feeling more and more like himself, every time he looks in the mirror he doesn't feel like it's a stranger looking back at them.

He's happy, he has one of his brothers here with him, and they're working on finding the others, and he knows, he just knows it, that everything will be okay.

Tags:

@malaboos-bodacious-blog @glitchyartist @immabethehero @protectjj

[retvenkos]

to dance among the stars | c.b.

Bridgerton - Colin Bridgerton x Fem!Reader, fluff requested by @musicallisto

tw: talk of marriage

word count: 1.4k

prompt: “Dance with me?”

A/N: I started writing.... forgot i had a prompt to fit in... decided to just keep going and hope for the best.  i feel like that meme “it’s not much, but it’s honest work.”

Summary: (Y/n) hated dances and balls, but if there was anyone who could change their mind, it would be Colin Bridgerton.

(Y/n) laughed into the clear night air, throwing her head back in blissful happiness, unaware of the way that Colin Bridgerton looked at her - as though his whole life was in her smile. A clement wind greeted the two on their stroll, allowing the music from the nearby ball to drift toward them, a sound much more soft and inviting now that there was distance between the two and the dance floor.

“You, Colin, will be the death of me,” (Y/n) said, her words like a happy sigh, a gentle ending to her enjoyment of his presence.

“The death of you? I thought I heroically saved you from having to entertain suitors all evening,” he teased, straightening his jacket dramatically, as though they were in one of (Y/n)’s novels - the kind with epic romances and gruesome battles. (Y/n) scoffed, swatting him on the shoulder. “I am your knight in shining armor, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes—” Colin chuckled, earning a smile “—but I saved you from your mother. She’s been looking for a project now that Daphne’s entertaining the prince, is she not?”

“My mother is always looking for something.” Colin rolled his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t be properly saved until I marry some girl from the ton.”

“Oh.” Colin’s words ushered in an awkward lapse of silence that had both of them turning away from each other, taking a sudden interest in their shoes. They slowed their walk to a stop, and the breeze drifted between them, as though pushing them apart.

It was silly that something like a wayward comment could reduce them to silence, but the future lay within that statement - a future fast approaching and terrifying in its weight. The ton was designed for marriage. Here, at these balls and parties, both of them were supposed to find someone to marry - to bind themselves to another for the rest of their lives.

Another couple walked past the two and (Y/n) watched them go, disappearing into the evening - perhaps to dance among the stars.

“Well... is there someone who’s caught your eye?” (Y/n) fidgeted with her gloves as she spoke, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer. Colin had always been a flirt, and his romantic tendencies had always been something (Y/n) both admired and teased, and yet to know if his heart truly lied with one of them was the very thing she wanted least. Being out here with Colin - away from everyone else and anything that might stand between them - was the only thing that made the ton worthwhile. All else paled in comparison to these moments seemingly stolen from the flow of time, where they were two souls together, walking the same path for a brief while, hearts close enough to touch.

To have them be taken away would be too much of a heartache. Worse than anything she could fathom.

Colin looked at (Y/n) with his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, (Y/n) took hold of the conversation once more.

“Perhaps Marina Thompson? She was quite popular before she fell ill. Will you be the one to ask for her hand, at the end of the season?”

“Miss Thompson is a fine girl, but... no.” (Y/n) looked up abruptly and met Colin’s blinking stare. Even when baffled there was something light about him - kind and caring - it tugged on her heart more than she cared to admit. “I would much rather wait than make a hasty match.”

“Hasty?” (Y/n) stifled a laugh, the mature word - not at all like the Colin she knew - bringing humor back into the conversation. Colin was forcing down a blush, his cheeks warming in color, like roses beneath his skin.

“I just mean I want to love my wife before we get married, instead of having to force feelings after the fact.”

(Y/n) smiled, taking a step closer to lock arms with Colin once more. “I hope you get to.”

