#like if u block the goatee he looks so pretty in as good as it gets

[favouriteconstellation]

sweet torture

18+ readers only please lovelies!! (this is for a reason please listen<3)

little synopsis: a man hits on the reader at a bar innocently, and this leads to an interrogation from stephen who is incredibly possessive...

pronouns: female pronouns are used

relationship: fem reader x stephen strange

note: not super proud of this but like i will be uploading this because being overly self-critical is not hot xx i hope you enjoy this i love u!!

warnings: stephen being possessive, controlling lowkey insecure, accusations of cheating, smut, dacryphilia, bdsm, temp play (ice), sensory deprivation, dd/lg kind offf ??

“who is he?”

“i told you! i don't know what his name is.” you gritted through your teeth, angered about how unnecessarily prolonged this conversation had become. 

stephen was naturally a very tall man, you had always found this characteristic of his incredibly attractive, until now. his figure towered over you, inches away. his usual soft blue eyes darkened as he bent down to your height, you could feel his hot breath against your neck and the occasional graze of his goatee against your skin, it burned and you loved it. 

“i'm gonna ask one more time, what's his name baby?..” he whispered in your ear.

jesus christ you hated how much control he had over you when he was like this. you didn't know ‘his name’, he was just a guy at a bar who was drunk and hitting on you. of course you turned him down, but stephen’s always been overprotective, dare you say downright possessive. you hated the way him looking down at you and whispering made you press your thighs together, fighting being angry at him. but god, his possessiveness was hot as shit.

“what are you gonna do? here you are trying to sound so threatening. what? you gonna pull some KGB shit on him?? because i'm pretty sure i can handl-” your sentence came to a crashing halt at his undeniably quick response. 

“i’m going to fuck you within an inch of your life, actually. hows that sound? and its going to be for me, not for you.” your stomach dropped. jealousy sex sounded hot on paper but he loved to drive a response out of you, a yelp, a squeal until your cheeks were painted with tears and you were begging for him to stop teasing you.

“stephen..we could just talk this out, i promise you he was just drunk” you mumbled out, looking wide eyed. although you couldn’t lie to yourself, the way you were gently begging him to fuck you, to gain some relief. this shouldn’t be arousing but fuck it is. stephen noticed this, he also noticed how your cheeks flushed, and how your pupils dilated - he could read you like a book. 

before you could show even an inkling of shame or embarrassment for being turned on because of him, you yelped as he effortlessly slung your body over his shoulder - your legs failing in surprise and your ass in the air. you were brought back to reality by the familiar sound of his portals opening as you were no longer in the sanctum foyer. 

“stephen..” you breathed out as you were laid down on his bed, god you wanted him. 

“spread those pretty arms and legs for me, yeah baby?” His deep baritone voice was the only sense of sound you could focus on. you did as you were told and his fingers snapped, his godforsaken magic leaving you bare in his bed. the cold hit you, your nipples immediately hardening. 

“you just have to be good for me, huh sweet girl? that’s all i’m asking baby.” he whispered as he firmly grabbed your wrists and ankles, binding them to his dark oak bed posts. you laid there, looking defeated as he reached over you, stopping to hover and smirking condescendingly.

“don’t act like we both don't know you were pressing those pretty little thighs together 2 minutes ago” he chuckled. he knew your deepest desires, it was as if he could poke and prod around inside your mind, well- realistically, he probably could..much to your horror.

the last thing you saw were his scarred fingers holding fabric that he ever so gently tied around your head, blocking your sight. unironically he could have done all of this in less than 30 seconds with a wave of his hands, but was purposefully prolonging the torture knowing you were impatient.

“stephen.. please” you barely whispered, begging for his touch. he tutted devilishly at your impatience. he conjured an ice cube, placing it on your torso with no warning. you couldn’t help but squeal at the freezing sensation you weren't prepared for, he swirled it up and down your torso, slowly - leaving a trail of melted ice, now cold water that pooled around your lower stomach. your back arched at the sensation, pulling at the magical binding. you could feel a band in your lower stomach building inside you, you wanted to free yourself, kick, scream, touch him. his cruel tongue lapped up the water slowly, teasing you - a familiar feeling. the ice cube rolled over your nipples as you tugged on the ropes, your back arching and your body jolting forward as much as it could. 

“look at you... mm??” he laughed. the icecube disappeared and for a moment you couldn't feel his touch, you whined at the feeling. 

“is my little girl feeling needy?? mm..?” His head darted between your already spread legs, kissing the soft flesh on your inner thighs and lazily licking them, as if he was preoccupied. you moaned softly, the relief you felt for him to be even remotely close to where you wanted him. 

“please stephen..” you whined, tears pooling in your eyes in absolute desperation, throwing your head back as he slid his tongue between the wet warmth of your pussy, lapping up your slick in long, cruel strokes. the teasing bastard. he licked circles around your clit, but didnt touch it once - not yet. he placed his large hand on your lower stomach to further stimulate you as his goatee rubbed against your thighs, scratching and burning once again. you were shuddering and shaking, pulling at the robes like a fucking mess. 

“come on baby, give it to me. let me ruin you for a sec, yeah? i got ya.” he praised, as he paused to pepper kisses and then went back to work. it was only 8pm and knowing him, you still had at least 2 hours of this left.