The two resumed their walk, never going too far from the festivities to be considered improper, but managing to stay well away from anyone else. Colin admired the way that (Y/n) looked under the night sky - her beauty something wholly unique to her, and yet perfectly matched to the darkening sky. In the light of her eyes lay all the beauty of the cosmos, and in her smile lay all the thrills of the world. All the universe was captured in her essence, and Colin knew that all of his longing for travel could be satiated with a single touch; a kiss from (Y/n) could carry all of the wonders of the world, and no matter how many times he visited her touch, he would never lose his wanderlust.

(Y/n) fixed him with a look, as though they could sense that his thoughts rested with them.

Colin cleared his throat. It was one thing to care for (Y/n) - it was quite another to admit he had fallen in love. “What about you? Surely you’ve found a suitor who is the least bit exciting?”

“They think themselves exciting, if that is answer enough,” (Y/n) sighed, looking at Colin through the corner of her eye. “But truly Colin, having to entertain them is the worst part about these dances.”

"Even worse than dancing? I know you avoid getting out on the floor like it’s the plague.”

“Because when you’re on the dance floor, you’re trapped! That’s when entertaining suitors is at its worst.” Colin chuckled at (Y/n)’s words. “If I had a choice, I would come to these balls and the only man I would dance with is you.”

“Me?”

(Y/n) nodded.

Colin paused and they drew to a halt so he could better marvel at the woman before him. “If you had your choice in the matter, wouldn’t you rather avoid the dance floor altogether?” 

“No,” (Y/n) said, dipping her head with a look that said she had spoken too much but was too fond of what she said, and not keen on taking it back. “I suppose I would like to dance with you.”

You’d dance with me?”

(Y/n) scoffed. “Well, I know you enjoy it.” 

And around them, the world was hushed. The voices and sounds of the nearby ball were drowned out by the thumping of their hearts. Colin looked at (Y/n) and saw them so clearly, he was almost taken aback. How could one be so beautiful that their existence shamed a sky full of stars?

“Dance with me, then?”

He spoke before he acted, but it wasn’t long before his hand was outstretched, waiting for (Y/n) to take it.

“Right here?” But her hand was already resting in his, her smile bright and warm. "There's no music."

"Then come a few steps this way." Colin pulled her a few paces closer to the ball. (Y/n) chuckled as Colin tugged on her arm, guiding them nearer. He put a finger on his lips to shush her, causing (Y/n) to roll her eyes, smiling all the while. The soft lilt of music was slightly louder, here, but still distant enough that they had to be silent to hear the beat. Colin took a step closer, and although there were still enough space between them and enough bystanders around for their actions to be considered proper, there was an intimacy in the moment to make (Y/n)’s cheeks heat up.

"Is it loud enough for you to hear?” Colin whispered.

"It's perfect."

Adjusting his hand in hers, Colin led (Y/n) into a dance, smiling at her in a way that could only be described as lovestruck. His entire being was in awe of her as they spun around each other, like the moon in orbit of the earth. There was something heavenly in (Y/n)’s eyes, and when the song ended, the light in them did not fade.

“I love you,” Colin breathed, the words falling out of his mouth before he had the time to realize he had said them. It was the purest of admissions, one he hadn’t planned or even dreamed of admitting until the very moment he said it. “I-I love you,” he repeated, as though he needed to affirm the truth.

“Colin, I love you, too.” And all the world was in their smile, once again, all of the universe seemingly wrapped up in their blissful words. 

Colin let out a laugh that was almost a joyful sigh, and in his eyes were stars - constellations that burned brighter than the sun. He took (Y/n)’s gloved hand and kissed it, wishing it could be something more.

“Perhaps you will dance with me more often, then.”

“At every ball we attend.”

  -- taglist: @findmeintheafterglow, @prttybitchin​ // message me if you want to be added!

[hello-there]

Communities are a new way to connect with the people on Tumblr who care about the things you care about! Browse Communities to find the perfect one for your interests or create a new one and invite your friends and mutuals!

[novacorpsrecruit]

Bind by tape

Day 21 Steddie Kinktober - Accidental Kink Discovery - prompt from @infinite-orangepeel

Mature • wc 771 • tw improper packing tape usage

‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖

“Harrington!” Eddie called from the stock room of the Family Video. “Need your help!”

It was new inventory day, which meant Keith scheduled an extra person to help with the new inventory. Three Family Video employees always seemed like too much on a Tuesday afternoon — even with the new inventory, but Eddie, Steve and Robin weren’t going to argue about sharing a shift together. Robin waved Steve off as she flipped her magazine. She knew the risk of sending Eddie and Steve off together. She may not see them until the end of their shift. But with as slow as it was, she almost didn’t care. She had more quiet time for reading. She could put on her own music and nobody would complain if they’re sucking face.

Steve pushed the door to the back room, catching Eddie with the roll of shipping tape in his hands and at least once around his wrists. He grinned sheepishly at Steve. “A little help?”

“I don’t know how you want me to help,” Steve said, feeling his throat go dry. He crossed his arms. “What are you even doing anyway?”

“I was wondering if I could break through this,” Eddie said. “Like if my wrists were bound? If I could break it.”

“If your wrists were bound,” Steve repeated.

“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “Like if I was kidnapped or held hostage.

“You were taping your wrists together,” Steve said slowly, his eyes traveling down Eddie’s body to his wrists.

“To see if I could break free,” Eddie completed his sentence. “Now bind me.”

“Okay,” Steve breathed, stepping into Eddie’s space. He took the roll of tape from Eddie’s hands, slowly wrapping it around his wrists. Steve could feel a rush of excitement, a pool of heat in his gut, as he assumes he couldn’t wait to see Eddie test his strength. He’d wonder if he could convince Eddie to try it on him, as well.

“Tighter,” Eddie commanded. Steve obeyed. He wrapped it around tighter three more times, letting Eddie test the restraints before giving a nod. “Perfect. Now cut it.”

Steve leaned down, taking the tape between his teeth and tearing it, leaning back to pull it apart.

“Fuck —“

Steve looked up at Eddie as he laid down the end of the tape. He had a grin plastered on his face — the same troublesome grin that Steve knew meant trouble. That Eddie was up to something. The same lopsided grin that pulled the scar tissue tight. The same grin that Steve loved.

“That was hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes, taking a step back. “Okay, Eds,” he said, gesturing to his bound wrists. “Do your thing.”

Eddie yanked at his wrists, the tape didn’t budge. He struggled for a minute before searching for another attempt. He tried bringing it against his hip to no avail. He tried twisting his wrists to see if it helped loosen the tape, but it may have made it worse.

He grunted as he lifted his hands above his head, attempting pulling his wrists apart.

And Steve?

Steve watched from the distance, feeling himself go almost lightheaded with desire as he watched his boyfriend struggle against the the tape, binding his wrists together.

Steve audibly closed his mouth, letting the saliva pool in his mouth before swallowing. He couldn’t help but admire Eddie as he tried to fight the restraints, his body thrashing from side to side, the chain on his jeans jingling, as he could not break free.

He lifted his eyes to Steve, and Steve couldn’t hold back any further.

Steve nearly pounced on Eddie, his hand quickly covering the bound wrists above Eddie’s head. Eddie audibly swallowed. “Steve?”

“I think —“ Steve breathed, collecting the thoughts buzzing around his head.

“I think we need to take the tape home with us tonight.”

“Home?” Eddie asked, his eyes big like a baby deer.

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding slowly. “Think you look real pretty tied up like this.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked.

The realization suddenly dawned on Eddie of what Steve was asking. “You like me tied up, big boy? Like me on display for you?”

“Keeps you in one place, doesn’t it?” Steve asked with a smirk. He pressed a hot kiss on the corner of his jaw, nipping at the skin lightly as he squeezed his wrists in his hand. “Oh the things I’d do to you like this, Pretty boy.”

“Fuck,” Eddie moaned. “Bathroom. Now.”

Eddie slipped out of Steve’s grip with ease as he pulled Steve towards the employee bathroom. “Robin! 15 minute break!”