[jbrianreed-blog]

My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad

On the day we buried my father, an early summer thunder storm dropped a tree on the back porch of his house. Nothing damaged. Just an inconvenience, a tree-top jungle out there blocking the view of the gazebo he built and all the other far-yard places where the dog liked to drop its own little logs.

 But I could imagine him fuming about it amidst the hazy, after-storm, steam. “Dern,” he’d say. “Dern, dern, dern.” (You always know a true Southerner when they go right past “damn” hang a hard left at “darn” and wind up in the sweet sacrilege of “dern” this and “dern” that—"dern it all to ‘hail’ and back.”

 I set an appointment in my mind then and there. Me and the tree.

 On an afternoon after a funeral, you have a house full of people and casseroles. My mother held her own. But she wasn’t well, not good with this in the least. After all, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, my dad. He liked the sun room and the blue chair and his wiener dog snugged in beside him, nosing his leg and yipping for the last few gulps of his coffee. You’ve never heard a man speak so harshly to a disobedient dog, yet still love her and spoil her more than a curly-headed great grandchild. I speculate here. Unfortunately, he didn’t live long enough to see great grandchildren.

 He was sixty-nine years old.

 Congestive heart failure had manifested in the fall, revealing a pitiful little nugget, kicking and screaming against the inner-walls of his chest. I’d like to say it was super-human strength that kept him from feeling the pinches and pains, after all, my dad is better than your dad, all your dads, and your moms too, and even some of those nephews and cousins once and twice removed. Superlatively speaking, when a child latches on to the leg of a loving father, he looks up to see a man as tall, or taller, than any redwood, high-rise, or storm-bearing cloud blowing across the wide, blue dome of humanity.

 In reality, no, my dad wasn’t better than yours. I kid. But he was the best dad for me. And it wasn’t super-human strength that numbed him to cardiac complications. It was diabetic nerve damage. The “sugars.” Chocolate cake and ice cream killed my father.

 He hated that first little hospital. People kept crowding into the room with their “hey, y’all’s” and “how ‘ya doin’s.” His swollen feet hung out at the bottom of the bed, creating a cringe-worthy conversation piece about what everybody else’s dead relative had gone through. He stayed silent through most, the sides of his eyes and forehead creased in concentration to block what he could, thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. The room temperature would approach perfection for roughly three minutes then u-turn toward mountain top or bottom.

 I was alone with him for about thirty-minutes that afternoon. I’m quiet, nothing unusual there. But he was quiet too. He said two things to me.

 The first, “I need to take a crap while everybody’s gone. Help me up.”

 The second, “You boys take care of your mother.”

 Healthcare. It’s not the same everywhere you go. And when a nurse pulls you aside and says, “Get him out of here or he’s going to die here,” the family starts exploring options. I am grateful for a family friend whose cardiological expertise came in quite handy just a few hours down the road, in a quiet, clean place with good AC and an un-clouded basic cable TV line-up.

 The surgical team doped up my dad to the point where he thought he saw guardian angels flying around the room, and they went in with their fancy forks and knives to clear out the syrup and cake crumbs stuck deep in the tubes that make your face go red when somebody gives you a big ol’ sloppy smooch. They propped everything open, gave his heart a good pat on the butt, and called it a day. “It was easy,” the doctor said, “pushed right through it like butter.” It’s the kind of thing you’d expect a person to say while pushing out their suspenders and letting them snap back, a good, southern doctor with a whipped cream-colored goatee and straw hat, shoes shined and clacking on the checkerboard floor. But his name was Stan. And I’ve never seen him in suspenders. Still worth his weight in gold as far as I’m concerned.

 My daddy was good to go, curtains opened, sunshine pouring in. The day after he told his physical therapist he didn’t want to squeeze her hand in a strength test because he might rip it off, they sent him back to his sun room and his blue chair and his coffee-tweaking wiener dog. A few months later, he died.

 Don’t get me wrong. It was a miraculous recovery. The doctors scratched their heads at the bounce back. And even though the roller coaster ride of blood sugar management could take some pretty audacious flips and twists at times, he was getting a feel for it, or, at least, my mom was, bless her kind and patient soul.

 So what is it that sneaks out of the shadows and pounces on the scarred chest of a man in resumption? What is it that slinks around the floor boards, sidles up the chair arm, and snugs around the recovering blood pumper of a good-natured, clean-nosed, modern American man, just settling into the sunrise of his retirement?

 Anything can happen, I guess. He left the house, apologizing to his dog for having to leave her alone for the night. He left and never came back. He wasn’t there to see the tree fall on the porch. He wasn’t there to suffer all the company and the casseroles. He wasn’t there to snort and snore and make high-voiced comments as if the dog were saying them. He wasn’t there to look at it all and realize the tragedy of his early passing and to say, “dern…dern it all.”

 On the day after we buried my father, I massacred that fallen tree. I went after it with an axe, sweating and swinging, first the limbs, then the trunk, pieces into pieces into pieces, all packed up, hauled home and burned in my fireplace. Ash to ashes. Oak to smoke. There’s symbolism in there somewhere, some good ol’ fancy readin’ and writin’ tricks, but I prefer to leave my similes and metaphors sloppy, slant-rhyme, if you will. It’s the kind of thing you squint your eyes at from far away and think you have it, then you don’t. So, you keep walking.

[ftyeonjun]

newsflash:

i? love skeet ulrich? a lot?