“Disinfect the room, you perverts!” She yelled back.

‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‎⊹ ࣪ ˖

[sushiandstarlight]

“Wrapping”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Prompt One / Prompt Two / Prompt Three / Prompt Four

Today’s Prompt (I did not realize I had two that were essentially the same thing... oops.  I will try to get to “Ribbons” later today!)

Read this story on AO3

Lemon warning

TW for improper binding, fat shaming

Personal note: I began binding because I wanted a flatter chest, but eventually it became about hiding the other parts of my body I did not like. Namely, my weight. Binding made my self-image worse. If it helps you, that's great! But, please keep a check on your own mental health AND bind safely. Take care of your body and your mind, they're the only ones you're going to get. Be safe, lovelies, the world needs all of us.

-

Crowley came back from the very purposeful shopping trip to find Aziraphale pacing manically in their kitchen. He was so focused on his mutterings, his hand wringing, and staring at the floor that he didn't even hear Crowley enter the house. Crowley slid the bags of food onto the counter and approached the angel slowly, but still managed to startle him.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was backed up to the countertop by the sink, hand over his chest.

“I take it he did stop by then,” Crowley did his best to appear as non-threatening as possible. He slid his glasses down his nose and then set them on the kitchen table, “you really could've come shopping with me and said a silent 'screw you' to Gabriel.”

“He would only have found me later- or, or both of us- at some unexpected time. Better that I be expecting him, I think...” He was still fidgeting with his fingers, looking down at them morosely.

“What did he have to say, then?” Crowley continued his approach, but stopped short when Aziraphale matched his movements, subtly backing away. Crowley wasn't even sure the angel knew he was doing it. Still, a revoke in consent was a revoke in consent even if it was subconscious.

“He wondered why I wasn't responding to his memos. Told me to get back in line, do my job,” Aziraphale's hands waved as he explained, “I did what you told me to do.”

“Good.”

“I stayed neutral. I didn't agree to anything. I didn't argue with anything.”

“That's the only way to be, really.”

“And he left, thinking he had put me in my place.”

“Did he? Put you in your place?”

Aziraphale hesitated only a moment before, “No.”

Crowley felt some of the tension in his shoulders relax. If Aziraphale agreed to do something, then he would to it. He was an angel of his word. Crowley had coached him for days leading up to this meeting on how to appease without agreeing, but he had been a bit afraid that all that coaching might fall to the way side when faced with his old supervisor.

“I wish I could have been here for you.”

“No you don't.”

“Sure, I do. I don't want anything to do with Gabriel, of course, but I would do anything for you. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, meeting his eyes for the first time, “I know. That's exactly why I told you to be gone while he was here.”

“Yeah, yeah... probably for the best. S'been quiet, would be nice to keep it that way.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement.

The thing was, though... Crowley was watching his still-shallow breathing. Aziraphale didn't seem to be relaxing or calming down. He should be calming down now, Gabriel was gone. Hopefully for a good, long while.

“Would you like a hug?” Crowley opened his arms, but made no move towards him.

“Er, I think I'll go and change first.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, sweeping them over the angel's body and really taking it in for the first time since he came home. He loved the angel's body, but he had been more worried about his anxious state. He wasn't surprised to find him covered up more than usual. Since they moved out here by themselves, Aziraphale had taken to wearing flowy-er, sheerer fabrics. Things that breathed and shifted when he moved. Silky things, soft things. Things that, on occasion, left very little to Crowley's imagination. But, here he was in his layers again, buttons done up to his chin, bowtie tight and waistcoat covering him like armor.

Only... he wasn't shaped quite the same and the clothing hung differently.

“Did you... have you changed your corporation?”

“No.”

Crowley eyed him in silence. Aziraphale made to leave and Crowley reached out, just two fingers in the crease of his elbow. Not enough to stop him if he really wanted to leave. The angel froze.

“Something's different about you.”

“Crowley, leave it, please.”

“Do you really want me to? If you really want me to, I will. I just... worry about you. You're... my world, y'know? I want you to be okay.”

Aziraphale sighed softly and turned back to him, then unceremoniously started unbuttoning and unfastening his various layers. His eyes were focused on his task, fingers moving in well- practiced movements. He shed the layers as he came to them, dropping them to the floor. Only when he got to his last button up shirt did he hesitate.

Crowley could see that something was definitely different. It was subtle, but unmistakable: his husband was not nearly as... soft- looking as he had been that morning. Crowley had left him early, still asleep in their bed. He had delicately run his fingers along the rises and dips of his belly. A quiet promise that he'd be back in a few hours, though whether that promise was for him or for Aziraphale, he couldn't have said.

Aziraphale pulled his shirttails from his trousers and slowly unbuttoned this last shirt, looking anywhere but Crowley's eyes as it fell open.

Ace bandages, several of them by the looks of it. They wrapped him tightly from armpits to waist. All his supple curves. All the soft, warm flesh that Crowley loved to nuzzle and kiss and rest his head on... It was all tucked tightly away behind the wraps.

Crowley reached out to touch, but pulled his hand back.

“But why?”

“I... just didn't want to hear it.”

“Gab...riel?” Crowley dragged his eyes back up to Aziraphale's face, determined to stop looking for his husband's hidden figure.

“He... he always comments, Crowley. That I've let myself go. That I need to, er, 'lose the gut.'”

“But, it's none of his business!” Crowley was trying, really he was, to hold on to his temper. But, it was flaring hot and painful just beneath his lungs.

“It's not. I know it's not. And, I also know I shouldn't care what he thinks. I am the way I am because this is how I am most comfortable... But... I didn't want the comments.”

“Can we...” Crowley felt his voice crack and he winced, starting over, “ can we take them off now?”

“Yes, I am rather uncomfortable, to be honest.”

“Do you want to go do it yourself or do you want my help?”

“I want your help, dearest,” and with that said, Aziraphale seemed to deflate in front of him. He gestured to Crowley to come closer and only then did Crowley place his hands on his husbands sides, stroking upward, at the same time trying to find familiar territory and also the fasteners for the bandages.

“First one's on the left side. No, my left, sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, Angel, not right now.” Crowley's words were quiet, but firm. He found the first fastener and undid it, pulling the wrapping around and around Aziraphale's chest until it dropped away. He found the next fastener and did the same. And the next. All the while watching as Aziraphale relaxed in stages before finally being able to take a deep, lung-filling breath. They didn't need to breath to live, thankfully, but both of them had become rather accustomed to the practice. Crowley spent a few seconds watching his chest and belly move with each easy breath, trying not to wince at the already-fading marks the wrappings had left behind.

He guided the angel backwards until his back met the counter then lifted him up on to it. Lifting his hands he cradled his face like it was made of the most sensitive porcelain and then he kissed him deeply, pouring into the touches all his rage transformed into protectiveness transformed into an all encompassing love.

Aziraphale kissed him back, fervently, grasping his hands and moving them downwards until they sat on his chest. There he left them, his own going to Crowley's face, his neck, anywhere to pull him closer and keep him there.

Thus invited to touch, Crowley's hands took to stroking and squeezing all the soft skin he found. He moaned and broke the kiss, trailing his nose over the apple of the angel's cheek, along the lines and folds of his neck. He kissed his way down the center of his chest and nuzzled his way under the line of flesh just below it, placing a sucking kiss there.

“Beautiful, all of you is beautiful.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale's hands were buried in his hair, neither pushing or pulling, just grounding him and inviting him to be as close as he wanted to be. There was no such thing as too close. If it were possible to crawl inside this flesh somehow and live together, Crowley would. He would, happily.

One of Crowley's hands had managed to move from the soft expanses of alabaster flesh, downwards, to something noticeably less soft, pressing needfully against the front of Aziraphale's trousers.

“No wrappings here, hmm?” He watched as the words found their way into Aziraphale's mind. Delighted in the blush that settled over his cheeks and the tips of his ears and, with his eyes, followed that same color as it spread down his chest, stopping just above his belly button. He dropped to his knees in front of the angel, going from 'let's take this upstairs where I can slowly take you apart' to 'scrap that, I'll have you right on this countertop- right in this kitchen where that monster had the gall to come in here and make you uncomfortable.' He would wipe out the memory with the pleasure he took in his husband's body.

He made quick work of freeing him from his trousers and pants, only enough to get to his prize which he swallowed down without preamble. His right hand wrapped around the angels left calf, gripping, while his left sprawled over the soft expanse of his right thigh, stroking and squeezing. He sucked him hard, leaving no room that this would be quick and only about the angel's pleasure. Distantly he heard the smack of the angel's head as he threw it back and hit the cabinetry- the dishes rattling inside- but the angel's grip on his hair didn't slack.

Little, half-aborted thrusts upward had Crowley dizzy with his own arousal, knowing that it meant his husband was close. He yanked the calf in his right hand, pulling him right to the edge of the counter and throwing him off balance, now completely at Crowley's mercy. And then he doubled down, moving his mouth quickly and with singular purpose.

Aziraphale's breaths came quicker and sharper and then cut off with a sharp whimper and, “fuck, Crowley!” His legs shook under Crowley's hands as he spilled into his mouth.

Crowley sat back on his haunches and peered up at the angel, beyond happy with what he saw: the man was sprawled backwards over their coffee maker, head resting on the cupboard behind him (which was dented in a bit- nothing a little demonic miracle couldn't fix). He was the very vision of pleasure spent. Crowley stroked both of his calves, smiling up at him as he came back from his pleasure and looked down at him.

And then Aziraphale started to giggle. A small thing that grew and grew until it was a belly laugh. Crowley cocked his head and kept smiling up at him. He didn't know what had tickled the angel, but he was happy to see him happy.

“Just,” Aziraphale wheezed, “can you imagine... If I had ignored him and he arrived... for that?”

“Hmm,” Crowley pondered the idea, rising on his hips again to bury his face in his husband's belly, “I wouldn't mind giving him a bit of a show.”

“He's not much for doing things the human way.”

“Bet he'd still be jealous about what this body can do,” Crowley's hands were wandering again, this time to the bit of space between Aziraphale's back side and his thighs.

“I think it's time, I show you what this body can do, darling.”

“s'that a promise?” Crowley stood and crowded in close so he could feel the effect this all had on him, “Tell me that's a promise.”

“Oh, yes. A promise, indeed.”

[kodzumie-archived]

If Yandere! Nagito's lover did die I imagine him taking a body part of them and adding it to him. Just like he did with Junko's arm I also think he'll act as if S/o is. Now apart of him basically what happenend with Korekiyo.

tw; suicide, dismemberment, improper surgical procedures, gore

Waah, I’m late to responding but—

That, too, is truly highly probable. Rather than taking his own life in reciprocation—as payback—he’ll live on through memory of you; he’ll live on in the name of the belief in you.

He’ll tear himself apart—in a literal sense—hacking whatever limb he deems worthless in comparison to the divinity of your body. He’ll stitch on himself all that he can get; your fingers; your nails; your feet; your arms; your thighs.

Nagito will take everything. He finds no worth in keeping that worthless body of his, thus he’ll transform himself in a being of worth; he’ll transform himself into you.

Biting through the pain of the stitches he’d sewn himself into your detached limb from his bleeding stub, he releases a breathy giggle; drunken in overwhelming devotion, his belief in your highness.

He wants to be the embodiment of your memory, picking apart your body and interlacing it with his, he binds you together, entirely. Nothing could ever separate you now. Not even death itself.

[romansleftshoulderpad]

I will fight you in your ribs’ honor

Literally every trans person ever: don’t wear your binder for more than 8 hours or when you’re working out! Stretch often and Breath!

Me, throwing on my homemade binder before bed, fully planning on wearing it all day tomorrow and to sleep, and also during school when I have gym class and a cappella practice: haha